Rest beside the weary road

Don’t git above your raisin’ . . .

Everything comes full circle . . .

Stand up for yourself . . .

Everybody walks according to their lights . . .            (Old grandma sayings)

As I write, it is Epiphany Eve.  Tomorrow, Epiphany, January 6th, twelve days after Christmas, is the time when the  Christian story recognizes the actual arrival of the three wise men who visited Jesus, bringing gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

My mom frequently talked about her Granny Smith, her great-great-grandmother, who came over from the Old Country (Ireland).  Granny Smith was a midwife, delivering countless babies, and a “granny-witch,” which in those days meant she was a wise old woman who had the knowledge of “doctoring” with herbs and was respected as a healer by her community.

Granny Smith seemed to be a bright spot in the midst of some other more questionable relatives about whom I would hear stories.  As a child, the image of Granny Smith that stuck in my mind was that of a jolly and generous and independent old lady who “rode her horse down the road to see us with a saddlebag full of apples.”  And Granny Smith celebrated Old Christmas, on January 6th, the end of our traditional twelve days of Christmas, as did many of the early Appalachian mountain people, a throwback to their custom of adhering to the older Julian calendar, rather than the Gregorian calendar, which arrived in the British Isles around 1750 or so.

Amyway, the thought of a happy-go-lucky Irish grandma undergoing an arduous ocean voyage to this country, and then trekking southward across the wildness of what this country must have been like in the mid-1700s — to eventually settle in these ancient Appalachian Mountains where she made a life for herself and her family — and then eventually bringing gifts of apples for the little girl who was my mom — to finally linger in my own awareness as an  icon-ish wise old woman — pleases me as another image of the Three Wise Men of our traditional Christmas story.

In Parts One and Two of Journey of the Magi, I offered some other images and thoughts about these wise men and their journey, but the one of canny, and doubtlessly clever, and very, very courageous old Granny Smith is my favorite.

Maybe wise men and women come in a lot of different guises.  And always bearing gifts for us of some sort . . .

 

Even a blind pig can find an acorn once in a while.  (English Proverb)

Due to overwhelming demand (two people suggested it), I decided to blather on in these pages a little more frequently than I intended.  I found I missed you!  And I figure the more I write, the more likely I am to nail something profound-ish once in awhile.

My husband and I are trying to decide whether to buy a purely frivolous (and fairly cheap) vehicle.  Now while most people would say I’m the impulsive dreamer and visionary in this family, in matters like this I have a tendency to become squinty-eyed and very practical and down-to-earth.  I start counting pennies, and envisioning horrible necessities-of-the-future like assisted care and new teeth.  My husband is an unfortunate eye-roller about such things, and with a mind full of rpm(s) and fuel pumps, he has little patience for my obsessions about “practicalities.”  So while he’s “getting the car up on the rack,” whatever that means, I am engaging in a little hand-wringing and mutterings about how this was gonna be my year to  get rid of stuff, and here we are thinking about buying other stuff instead and I just don’t know about this and . . . .

Are either of us right?  Wrong?  At our ages, is there room in our lives for the quixotic and whimsical?  What is wise and what is foolish?  If we hadn’t chosen to be kinda foolish seven years ago, these two old fogies would never have gotten married.  And maybe like the foolhardy third son in fairy tales who rushes in where angels fear to tread, (and by so doing almost always wins the princess), the fool in us urges us on to new life when the thinking mind might be overly cautious.

So whoever knows?  Eventually we will decide something, hopefully without bloodshed.  And in the meantime, hopefully, we can keep our sense of humor.

I’ll let you know.  In the meantime, keep those card and letters (aka, comments) comin’!

L’Chiam!  Cheers to a brand new year and another chance (always!) to kindle a light.  (Me)

Y’know what?  Next year at this time you’re gonna weigh more or less than you do right now.  You will have more or less money, read (or not) those “good” books you always meant to, learned (or not) a new hobby, and gotten more (or less) organized.  Poof to all those resolutions!

Instead, how about . . .

A random act (or two) of loving kindness every day, simple as a smile or a prayer or a choice to speak or remain silent . . .  And you might need to add a little empathy and discernment — what is a kindness to one person may not necessarily be a kindness for another.

And that’s all.  And see what happens . . .  What we send out comes back to us, multiplied, flowing over.

For myself?  The other day, I saw a little sign in a store:  When you were born, God said, “Ta, da!”  I’ve been feeling less than stellar about myself lately, kinda old and useless, so one of my random acts of kindness is to believe that message about myself.

 

 

 

 

If I could give you any gift, I’d give you good health and love and laughter, a peaceful heart, a special dream, and joy forever after.  (Me)

Are you, like I, sometimes amazed and bemused by the myths by which we live our lives in this wacky and wonderful world??  I look at this picture of old St. Nick whizzing his magical way across the sky tonight, (tracked by NORAD even though our government is currently shut down), and once again I am a child, and for one mighty fine moment, all the pain and loss and melancholy of this season, all the existential angst and crazy ambiguity of our contentious ‘real” world disappears.  And “white Christmases”  and peace-on-earth and maybe even “happily ever after”— it all becomes possible.

We all want it so much.  Surely we can make at least an approximation of it happen.

i have written in these pages about my lone guinea pal, the only survivor of my spring guinea-peeps, and my concern for his survival with all the predators about.  I have been unsuccessful in enticing him into shelter in the barn at night, and I know he roosts in a high tree in the garden, regardless of the frigid weather.  I was awake very early this morning, maybe because of the full moon, and peering nearsightedly out the glass door next to the bed, I saw an unfamiliar shape on the porch table.  After retrieving my glasses, I saw that there huddled Mr. Guinea, “roosting” as close as he could get to us, a scant three feet away from our bed.  He looked back at me in the glow of the outdoor Christmas lights, muttered something in his soft Guinea-ese, and re-settled his feathers comfortably.

Strange almost-bedfellows we are, giving a new meaning to diversity maybe.  Perhaps he was compelled to seek safer digs by something like the gray fox we saw yesterday — or maybe it was some strange compulsion for companionship in this very wild, but communal bird.  At any rate it made me think anything is possible.

So, Santa, wing your way across the sky tonight!  Bring us peace on earth and loving kindness as a way of life and a peaceable kingdom where guineas and gray foxes can live in harmony.

. . . Or at the very least, a warm bed and a loving heart to welcome guineas seeking solace and safety . . .

The world has tilted far from the sun . . . I am waiting for a birth that will change everything.  (Llewellyn-Williams)

Today winter begins, at 5:23 p.m. here in the eastern U.S.  The shortest day, the least period of light, followed by the greatest period of darkness . . .  Here in the mountains the sun sets early anyway —my mom and dad used to joke that in the “holler” where they came from, they had to lie on their backs at midday, even in summer, in order to see the sun at all.

Wherever you may be today, and if the sun is shining, turn away from it and face your shadow — it is the longest it can be today.  And maybe take a moment to consider the influence of your shadow on the world in which you live — and remember that often we stand in our own shadow and wonder why it is dark.

As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.  (Carl Jung)

 

I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.  (Anne Frank)

Tomorrow is Winter Solstice, the first day of winter.  Autumn is over, and a brand new season will begin.  It has been great fun posting a blog daily during these past three months, a form of meditation for me, and a delight to feel connected to those readers who have left comments. To all those of you who have chosen to check in daily and read it, thank you!  I’ll return to a more “weekly or so” schedule of posting for awhile now, probably with regrets.  I can certainly rattle on in these pages.

But I’ll check in tomorrow and wish you happy winter!

 

In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks.  (Muir)

All you need is love.  But a little chocolate now and then doesn’t hurt.  (Charles M. Schultz)

Oh, the inexpressible comfort of a cup of hot chocolate on a frosty winter day . . .  Here’s a recipe for a mighty fine cup of cocoa.  With a kick.

Mix the following ingredients together and heat in a saucepan over medium heat:  2 cups milk, 2 tbsp. unsweetened cocoa powder, 2 tbsp. sugar, 1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon, 1/4 tsp. vanilla extract, 1/8 tsp. cayenne, 1 ounce chocolate..  When hot, but not boiling, remove from heat, pour into cups, and shave a little additional chocolate on top.

And if you don’t want to go to all that trouble, make a cup or thermos of cocoa from a really good cocoa mix and dribble in a dollop of kirsch . . . Cocoa lush, guaranteed to warm up the coldest ski trip or winter hike.

Or forget the kirsch, and pour on the marshmallows.

Or just heat up a cuppa Swiss Miss in the microwave and garnish with Cool Whip.

It”s all good.

 

 

You’re braver than you believe, and stronger and smarter than you think.  (Winnie the Pooh)

Over the summer and fall, our guineas have disappeared one by one until, once again, only one is left.  He tends to spend his time close to the house or the garden cottage, rather forlornly hunkering down in the boxwood-and-gold-ball-decorated window boxes, pecking at the gold balls, in which I think he sees his reflection.  Since they are such communal birds, perhaps he is hoping that the other guinea he sees there in that reflection will emerge to keep him company.

However, last evening as I saw the shadow of a very large bird pass overhead, and saw Mr. Guinea dart for cover on the front porch, I suspected that he is very aware of what happened to the previous members of his flock, and I wondered if it is a hawk or owl who has fed so well this summer.

I’m rooting, of course, for Mr. Guinea, and will do all I can to help him survive, although I’m aware the owl and hawk gotta survive, too.  (But, hey, there’s a lot of field mice out there).  It’ll be a battle of bird wits, and we’ll see who turns out to be the wiliest.

Well, as the Jenkins kid and I crouched there in the dark of the mine, we soon found out those approachin’ footsteps weren’t the only thing we had to worry about.  We also heard a rumblin’ sound from way deep down in that corridor we was in, and the Jenkins kid like to tore my arm off pullin’ on it to get me to run, I reckon.  I didn’t need no urgin’, and I grabbed him by the hand and took off  hightailin’ it outa there.  Behind us we could hear rocks crashin’ and clouds of dust like to choked us to death.  Seemed like forever before we busted outa there, so covered in dust nobody coulda told who we was, and behind us, the entrance to the mine just collapsed, rocks and dust and dirt follerin’ us and sendin’ us to our knees, coughin’ and spittin’ up our guts.  We just laid there for a bit, bein’ glad we was alive, I reckon.

And I reckon the noise and shakin’ had alerted folks from down the road, ’cause pretty soon a great big ole crowd come a’runnin’ toward us, hollerin’ and carryin’ on.  Once they got us on our feet, they was relieved to see we was okay, none more’n me.  Gradual-like we managed to get the story out, about the silver and zinc and how there was plenty there after those no-account Turner boys had led us to believe the mine had played itself out after their daddy died.  And then we remembered those approachin’ footsteps, and tried to tell everybody there was somebody else in there, and folks commenced to diggin’ with their hands ’til somebody finally got ’em organized enough to dig ordered-like, with picks and shovels and stuff.

It took a couple a days before they was able to find a body, draggin’ out a feller nobody knew, and maybe couldn’t atold who was if they did know, after all that. And you know, nobody ever did figure out who he was, but the general consensus was that he was the murderer, maybe a fallin’-out between thieves, those two strangers to us.  The story that the sheriff finally put out was that these fellers had discovered the silver and planned to keep it for themselves, as much as they could manage to harvest, without tellin’ anybody, and somethin’ we’ll never know happened to make ’em fall out. ‘Course it was whispered that the Turner boys probably had a lot more to do with the whole thing than came out, but since they was gonna open the mine back up after the clean-up, everybody was so pleased they wasn’t gonna rock the boat.

As to what caused that there cave-in that nearly finished me and the Jenkins boy off, folks pretty well agreed it was the irate spooks of the mine, finally havin’ their revenge on somebody.  I coulda wished they chose the Turner boys rather than me and the kid, if they wanted to pay somebody back that bad.

But in my private reveries, I sometimes wonder . . . If you’ll recall, I just stumbled into this place, several months ago now, and right away, some strange things commenced to happenin.’  The mines closed, Suze showed up, the stranger rode in and then got himself killed, the cave-in, the mines reopenin’ . . .  mighty strange.  And nobody ever questioned who I was; in fact sometimes I wondered if they even knew I was around . . .  except for the Jenkins kid and maybe Mam, I coulda well-nigh been invisible.

So I wonder . . . was I mebbe one of those spooks?

The End

       (This concludes The Old Country Store and Post Office, which has run in installments, posted on Sundays over the last seven weeks.  The actual old country store and post office exists only a few miles down the road from where I live.  It has always aroused my curiosity because it sits alone out in the country, with no town, farms, or evidence of a settlement nearby to give a hint as to why a country store and post office should have existed in such a place.  I had great fun entering into an imaginary time and space for a few weeks, and hope you had fun reading it.  And who knows??  Could be true!  And maybe sometime I’ll go back to find out what happened to all the people there!)