The Kentucky Farmer

A Place For Me

2008-11-03T09:16:00.003-05:00

There is a special place in life, that needs my humble skill,
A certain job I'm meant to do, which no one else can fulfill..

The time will be demanding, the pay is not too good,
And I wouldn't change it for a moment, even if I could....

There is a special place in life, a goal I must attain,
A dream that I must follow because I won't be back again...

There is a mark that I must leave, however small it seems to be...
A legacy of love for those who follow after me...

There is a special place in life, that only I may share...
A little path that bears my name, awaiting me somewhere...

There is a hand that I must hold, a word that I must say,
A smile that I must give, for there are tears to blow away...

There is a special place in life that I was meant to fill...
A sunny spot where flowers grow, upon a windy hill...

There's always a tomorrow and the
best is yet to be, for somewhere

in this world, I know there
is a place for me....

© Grace E Easley

For a Friend on Veteran's Day...

2007-10-29T14:46:00.000-04:00

Almost Home ...

I recall the first time I saw Petie. It was about eight years ago this coming week.
As a disabled veteran, I go to the Veteran’s Administration Hospital for treatment of my service-connected disabilities. I had just moved back to Kentucky and needed to renew my prescriptions, so I took the bus downtown to the VA Medical Center. I chose the bus instead of driving due to a big snow the night before and I didn’t want to drive in it. Let somebody else wreck his or her vehicle I reasoned. Besides it was cheaper than driving. I walked the half of a mile to the main road and caught the bus. I shuffled about half way back and took a seat. As the bus pulled away, I pulled my coat tight and tried to get warm again. I looked around as I settled in, to see who else might be on here with me.

There were a couple of kids, maybe in their mid-teens, sitting together a few seats up from me and across the aisle. Just behind the front door sat a little old woman with stockings rolled half way up her legs. I could see her pursing and chewing her lips with toothless gums. Turning her scarf-covered head from one side to the other, she rode in silence, looking out the windows. Her old weathered hands clutched a rather large satchel of a purse and a worn, old umbrella. I felt my eyes twinkle a little as I thought about how little old women all around the world looked the same.

Across the aisle from her, right behind the driver, sat another passenger. He was a slight man; mid-fifties, I would say. He might go 140 pounds soaking wet with his pockets full of change. Like the old woman across the aisle from him, he was missing most of his teeth. He was wearing a pair of pants several sizes too large for him and a dingy old sweatshirt. His faded army field jacket had seen better days and pulled down over his head was a lint-speckled black watch cap. His gaunt features seemed to center around his pale blue eyes and hawk-like nose. I could see his reflection in the large mirror in front of the driver’s head. He never shut up as he leaned across the rail behind the driver’s seat. Her eyes met mine on several occasions with the look of ‘please, God, let him get off at the next stop’.

Well, he didn’t. We rode all the way downtown before he got off to catch the transfer to the VA hospital, the same as me. We smoked as we waited. Assuming familiarity with me, he continued his lecture as I prayed for the arrival of the bus. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something just wasn’t quite right about this guy. I nodded from time to time and smoked in silence. The bus arrived right on time and he scuttled up the steps in a hurried gait. I hung back a bit to allow a buffer of passengers to board behind him and ahead of me.

The seats were all taken and we were standing in the aisles, clutching the overhead rails for balance as we pulled back into traffic. I could hear him continuing his chatter to my rear, somewhat muffled by the other sounds on the bus. "Hell," I thought to myself, "He’s kind of annoying but he ain’t hurting anything." I mentally let his voice drone into the other sounds around me. When we got to the hospital, I was off and quickly headed to my destination and forgot all about him.

When I had finished my business, I hurried through the revolving doors at the main entrance. Checking the bus schedule posted on the board there, I lit a smoke and shrugged up under my coat. Turning my back to the cold wind and snow flurries, I noticed a glass-enclosed waiting area off to the side of the bus stop and quickly made my way over to it and stepped inside. My eyes immediately began to burn from the fog of cigarette smoke and hot air blowing out of an over-head heating duct. But it was still better than being outside. There were about a dozen people there, standing around in small groups of two’s or three’s and quietly talking amongst themselves. Hearing a familiar voice, I looked past a group of guys standing there and saw the little man from the bus earlier. He was sitting alone on the long wooden bench against the back wall talking to no one in particular. One of the guys standing beside me leaned over in my direction and whispered in my ear, "Don’t mind Petie, he’s OK".

...

Over the next several years, I saw Petie almost every time I came to the VA. Familiarity breeds friendship and over the course of time we developed an odd but comfortable relationship. I found myself half-looking for him each time I came to the hospital, knowing he was around somewhere. I would engage him or him me, as we waited for the bus. I sometimes waited for the bus with him, even on those days that I had driven, just to pass the time with him. There was more than one occasion when several buses would come and go, only to find us sitting under the trees at one of the picnic tables there, sharing stories, thoughts and the occasional joke. Petie loved to fish, he said. And you could have filled the bed of a pick-up truck with all of the whoppers he told me about. The day came when we were both late getting out of appointments and the buses were two hours apart. I offered to run Petie home. He told me where he lived and we pulled out.

He directed me off the expressway and onto the side streets around East Market where we found a parking place. I was going to let him out, but he insisted that I come up and see his place before I left. We locked the truck and started up the sidewalk towards Main. We passed the homeless shelter; with its annex for battered women. Several people standing outside called Petie by name and he acknowledged them with a hello as we walked on. Crossing the street, we came to a little second-hand store and Petie said, "Let’s go inside for a minute." He found the couple who ran the place, told them he was home and we left. I asked about that and he told me that they rented him a room above the old abandoned store we were now in front of. We turned down a narrow alley that led to the rear of the building.

We went up a set of crude steps and to the door of his little place. The landing there overlooked a postage stamp yard of overgrown weeds, dead lawnmowers and an old willow tree with a park bench under it sitting along the fence. We passed through the door into a small hallway created by a stove, fridge and kitchen sink on the left side and a closet and shower stall on the right. The hallway opened up into the only room in the apartment. It was empty except for two plastic milk crates, on one of which rested an old black and white television. He offered the other to me as a seat and he sat down on the single mattress pushed up against the wall.

He said he had only lived here for a short while. The couple we spoke to downstairs are his guardians and handle all of his VA checks. They saw to it that he had a place to stay, something to eat and cigarettes. If he needed anything else, he just told them and they would see to it that he got it. He opened the bag of White Castles we had picked up on the way here. He offered one to me but I declined. He said he had to eat, he was diabetic. I nodded and told him to go on and eat then. He explained to me that was the reason he went to VA every day, for his insulin shot. He could bring it here, but sometimes he forgot to take it. Besides, he enjoyed the trip and the other people at the VA.

We started talking about the service and where all we had been and what all we had done. My record paled in comparison. Petie had been in Vietnam and had been a prisoner of war for almost seven years. He opened a cigar box he kept by the bed there and showed me the things that he had left from his service days; most notable of which was the Silver Star, Bronze Star with Oak Leaf Cluster, Purple Heart and the Combat Infantry Badge. His eyes glazed with a faraway look as he told me of his ordeals there. He said the Purple Heart was for wounds he received when the helicopter he was in was shot down and he was captured. I wondered at the wounds that Petie had endured that no one will ever see or know about. From time to time as he spoke, he would cant his head to the side and listen to the voices he heard as they pointed out details in the stories that he had overlooked or perhaps forgotten. The voices were always there to remind him and keep his vision of Hell alive and vivid in his mind.

...

Over the course of time I got to know Petie fairly well through our short sporadic visits. I had bought a little farm in the mean time and was in the process of moving there. I had some old furniture and stuff I was going to give away. I asked Petie if he wanted any of it and told him what I had.

I loaded up a love seat, a big stuffed chair, an end table, a battered old coffee table, a lamp and several other small items he said he wanted or I knew he could use. I told him when I would be there and drove down the alley behind his place until I got to the gate at the rear of the property. There Petie stood waiting on me, a small pile of smashed cigarette butts at his feet. We unloaded the truck and carried the stuff up the awkward stairs and placed it around the room. The whole time Petie talked with excitement, telling me that he too had been a farmer, back before the war. He had grown up on a small farm down in Hart County, not too far from the lake. He said he had tried to go back there after he returned from overseas, but he was not the same man that had left those little hollows and just didn’t fit in there anymore. He knew he was different. He said, "It’s a pretty funny feeling when you don’t even fit in at home anymore." So, scorned by some, pitied by others, he hitchhiked to Louisville and took to the streets. And that is where he had been for almost the last twenty years. Drifting from the streets to the shelters to the halfway houses and back to the streets again. He had struggled with life at its most basic level. He had been locked up, beaten up, robbed and shunned. He finally made it to the VA and they helped him get this little place, a small pension every month and some medical care. He told me that he went to the VA hospital everyday, not so much for the insulin shot, but to be there with those who understood him best; to be there with his family.

I had to go to the VA last February for an appointment, and as always, I looked for Petie. I couldn’t find him anywhere. I waited and watched several buses come and go after I had taken care of my business. Thinking I had missed him, I went inside where he always went to get his insulin and asked about him. Standing there with a little bag holding two flannel shirts I had brought for him, the nurse told me Petie was gone. Gone where? Moved? No, he was gone, dead, I was told. She went on to explain that during the big freeze we had back around Christmas, that Petie had been found sitting on the little bench behind his house frozen to death. Clutched in his hands, on his lap, was a little cigar box with his medals and effects in it.

I had a hard time finding the door through the tears I was fighting back. I went outside and found one of the picnic tables off to the side of the building and just sat down there on the frosted bench in stunned disbelief. It was bitter cold but I didn’t even notice. I wondered if Petie just got tired of being Petie or if he had just drifted off into a dream and gone fishin’.

"Don’t catch ‘em all before I get there, Petie! I’ll soon be comin’ along."

Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson

Older Than Dirt

2007-10-18T09:07:00.000-04:00

"Hey Dad," one of my kids asked the other day, "What was your favorite fast food when you were growing up ? " "We didn't have fast food when I was growing up," I informed him. "All the food was slow."

"C'mon, seriously. Where did you eat ?"

"It was a place called 'at home,'" I explained. "Grandma cooked every day and when Grandpa got home from work, we sat down together at the dining room table, and if I didn't like what she put on my plate I was allowed to sit there until I did like it."

By this time, the kid was laughing so hard I was afraid he was going to suffer serious internal damage, so I didn't tell him the part about how I had to have permission to leave the table. But here are some other things I would have told him about my childhood if I figured his system could have handled it:

Some parents NEVER owned their own house, wore Levis , set foot on a golf course, traveled out of the country or had a credit card. In their later years they had something called a revolving charge card. The card was good only at Sears Roebuck. Or maybe it was Sears AND Roebuck. Either way, there is no Roebuck anymore. Maybe he died.

My parents never drove me to soccer practice. This was mostly because we never had heard of soccer. I had a bicycle that weighed probably 50 pounds, and only had one speed, (slow). We didn't have a television in our house until I was 11, but my grandparents had one before that. It was, of course, black and white, but they bought a piece of colored plastic to cover the screen. The top third was blue, like the sky, and the bottom third was green, like grass. The middle third was red. It was perfect for programs that had scenes of fire trucks riding across someone's lawn on a sunny day. Some people had a lens taped to the front of the TV to make the picture look larger. I was 13 before I tasted my first pizza, it was called "pizza pie." When I bit into it, I burned the roof of my mouth and the cheese slid off, swung down, plastered itself against my chin and burned that, too. It's still the best pizza I ever had.

We didn't have a car until I was 15. Before that, the only car in our family was my grandfather's Ford. He called it a "machine."

I never had a telephone in my room. The only phone in the house was in the living room and it was on a party line. Before you could dial, you had to listen and make sure some people you didn't know weren't already using the line.

Pizzas were not delivered to our home. But milk was.

All newspapers were delivered by boys and all boys delivered newspapers. I delivered a newspaper, six days a week. It cost 7 cents a paper, of which I got to keep 2 cents. I had to get up at 4 AM every morning.. On Saturday, I had to collect the 42 cents from my customers. My favorite customers were the ones who gave me 50 cents and told me to keep the change. My least favorite customers were the ones who seemed to never be home on collection day.

Movie stars kissed with their mouths shut. At least, they did in the movies. Touching someone else's tongue with yours was called French kissing and they didn't do that in movies. I don't know what they did in French movies. French movies were dirty and we weren't allowed to see them.

If you grew up in a generation before there was fast food, you may want to share some of these memories with your children or grandchildren.. Just don't blame me if they bust a gut laughing.

Growing up isn't what it used to be, is it ?

-author unknown

It's In The Air Again...

2007-10-10T09:58:00.000-04:00

When Mother Lights the Fire…

I feel it coming on again
In my spirit and my mind
This affliction comes over me
Each year about this time
With warning signs clear as day
Same thing everytime
You’d think an old hand such as I
Would learn to read the sign

But I miss it as I always do
Caught up in day to day
Before I see it, the time’s at hand
And the Warm Girl’s slipped away
But She leaves for me, a gift She does
For a poor boy’s needs are dire
Nothing leaves me more content
Than when Mother lights the fire

She strikes a match and touches tender
Much smoke but still no flame
A little wilted for their cause
The world remains the same
In one starting spark the colors flow
And spread along the ground
They creep in silence as they go
Without a single sound

The Ironwoods and the Asters
Take the striking blow
Honeysuckle and briar bushes
Are the very next to go
I miss the starting spark, it seems
Busy in life’s quagmire
Somehow I fail to notice
When Mother lights the fire

Looking up the hillside
I see the subtle flame
It can’t be time already
Seems Summer’s hardly came

Pale yellows on the ashes
Timid pinks on sassafras
The dark blood red of sumacs
Orange blazes upon the maples
Burnt yellow of the hickory
Pale reds of dogwoods glow
All of these and many more
When Mother lights the fire

Woods stand in glory
Dressed in best attire
And sing the colors of Autumn
When Mother lights the fire

Copyright © 2007 WML. All Rights Reserved

Risk Taker

2007-09-27T13:56:00.000-04:00

To laugh is to risk appearing the fool.
To weep is to risk appearing sentimental.
To reach out for another is to risk involvement.
To expose feeling is to risk exposing your true self.
To place your ideas, your dreams before the crowd, is to risk their loss.
To love is to risk not being loved in return.
To live is to risk dying.
To hope is to risk despair.
To try is to risk failure.
But the risk must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.
The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing and is nothing.
He may avoid suffering and sorrow, but he simply cannot learn, feel, change, grow, love, live.
Chained by his certitudes, he is a slave, he has forfeited freedom.
ONLY A PERSON WHO RISKS – IS FREE

Auther unknown

The idea in the acorn

2007-09-23T21:34:00.000-04:00

The idea in the acorn

There is no tree in the tiny acorn, but there is the ever-persistent idea of a tree. The acorn cannot move on its own, or ask for help, or even think for itself, but it can hold on to that idea, and it does.

When the tiny acorn becomes overwhelmed and buried by its surroundings, it then begins to express the idea. It does not complain or wish for more, but makes use of what it has to promote and manifest the idea, the idea of a tree that it holds in its every fiber.

When the thunderous storms come, it does not fear them or hide from them, but uses them to continue expressing the idea it holds of a mighty tree. When the scorching sun beats down, the acorn takes that energy and puts it to productive use, transforming its idea into reality.

And little by little, cell by cell, the idea of a tree begins to become a tree. The hardships and challenges come, yet that idea persists and the tree that is its object grows bigger and ever stronger.

The idea in the acorn becomes a magnificent oak tree. It does so using only the resources which happen to come to it. You have a big advantage over the acorn, for you can think, you can learn, you can move yourself and other things around. Just imagine, then, how even more magnificently you can express your own dreams and ideas, making positive use of whatever may come your way.

-- Ralph Marston

A woman and a fork

2007-09-14T09:46:00.000-04:00

A woman and a fork

This woman was diagnosed with a terminal illness and had been given three months to live. So as she was getting her things "in order," she contacted her Pastor and had him come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes.

She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what outfit she wanted to be buried in. Everything was in order and the Pastor was preparing to leave when the young woman suddenly remembered something very important to her. "There's one more thing," she said excitedly. "What's that?"came the Pastor's reply. "This is very important," the young woman continued. "I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand." The Pastor stood looking at the young woman, not knowing quite what to say. "That surprises you, doesn't it," the young woman asked. "Well, to be honest, I'm puzzled by the request," said the Pastor.

The young woman explained. "My grandmother once told me this story, and from that time on I have always tried to pass along its message to those I love and those who are in need of encouragement. In all my years of attending socials and dinners, I always remember that when the dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, 'Keep your fork'. It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming... like velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance! So, I just want people to see me there in that casket with a fork in my hand and I want them to wonder 'What's with the fork?' Then I want you to tell them, 'Keep your fork ... the best is yet to come.'

The Pastor's eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the young woman good-bye. He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before her death. But he also knew that the young woman had a better grasp of heaven than he did. She had a better grasp of what heaven would be like than many people twice her age, with twice as much experience and knowledge. She KNEW that something better was coming.

At the funeral people were walking by the young woman's casket and they saw fork placed in her right hand. Over and over, the Pastor heard the question, "What's with the fork?" And over and over he smiled.

During his message, the Pastor told the people of the conversation he had with the young woman shortly before she died. He also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized to her. He told the people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and told them that they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it either. He was right. So the next time you reach down for your fork let it remind you, ever so gently, that the best is yet to come. Friends are a very rare jewel, indeed. They make you smile and encourage you to succeed. They lend an ear, they share a word of praise, and they always want to open their hearts to us. Show your friends how much you care. Remember to always be there for them, even when you need them more. For you never know when it may be their time to "Keep your fork."

Cherish the time you have, and the memories you share...being friends with someone is not an opportunity but a sweet responsibility.

And keep your fork.....

Author unknown

Cry Havoc! And Let Go the Dogs of War...

2007-09-11T09:48:00.000-04:00

9/11/2005 (Revisited)

I remember that morning like it was yesterday. I will always remember the intimate details of it; the sights, the sounds, the smells. It was the day that the world changed forever.

I was married at the time and had stepped down to our pond to try and catch a mess of fish for supper. I had several nice ones in a bucket when I heard her call to me that breakfast was almost ready. I pulled out for the house with my pole and bucket in hand, stopping to sit in a chair on the porch to remove my wet boots. The windows were open and the radio was on and I half-listened, half-ignored the announcer talking about a plane crash in New York. I remember thinking that it was only a matter of time before something like this was going to happen. Sooner or later some pilot was going to screw up and hit one of the massive buildings jutting up out of the ground across America...the numbers were just with it.

I went inside and turned on the television and they had a live feed of the events going on. It was just about then that the second plane hit. And my heart broke. God help us all. My eyes clouded with rage, pain, fear, sorrow and a thousand other things all at once as a tear ran down my cheek. In that instant, through all my years of training in the military, I instinctively knew that we were at war. My wife asked me what was wrong and I couldn't find my voice, or my stomach, to tell her what I already knew. I just stared at the screen in silence and disbelief.

As I tried unsuccessfully to choke down the meal she had prepared, I watched in horror as first one and then the other tower crashed to the ground. And I prayed out loud where I sat. I prayed for those in and around the towers, but more than that I prayed for my friends that I knew would soon be placed in harms way once again. Their faces and names raced through my mind; I bet he re-enlisted, he's not retired yet, either...

I got up from the table, walked out the door and pulled my wet boots back on. I picked up the bucket of fish by the steps and walked past the flag flying at the front gate towards the pond. I remember thinking as I turned those fish loose that there had been enough killing for one day. I turned the bucket upside-down, took a seat on it and thought about all that had just happened and was going to happen. It was probably one of the saddest, most helpless feeling times in my life.

I often find myself on the US Army website, reading the names of those who have died in southwest Asia. And yes, I recognize some of them by name and all of them by trade. They were my brothers and sisters and always will be. And I love them all. I would urge each and every one of you to go there for a visit and pay your respects. They are the last barrier between you and the next attack. They gave 'that last full measure of devotion' for you and me.

I think I might take my pole and a bucket down to the pond this morning and try to catch a mess for my friends. I know that they would like that, taking comfort in the fact that they are not forgotten. God love 'em.

A Lesson Of Porcelain

2007-09-08T12:21:00.000-04:00

With The last piece nestled into its place and held there by glue, I wondered how noticeable the cracks would be once back the angel was back on the shelf from which it fell yesterday. But we knew the truth, that porcelain angel hadn’t exactly fallen from that shelf.

My precious porcelain angel had been knocked off that shelf by the awkward and clumsy frame of a boy chasing after his dog in the house. Not just any boy, but my son.

At first I was angry, but as I glued the pieces back together, I realized the significance of the porcelain angel had changed. Having been raised in a home of rigid rules and a swift hand of hard discipline, I thought about my son bumping into the shelf as he played with his dog.

Never again would I look at it with its broken jagged lines without remembering our happy home, where a boy could play with his dog, or wrestle with his little brother.

The porcelain angel truly was more glorious than it had ever been.

Labor Day, 2007

2007-09-03T09:56:00.001-04:00

When George Pullman invented the Pullman sleeping cars for the railroad back in the 1850’s not only did he build a name for himself, but he also he built an entire town.
If you happened to live in Pullman, Illinois in the 1880’s you lived and worked for George Pullman. If you worked for George Pullman, you lived in a George Pullman row house and you probably went to a Pullman Church and did your shopping locally at a Pullman market.
All was cozy for a little while, but eventually the recession hit and he laid off a large percentage of his workforce and reduced the wages of the remaining employees. I thought that automated deductions from paychecks were something from perhaps the last fifty years or so, but he was doing it way back in the 1880’s. If you worked for him, your rent was taken out of your check before you ever saw it. With the high rent and low pay this didn’t sit so well and his employees began walking out.
When Pullman workers joined American Railroad Union thus beginning strikes and boycotts, President Grover Cleveland called the strike a crime and deployed the Army to break the dispute. When the strike was officially declared over the employees promised not to unionize again and this remained true until the great depression.
"The day for which the toilers in past centuries looked forward, when their rights and their wrongs would be discussed...that the workers of our day may not only lay down their tools of labor for a holiday, but upon which they may touch shoulders in marching phalanx and feel the stronger for it" ~ Samuel Gompers, head of the American Federation of Labor 1898

A small yet important bit of history on this Labor Day, 2007

We the People...

2007-09-02T10:32:00.000-04:00

You want to know what makes this country beautiful? What makes it the best place on earth to live? Simple. We do. The people of this country do. Our constitution and the laws set forth under its guidance do. We are governed by an entity of the people, for the people, by the people and as such, we enjoy freedoms a lot of other countries are denied. We are not perfect and I am sure we are not always right. But we do the best we can, in most cases, to ensure that the majority of those affected by our decisions achieve maximum benefits. This quite often sets the stage where the hard right must be chosen over the easy wrong. Sometimes hard decisions must be made and implemented simply because they are the right things to do. It is usually up to some level of our judicial system to carry this decision-making policy out. And then, often as not, by a jury of our peers.

I have been given the honor of being called upon this month to serve on jury duty here in my community. I am one of the cogs in the great wheel that runs the machine that moves our nation along its path into the future. Last month maybe it was someone you know, next month it may be you. But for this month, in this small Kentucky town, it is I.

I never really gave jury duty much thought until I was called upon to perform it myself. What an awesome power we are entrusted with. We have at our fingertips, the power and authority to alter lives forever. The impact of our decisions today can quite possibly mend lives or see to their destruction. It is the power of a loaded gun and it requires a tremendous amount of responsibility to wield it. It is not a task to be taken lightly or carelessly. Once the gun is fired, the bullet cannot be taken back.

Among our most sacred rights as citizens of this nation are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. We have given ourselves these rights, in our constitution, and hold them in highest regard. We have the right to feel secure in our person and possessions. There are times though, when due to circumstance, citizens are relieved of these rights for the benefit of themselves as well as others. It is never easy but needs to be done by a necessity born of compassion. It needs to be done because it is the right thing to do.

* * * * *

"All rise," the Bailiff orders.

"This court is now in session, the Honorable John T. Spencer presiding".

Amid the rustle of robes, as he takes his seat, the Judge tells all to be seated.He is a young man, maybe in his early forties, with stylish wire-rimmed glasses and a ready smile. His dark hair and well-trimmed beard are just starting to show the first touches of gray. He addresses the court with a clear articulate voice.

"Comes the matter of the Commonwealth versus Emma Minyard before this court today. This is a case to determine if Mrs. Minyard is capable of and able to make decisions for herself concerning her welfare or that she needs to have a Guardian appointed to her to look after her best interests."

"This court has previously ordered that her daughter act as her temporary guardian, until such time as her case could be investigated by the Commonwealth and presented before the court. Is the Commonwealth ready to proceed on this matter?"

A plain young woman in an olive drab suit stands from behind her table in front of the bar and answers, "We are, your Honor."

"Good," the Judge says, and then asks, "Is counsel for Mrs. Minyard present and ready to move forward with this case?"

"We are, your Honor," says the man behind the other table as he rises in his dark blue suit, his silver hair closely cropped above his tanned features.

"Very well, then," closes the Judge.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury pool," the Judge begins, as he addresses the gallery, "We have a case here before us today that is required by Statutes to be tried by jury. If your name is called please come forward in the court and the Bailiff will seat you."

One by one the names are called by the Secretary of the court from her place beside the Judge’s bench. When all twelve seats are full, the Judge opens the floor to both sets of attorneys allowing them to eliminate any Juror that they may deem inappropriate to hear the case. The Judge introduces all pertinent lawyers, witnesses and family members of the Respondent. Questions are asked and answered and ultimately no eliminations are made.

"The level at which this case is to be heard only requires six Jurors, so if the Secretary will pick those six by lottery, we can begin," the Judge informs the court.

The six names are called and the remaining six move back to the gallery with the rest of the jury pool. The Judge thanks them for their time and service and dismisses them for the day, before returning to the business at hand.

"The Commonwealth appointed a team of three professionals to this case," the Judge explains, "to determine the mental capacity and capabilities of Mrs. Minyard and to report their findings to this court upon completion. The separate and comprehensive findings of these individuals and the office of the Commonwealth have been reported to the court and you will be given the opportunity to review their findings while in the jury room. These reports are hereby ordered into evidence in these proceedings."

" The team appointed to conduct these investigations were a medical doctor, a psychologist and a social worker. As their individual findings concur with one another and stand as a corroboration of each other, only one of them is required by Statute to testify as to their findings at these proceedings."

Looking at the attorney for the state the Judge asks, "Is the Commonwealth ready to call their first witness?"

"Yes, your Honor… the Commonwealth calls Susan Bernson to the stand," the blond woman in the green suit declares.

An attractive brunette woman of about 35 years of age stands from behind the Commonwealths table and moves to the witness stand. Once seated, the Judge swears her in under oath and tells the Commonwealth to proceed with their examination of this witness.

The blond woman asks her to state her name and occupation for the record.

"Susan Bernson. I work for the Commonwealth’s Office for Abused and Neglected Senior Citizens" she replies.

"In what capacity, Ms. Bernson?"

"I investigate reports of abuse and neglect primarily, but I also do field evaluations when a request is made for involuntary appointment of a guardian. I was assigned to this case in that capacity."

"And in your capacity as examiner, did you go to Pleasant Ridge Manor and examine Mrs. Emma Minyard on December 26, 2005, Ms. Bernson?"
"Yes. I did"

"Please tell the court about the examination and what conclusions you reached concerning the mental capacity of Mrs. Minyard. Take your time and state it in your words, Ms. Bernson."

"I arrived at the nursing home about mid-morning, requested the chart for Mrs. Minyard, reviewed it and then asked to be taken to her. I found Mrs. Minyard to be a 77-year-old woman in a frail condition. She is not very large in stature. She requires assistance in everything she does to include eating, going to the bathroom and even walking. She was awake and cognizant but confused about her surroundings. When I asked her how she came to be here, she said she fell and this is where they brought her. She could not relate any of the specifics about the fall, only that she fell. When asked where she lived, she said here, indicating the nursing home. She said she had always lived here with her husband and her son, Tim. I looked again at the chart and noted that she did in fact have only one child, but that it was a daughter."

A soft sob is heard across the silence of the court room, as the woman the Judge had pointed out as being the daughter of the Respondent wipes her eyes with a tissue and holds her glasses in her other hand. Her husband leans close to her and can be seen to mouthing the words, "It’s gonna be OK, it will all be over soon, hon." His hand gently strokes her shoulders.

On the other side of the husband sits the elderly Mr. Minyard. His stooped shoulders give the appearance of leaning forward a bit, as he stares stoically ahead, not really looking at anything but perhaps remembering some past time. His tired, dark eyes bulge slightly from his gaunt, weathered face as his hands clutch his knees.

Ms. Bernson continues after a brief pause, her own eyes batting back tears for the other woman. What a burden of pain she must feel at not being recognized by her own mother.

"I handed Mrs. Minyard a hundred dollars in play money and asked her how much I had given her and she answered sixty. I asked her when her birthday was and she said January but couldn’t tell me the day or year. I asked her what today’s date was and she couldn’t say. When asked if she had eaten breakfast today, she said yes but couldn’t recall what it was. As a conclusion, I believe that Mrs. Minyard suffers from dementia and is not capable of making decisions on her own concerning her welfare or finances."

"Thank you, Ms. Bernson, the Commonwealth has no further questions of this witness, your Honor."

"Counsel for the Respondent has no questions for this witness, your Honor."

"Thank you, Ms. Bernson, you may step down now," the Judge says. "The Commonwealth may call their next witness."

The brunette leaves the witness stand and takes her seat back at the table of the Commonwealth’s attorney. The blond rises and addresses the bench; "The Commonwealth has no more witnesses, your Honor."

"Very well," says the Judge. "Does counsel for the Respondent wish to call witnesses?"

"Yes, your Honor," says the tall, grayed haired attorney. "I would like to call Mrs. Betty Clark to the stand."

The woman the Judge had indicated as the daughter of the Respondent slowly gets to her feet and carefully places her purse on the bench beside her husband and begins making her way to the witness stand…

* * * * *

She passes in front of the jury box, her eyes never leaving the floor as she cautiously moves forward. Her conservative cotton dress is half hidden by the cream colored sweater she has on. Her form is frail and her features seem small as she shuffles along and ascends to the witness stand. Adjusting her dress, she seats herself and faces the Judge. He swears her in and her reply cannot be heard as it faintly passes her lips.

The judge smiles at her and advises, "Mrs. Clark, I know you are soft spoken but you need to speak up now, if you can, so the Recorder can hear you and we don’t have to repeat your answers, OK?"

She returns his smile and nods gently and turns to face the table with the tall, gray-haired attorney behind it. She sits waiting for the first question with her hands folded in her lap; one of them still clutching a tissue. Her drawn face is void of most of its color and her mouth is forcing a smile that her weary eyes do not support. She looks so much older than her 58 years.

The gray-haired attorney asks her to state her name and relationship to the Respondent.

"Betty Clark. Emma Minyard is my mother," she says still softly but load enough to be heard.

"Mrs. Clark, you have heard the testimony of the Commonwealth’s witness, Ms. Bernson. Do you agree with her assessment of your mother’s condition?"

"From what of it I could hear, I would agree," she says, "I have a hard time hearing anymore, my ears, you see." She indicated the hearing aid she wore.

"Very well then, Mrs. Clark, for the sake of clarity, would you tell us, in your own words, what is your opinion of your mothers health and well being?" asks the attorney.

"Mother's health has been falling off for over a year now," she begins.

"She has gotten to the point that she cannot do much for herself. Someone has to feed her, dress her, and bathe her. She cannot be left unattended anymore, because she gets confused and then scared. When she gets flustered, well, that’s how she fell this last time. She just tries to do more than she is able to without help and that is when she hurts herself. Daddy, bless his heart, just can’t do for mother anymore. It’s just too much for him. Someone has to watch her 24 hours a day, make sure she takes her medicine and such. He just can’t do that; it’s too hard on him. I took care of mother, with help from Tim, my husband, until she fell this last time. We agreed as a family, myself, my father and Tim, that the best thing for Mother would be to place her in a nursing home, where she would be watched constantly and nurses were on hand to tend to her. And that is what we did, right before this past Christmas. Daddy spends all day with her there and then comes home to sleep at night. I spend a good portion of my time there with her also, as does Tim." She looks tenderly at her husband as she continues, "Mother loves Tim and he has always been good to mother."

"So, what you are saying is that you have already been looking after your mothers interests, with help from your husband and approval of your father, before any of this was brought to the Commonwealths attention?"

"Yes," she acknowledges.

"Mrs. Clark, you are now the temporary Guardian of record for your mother, is that correct?"

"Yes sir, I am," she responds.

"Mrs. Clark, if the court were to appoint you as the permanent guardian for your mother, is that a task that you would be willing to take on and fulfill?"

"Yes sir, it is," she quietly answers.

"I have no further questions for this witness, your Honor," says the gray-haired attorney.

"The Commonwealth has no questions for this witness, your Honor," the blond attorney quickly adds.

"Very well then," says the Judge. "Mrs. Clark, thank you for your testimony. I know this has been hard on you and your family. You may step down now and take your seat in the gallery."

Standing like a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders, Mrs. Clark walks back to where she had been seated and takes her seat beside her husband, who takes her hand and looks towards the Judge.

The gray-haired attorney stands and advises the Judge that he has no other witnesses to call and promptly takes his seat again. The Judge hands the documents of evidence to the Bailiff who moves over to stand by the jury box.

"All evidence having been entered and all testimonies having been heard, this hearing is now turned over to the jury with these instructions," the judge speaks first to the court and then to the jury directly.

"You are only to consider evidence and testimony seen and heard here today in your deliberations. You are being charged with the task of returning two decisions. The first is if, in your opinion, Mrs.Emma Minyard is capable of making sound decisions for herself where her health and welfare are concerned. The second is if Mrs. Minyard is capable of making sound decisions for herself regarding her financial affairs. The Bailiff has been given the reports that we discussed earlier and you will take them with you into the deliberation room as well as a form to be completed by the foreman that you pick once in the room. When you have reached a decision, please notify the Bailiff and he will advise the court and your decisions will be presented to the court."

"Follow me, please," says the Bailiff and the jury rises and goes through the door out of the courtroom.

It takes less than ten minutes for deliberations and the jury returns through the same door they had exited through.

"Have you reached a verdict?" the Judge queries.

The foreperson stands as she hands the form and the reports to the Bailiff. "We have your Honor," she says.

The Bailiff crosses the room and hands the packet to the Judge. He sits the reports to the side and looks down at the verdict form. Taking a moment to read it, he looks back at the jury…

* * * * *

"Let it be entered into record that the Jury has returned a verdict and that it has been reported to the court," the Judge says to the Secretary.

"The Jury has decided that Mrs. Minyard is not capable of making decisions for herself in regards to her health and welfare. Is this the verdict of the Jury? A simple nod from everyone will be adequate."

The Jury nods as one body before the Judge continues.

"It is further the verdict of this Jury that Mrs. Minyard is not capable of making decisions for herself in regards to her financial affairs. Is this also the verdict of the Jury," the Judge asks?

Once again the Jury nods in unison.

"Would the Commonwealth like to poll the Jury?" the Judge asks.

"No, your Honor," the blond attorney responds.

"Council for the Respondent, would you like to poll the Jury?"

"No, your Honor, we accept this verdict," says the gray-haired attorney.

"Very well then. Let the record show that a verdict has been reached and accepted by the court. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury this ends your service in this case and the court thanks you. Before releasing you I would just like to say that you did a good thing here today and the court believes that the interests of Mrs. Minyard will benefit from your decisions."

"What you decided here today is to allow Mrs. Clark and her husband to take care of her aging mother. It is the right thing to do; it is what families are supposed to do for one another. And in thisinstance, I am confident that that is what will happen. None the less, I hope you don’t diminish the importance of what transpired here today, the basic gravity of it. It is no frivolous matter to deny anyone the right to make decisions for themselves. But the human condition, being what it is, sometimes makes these things necessary."

" If anything, you should leave here today with a sense of confidence, that even if you find yourself incapacitated, that your basic rights under the constitution will be looked after and protected. You are dismissed."

With misty eyes, Mrs. Clark mouths the words, "Thank you, thank you," to the jury as they leave the courtroom.

Copyright © 2007 WML

2007-08-30T20:07:00.000-04:00

Mountain Music

clear, cool mountain eve

nature's ambient music

trout stream concerto

old guitar, new strings,

one sings neither one will stay in tune.

...

dog joins serenade

long mournful howl is answered

harmony fills air

blue tick bass, mutt on tenor

canine chorus rocks the hills

War Babies

2007-08-30T01:04:00.000-04:00

Who will suffer these little ones?
Alone at this tender age
Robbed of unknown futures.

Because men could not
Abide one another in tolerance?
Because adults chose actions
Infantile in nature?
Egos raged as
Shots rang out.

--------------------------------------------

Strong idiologies
Erase reason and logic
Initiating carnage.
Bledout bodies
Already rotting in the sun
Belong to someone’s father.

Remember this legacy
As it predicts the future
When men learn nothing from history.

Copyright © 2007 WML

2007-08-27T22:06:00.000-04:00

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Are you a writer with ties to the Appalachian Region of the eastern United States? Are you are a writer from elsewhere in the world looking for a place to improve at the craft of writing? Maybe you are an avid reader with a keen interest in the written word and the skills required producing it? If you answered yes to any of these questions then the Appalachian Writers Forum (AWF) may be right for you.

This forum is an offshoot of two writing sites designed to showcase regional writers: Appalachian Writers and Kentucky Farmer. These two sites offer excellent samples of the written word from those regional areas. We would invite and encourage you to visit them as well as the AWF. But writers must continue to grow and learn to improve upon their craft and that was not available on the writer’s sites, per se. An environment for learning, exchanging ideas and practicing the craft was needed. This need was met by the development of AWF.

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AWF is chucked full of useful information for all skill levels of writers. Under the "Publication" category, for example, you will find information on:

Selecting publishers to query.
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The "Helpful Links" category offers members countless links to sites that are of interest to writers. Links to publishers, agents, editors, writing tools and sites to name a few. The best part of these resources is that they are kept fresh with new input from members on a regular basis. And, oh yeah, did we mention that it’s free?

In the "Classroom" category, all manners of subjects are discussed that pertain to the writing craft. Language skills, editing skills, writing prompts and exercises to participate in.

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The "Discussion" area of the AWF site is dedicated to many genres of writing: fiction, nonfiction, poetry, web content/SEO and essays, to name a few. Members can discuss genre-specific topics here or post samples of their own work for the reading enjoyment of others.

The list of site features goes on and on. If this sounds like the place for you, then come on over and give us test-drive. The Appalachian Writers Forum will be glad you did and we believe you will be too.

Regretfully, yours

2007-08-27T20:39:00.000-04:00

My place on the shelf
has turned dusty and old
hands of the clock turn
yet my breath grows cold

Smother me with silence
in this night’s cool air
smooth my rigid corners
for time has not been fair

wind blowing softly
lost in her sweet time
withstand bitter yearning
from this lost soul of mine

Heart, lonely and stale
just as fruit on the vine
left to linger past harvest
like this wretched life of mine

Close off the passage
turn the last latch key
draw breath, so bitter
my captive spirit, set free

Copyrighted by Kentucky Dreamer

Missed Chances...

2007-08-24T08:53:00.000-04:00

I suppose the thing that struck me most was how large the oak tree had grown in these past twenty years. When I left home it was in its first year and maybe five feet tall. Now its massive knurled arms held a million leaf-covered fingers in a canopy that covered the small yard with shade. The old house looked the same with its redbrick facade and white soffit, yet some how different. Maybe the knowledge that neither anyone I knew nor myself lived there anymore gave it a foreign appearance. “You can’t go home again,” they say and the meaning of that phrase became crystal clear to me as I slipped the car into gear and slowly drove away.

I looked left and right in mechanical fashion as I drove past the homes I grew up around. I wondered if anyone I knew even lived here anymore. Maybe a few lingered on but my guess is that most were long gone now. No matter, I was not here to see anyone anyway. To tell the truth, I was not sure why I was here at all. This visit had no logical reason to it other than I just wanted to see things here one more time before I put it behind me and moved on.

There was Suzie Jenson’s house with that carport where we both had our first kiss. The old porch swing that had hung there was gone now but its image was fresh in my head. We had sat there nervously swinging back and forth in the pale glow of a yellow porch light. I felt the hand that I held tremble a bit as I leaned my face into hers and our lips touched. I could have stayed there forever, and just might have, if her father hadn’t been watching us through the kitchen window. He damn near tore that door off the hinges and squalled for Suzi to get in the house. “You get your ass home, Paul Miller and don’t you come back here again ‘til I send for ya,” he had said. I grinned to myself a little as I thought about it. He would have shit a meat axe if he knew that kiss was not the only ‘first’ Suzi and me would share further on down the road that summer.

Across the street and one house down was where Billy Crowder lived. The old cinder-block garage we used to sneak behind with stolen cigarettes was still there but in bad need of a roof. I remember the day Momma caught us back there and had a bona fide conniption fit. She demanded my pocketknife from me and cut a switch off of one of Mr. Crowder’s apple trees with it. It was about as big around as your little finger and five feet long. She had me by my left wrist and fairly well cut the backs of my legs to pieces with it as we went towards home. She cussed me and prayed to Jesus in the same sentence and breath as we danced down the street in front of God and everybody. All’s well that ends well, I reckon, and I lost my taste for tobacco that day.

The street ended at the main highway, a four-lane road that ran to Nashville in one direction and north to Louisville in the other. There was a traffic light here where none had been my last time home. The old Greyhound sub-station across the road and Joe’s Bar and Grill beside it were gone, their footprints buried under a new road that had emerged over the years. I guess nothing is safe or sacred anymore. I turned with the light and headed towards town.

It was hard to see now through the thick growth of hedge apple trees surrounding the yard, but there on the right sat old Dixie Elementary. I thought how very small it looked now. Its halls seemed so massive to me as a child. It was here that I had learned some of my most important lessons in life. I learned that bloody noses and black eyes don’t hurt near as bad if you win the fight, broken hearts are not fatal and even grandmothers have to die. I was shown the world is not a happy, friendly place every time we had a civil defense drill in the hallway. “Sit on the floor with your backs against the wall, pull your knees to your chest and place your head between your legs,” they told us. But they didn’t tell us everything. They left out the part about kiss ‘your ass goodbye’ because you ain’t walking away from a nuclear attack. But we all knew it intuitively.

I moved on up the road until I came to the little strip mall on the left where we used to get our groceries. Winn-Dixie on one end and A & P on the other kept one another honest for the customers. Between them lay the drug store, the bakery, a barbershop, the old ‘Ten-Cent Store’ – Woolworth’s and the bank. The buildings were still there but I didn’t recognize a single business in them. The memories rushed over me as I recalled those hot summer days when Ronnie and me would ride our bikes the mile or so to get here. One or the other of us had done a chore for somebody and had fifty cents or a dollar, maybe. We had a pact that way, a “one for all, all for one” understanding that the good fortunes of one was good fortune for the other as well. Candy bars were a nickel then and donuts were three cents each. Ice cold bottles of pop were a dime at the bakery. A half dollar would find us over under the big maple trees across the street at the church eating 10 donuts and washing them down with a couple of cool drinks. Only my memories remain of those days now, the rest of it has gone.

I glanced left at my old high school on the left as I waited for the light to change. There had been much added on to it since I attended. I hardly recognized it anymore. School was out now and only a few cars were in front of the main building, probably maintenance men or janitors. The light changed and I made a right turn before I had time to get lost in thought about my high school days.

Most of the businesses here on Old Third Street road had changed, too. Burger Chef was gone and so was that little diner where our neighbor Ann had worked after her husband died. Champ’s Roller Rink, just before the railroad crossing, was now a small warehouse of some kind. But the times we had there! As a matter of fact, it was here that I spent my last night in this town.

It was like almost every other Saturday night. At least it started out that way. I was at Champ’s with Ronnie to see what kind of luck we would have with the ladies. Ronnie had pilfered a pint of Canadian Mist from his father’s liquor cabinet and we were not having a bit of trouble in the courage department. We hooked up with Cathy Crawford and her little sister, Mary Beth. We flirted and laughed and skated around the floor backward for a while. Every so often, Ronnie and me would excuse ourselves and slip outside for another sip of courage. Eventually we ended up leaving with the girls in tow, headed to a little secluded spot down by the river.

The radio was blaring inside the little Chevelle as I pulled out of the parking lot and turned right and headed across the railroad tracks there. The crossing guard must have been broken and I never saw the train. The last thing I remember was Cathy’s screams being drowned out by the train’s horn, a great concussion and then nothing.

I awoke in a hospital bed in the jail wing of the hospital. As soon as the doctor had examined me and determined I was lucid enough to talk, a sheriff’s deputy stepped forward and read me my rights and the charges against me. Three counts of vehicular homicide, he said. The rest is history, as they say. My history.

My folks both died while I was in prison. They left me what they had in a bank account so I could try to start my life over when I got out. I made parole this week but I will never be out of this prison in my head. Every night for the last twenty years when I laid down to sleep, six eyes stared at me from the dark ceiling of my cell. I can’t imagine that being anything but a life sentence.

The last big holiday of the Summer is fast approaching and with it the parties and celebrations. I hope everyone has fun and stays safe. I am running this piece in hopes that someone, somewhere will read it and think before they make a mistake like Paul, the character in the story.

Living in My Heart

2007-08-22T15:17:00.000-04:00

Living In My Heart

“Hail Mary, Mother Of God…” I said as I counted the beads out with my small fingers, just as the Father had instructed me to do. I had confessed to him that I had taken two cookies before dinner. I remember my mother and grandma thought that was funny.

My Grandmother was a devout Catholic and I was raised Catholic, too. Although I grew away from Catholicism, the memories of Church and Grandma are still close to my heart.

I remember holding her hand and skipping along like busy little girls do as Grandma and me walked the six or seven blocks to Church. This would be the same Church that I would stand in front of family and friends, pick up the head of her casket and carry her down those steps for the final time.

If you have never been a pall bearer for a loved one, you can’t have any idea of the effects it has on you. I found myself looking at all the faces of those that loved her as we carried her towards the steps to leave that Church. As I walked, the fact that I was carrying my Grandmother to her final resting place hit me hard. Tears began rolling down my cheeks. Me, the hard one, the one that never cried, walked forward with my face drenched in tears and I could do nothing to wipe them or hide them. They were there for the world to see. I will never forget that feeling as long as I live.

When I would visit her as a young girl, one of the treats we had together was Dunkin Donuts. I would walk to the next block and visit the little shop there on Saturday evenings. I would pick out a couple for me and a couple for her for twenty cents or so each. We would have them before we walked to Church together on Sunday mornings.
I ate some dough nuts today to celebrate her birthday. I went all out, too. I ate a long john with creamy filling and chocolate icing and a raspberry jelly filled dough nut with white icing. I thought of her the whole time.

As Grandma neared the end of her life, she spoke of the wonderful dinner that had been prepared in her honor. She could actually see it, she said and she spoke of it. It was relayed to me in whispers, as Grandma lay there unable to move. It was then that I understood the mystery of faith.

The Good Book says some things are not meant for us to understand and when that time comes, the understanding will be granted. While my Grandmother lingered between life and death, her time to understand was granted to her. As her visitors wished her well and kissed her soft, cool cheek, she waited for the dinner bell to ring.

She laid her head on the soft pillow and her eyes fluttered softly as she realized a peace and contentment that she had been denied in this life. She drifted off to a peaceful retreat as she left the broken temple that had been her home and reached for the hand that awaited her presence at the table as she did so.

The precise moment that her fingers touched His, her golden heart stopped beating and she was gone… But never forgotten.

Happy Birthday, Grandma.

Old Soldier

2007-08-20T10:20:00.001-04:00

For all those Veterans
whose injuries don’t show up on x-rays

The Old Soldier nudged me
and called me closer with his eyes

his past wrapped tightly in secrets
his future bleak and locked in

"What is it Trodden Soldier,
that you wish for me to know ?"

~Honors~Duties~Commands~Creeds~

broken bodies are bandaged
but how easily does the mind heal?

weariness, shrouded in blankets of green
eyes bleeding secrets and half truths

you pledged all, Dutiful Soldier
with a heart long ago plastered white

in death you grasped an old brass emblem
Rest In Peace, at long last, Proud Soldier

Walk On...

2007-08-18T22:29:00.000-04:00

Walk On...

When trails are hard before you.
A journey of a thousand miles
Begins with a first step,
But it also ends with a last.

Walk On...

When brambles tear your mind's legs,
The soles of resolve are blistered and bleeding
And the muscles of your spirit
Scream for rest inside your head.

Walk On...

When voices by the wayside
Tempt to stop your travels,
Offering cool drinks of mediocrity
To distract you from your mission.

Walk On...

When naysayers chide your efforts,
Trip you up or try to block passage.
Brush them aside with determination!
Only your heart knows where it seeks to go.

Walk On...

When the quest is through you will
Feast at contentment's table
And sleep in serenity's bed
Reconciled in your constitution.

Walk On... Until you get where you are going.

A Day at the Pond--glimpses of life in antebellum Kentucky

2007-08-16T15:18:00.000-04:00

A baker's dozen children, some cane poles, a can full of worms and a good fishin' hole is really all it takes to spend a pleasant summer afternoon. The men took all the children over to the Dye house in the afternoon with the promise that we would cook whatever they caught. We really would have. . . but we weren't too distressed over the idea.

Children and men spent a pleasant afternoon. There were a few little blue gill caught and released. Everybody had a lovely time. They all came back tired and content-- just in time for supper: Chicken supree, ham, all kinds of summer vegetables, sweet potato pie and blackberry cobbler.

As much as children love water, I have to wonder sometimes why they are always so dirty. As grubby as they can be, from head to stockings, we usually find them under all the caked dirt when we bathe them head to toe in the big wash tub.

New Feature Added to Site

2007-08-11T09:42:00.000-04:00

We have added a Calendar of Events to the Kentucky Farmer for your viewing pleasure. We hope you find this feature helpful and use it often.

Check here for regional and Appalachian-wide writers events, craft shows and fairs. We will also post special events as we have them.

If you, your club or organization has an event scheduled and would like to list it here, please send your listing to Calendar of Events.

Include the following information:

Name of Event
Date(s)
Location & Directions
Sponsor (if applicable)
Brief Description
POC email/phone number

Morning Orchestra

2007-08-09T13:45:00.000-04:00

An early morning orchestra
fills my room with melody
rooster's crow awaken
whilst birds hold morning choir
singing at the sill of my window
delighting my heart
drenching my soul
leaving my spirit to sing
lady of dawn, she dances
‘cross stage, great and wide
stirring me from slumber
with morn' softly aglow
lord of sun greets her
with splendid splay of light
kissing the cheek of the lady
then sending her away
to bask another day
wake me, take me
let me be lost in your presence
one more time, amaze me

A Tale of Two Chickens

2007-08-08T09:33:00.000-04:00

Friday morning we put two nice, big Dominiquer roosters in a period chicken crate and hauled 'em to Perryville in the back of the truck knowing they'd make a fine addition to supper on Saturday night. One we had purchased from the Amish down in Liberty as a chick. The other, we hatched from an egg, it had a pretty little rosebud comb.

When we got there, we decided to tie the roosters out on a picket line, to make their final hours a little happier. Danny promptly dropped one and it went squawking and flapping off toward the hay field. We all chased and penned and plotted to catch it. We set two fine teenage boys, Jake and Chris, to chasing it. They finally dropped a heavy wool blanket over its head and slowed it down enough that somebody could grab it up.

The chickens spent an uneventful afternoon pecking at whatever their hearts desired down at the bottom of the hill. You really didn't notice them much at all, unless you happened to be walking that way. Until, that is, until one of them got loose. And, people, the race was on. Both sides of the creek, and up through the field, that rooster zig-zagged all over creation. Now, little did we know, but we had a chicken chaser from way back in our midst. Old Joe-bo, he slipped up behind that chicken and grabbed it up like it wasn't nothin'. There was a cackle or two from old Mr. Gevedon declaring that Joe-bo had thieved a chicken or two in his day. And if Joe-bo hadn't been goin' to do the preachin' on Sunday mornin', we might have had some serious apprehensions on the moral character of that man.

That other rooster figured out how to get loose like the first one. And I'll be durned if we didn't get to watch the fun all over again. No matter how hard they tried, those other fellers, couldn't catch that chicken. And Joe-bo said, "well, I reckon I better help these boys out." Those chickens went back in the crate after that. We'd not be chasing chickens all day long.

Well, young mister Owen who is just about six years old, got there sometime after dark. He thought those chickens in a crate was about the best thing he'd ever seen. We had us a discussion, me and Owen. He thought that the stew pot was a fine place for two such chickens. He enjoyed that idea a great deal, let me tell you. He spent most of Saturday, telling everybody that came by. "We was going to eat the chickens."

Little did we know, that chickens is low-down mean and ugly spirited. Those damned old roosters crowed every little bit, ALL night long. When I give up and rolled out of bed, somebody had throwed a saddle pad over the crate trying to trick the roosters into going to sleep. Roosters is mean. Nobody had much love for chicken on Saturday mornin'.

Danny and Bryan took the roosters and skinned them clean and brought them back to the stew pot. When they was finished boilin', Beverly cleaned all the meat off those bones for the chicken supree we was havin' for supper. The bones she brought out of the kitchen, there was a person or two that wanted to have some words with those roosters. You just can't reason much with a live chicken, and if you're going to have words you'd just might as well have them with the old boiled-down bones. That chicken sure was good. Maybe it was the crowin' that made it taste better.

Float Like a Butterfly...

2007-08-07T08:47:00.000-04:00

The change in temperature was like stepping into bright sunlight after having been submerged in a cave. The oppressive heat of an August evening along the Ohio seemed to suck the breath right out of your lungs. Suzi steadied herself on my arm as we negotiated the pyramid of steps that descended from the Performing Arts Center to Main Street some distance below. We reached the sidewalk and headed east towards Fourth Street and its nightlife there.

The evening was still young as we strolled along, taking in the sights and sounds of the city at night. I unbuttoned my jacket and removed my tie before I suffocated as we moved along. We talked about the show and I had to admit I had been pleasantly surprised by it. Not being much of a dance fan, I found the presentation of “Tap Dogs” to be quite the spectacle in its contemporary way. The evening had turned out to be quite enjoyable.

I held the door open for Suzi as she stepped inside O’Hara’s Café. It wasn’t late but it wasn’t early either and most of the evenings diners had come and gone, probably on to one of the many nightspots along the mall for music and dancing. But I knew, at least for Suzi, no trip to Louisville would be complete without a piece of O’Hara’s Derby Pie. She had discovered it on our first visit here and simply would not go home without a taste.

We were promptly seated and ordered our desserts and coffee and sat watching the people pass by several feet from us through the large tinted plate-glass window, oblivious to our presence there. The waiter brought our food and coffee and we had just settled in to take our repast when the place suddenly filled with people.

A corps of service providers seemed to appear from out of thin air to surround the group of thirty or so people who had become the focus of attention in the middle of the large dining room. Even John O’Hara, the owner of the establishment, was there fluttering about, reaching over the backs of some to shake hands with others more towards the center of activities.

Somehow, I couldn’t help but watch Suzi as she watched the commotion beside us there. I felt a smile touch the corners of my eyes as I watched the excitement spill over from the tables next to us and onto her. Her lips had formed a tight ‘O’ and her brown doe-eyes were wide as they batted and flashed and tried to catch a peek at who had garnered so much attention. Her innocence and excitement always tickle me when the country girl meets the big city. This moment alone was worth the trip. I tapped her foot with mine under the table to get her attention. Startled back to reality, she whispered across the table,

“Who is it, David? Who is it?”

“I dunno,” I said. “Probably some crooked politician or a gangster. You never can tell in this town.”

I turned my head to the right and looked across the room at the crowded tables. Almost as if on cue, several of the group leaned in opposite directions at once and sitting at the far end of the tables pushed together there, I saw him. Our eyes met and I thought how old he looked now, much more so than the last time I saw him. I seriously doubt if he remembered seeing me before but I never forgot seeing him.

It had been some thirty years ago and I was passing through town on leave before going to my next duty station. My friend Gary had come to pick me up at the airport and we were headed upstairs to the Luau Room for a couple of drinks before we headed out on the town. If Gary had not pointed him out, I would have walked right past the guy without giving him a good glance. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs, off to the side and kind of back under them, out of sight to not draw much attention to himself. He was dressed in a dark conservative suit with a power tie and out of the corner of my eye he registered as one of several thousand other businessmen passing through Standiford Field that day.

“Look,” Gary said under his breath, nodding in the direction of the man now partially below and off to the side of us as we climbed the stairs. As I looked, his faced raise in my direction and our eyes met. I nodded, he nodded and smiled and I went on up the stairs. I think what really stuck out in my mind was his humility and humbleness. He almost seemed embarrassed by my recognition and his eyes quietly asked for me to keep his secret. I honored his wish and never spoke a word.

Tonight his eyes held the same gentleness that they did way back then, even though they were housed in a trembling face on a trembling head. Once again we exchanged solemn nods between two old warriors. Me, the worn out old soldier and he, “The Greatest.”

I remembered him as Cassius Clay, the young whirlwind who dominated the Olympics back in the 60’s and who destroyed Sonny Liston to become heavyweight champion of the world. Even now, he is probably the most recognized face on the planet. Through all of his greatness, he never forgot his humble beginnings in this river town. And this town never forgot him either: naming streets after him and even a Center bearing his name.

“Muhammad Ali,” I told Suzi. “That's who all the fuss is over.”

“Oh,” she said, seemingly disappointed. I guess she had been hoping for Pachino or Cruise or someone else. But then, she never saw him, “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.”

Glimpses of Antebellum Life, Part 2

2007-08-01T18:50:00.000-04:00

August 1st

Dearest cousin Charlotte,
I hope this letter finds you and yours well. It seems but a day or two since you were here with us. It was such a lovely visit. You shall have to come and stay more often. The children talk constantly of our lovely adventures. The weather was warm while you were here, and we have as yet seen no rest from the temperatures. It is exceptionally warm. I believe everything has been at a standstill. It is just too hot to move.

We will be coming to Harrodsburg week after next. Mr. Burns is bringing some hogs to market. I hope to stop and visit with you for a few days before returning home. I need to look for a dress length or two at the dry goods. The girls are outgrowing their hems quicker than I can let the tucks out.

Your last visit you commented kindly on my doughnuts. I have only ever used the one recipe. Copied it from a a ladies journal long passed on to other hands. I thought your Mr. Tucker might enjoy these for his breakfast some cold morning.

Until I see you next.

Yours in kind remembrance,
Emily

Doughnuts
One pound of butter.
One pound and three quarters of sugar, worked with the butter.
Three pints of milk.
Four eggs.
One pint of yeast, if home-made, or half a pint of distillery yeast.
Mace and cinnamon to the taste.
Flour enough to make the dough stiff as biscuit.

Rub the butter and sugar together, add the other ingredients, and set the dough in a warm place to rise. When thoroughly light, roll into sheets, cut with a sharp knife into diamond-shaped pieces, and boil them in fresh lard. Use a good deal of lard, and have it sufficiently hot, or the cake will absorb the fat.

On Making Butter

2007-07-27T08:49:00.000-04:00

No branch of household economy brings better reward than the making of butter; and to one who takes an interest in domestic employments, it soon becomes a most pleasant occupation.
The first requisite is to have a good cow. One that has high hips, short fore-legs and a large udder is to be preferred. The cream-colored and the mouse-colored cows generally give a large quantity and or rich quality. Take care that nothing is given her which will injure the taste of the milk, such as turnips and parsnips. Carrots are a fine vegetable for cows. Have her milked by a person who understands the process, or she will not give it freely, and will soon become dry. But the most abundant supply of the richest milk will avail little, unless all the articles used in the care of it are kept in the most perfect order. They should not be used for any other purpose. Keep a cloth expressly for washing them only. After washing, every article, and the cloth with which they are washed, all must be scalded. Wash off thoroughly all the milk from the pans, pail, strainer, churn, dasher, skimmer, spoons, etc.

If a cloth strainer is used, it should be of thin, coarse linen. A basin having a fine wire strainer is used by many persons. Tin pails and pans are better than wood and earthen; because tin is more easily kept sweet than wood. Those who keep one or two cows, will find a stone-ware churn best. No other is so easily kept sweet. For keeping the cream, never use tin, but always stone, cream-colored or fire-proof ware. For working butter, keep a wooden bowl and a ladle.
Have the milk closet on the coolest side of the house, or in the dryest and coolest part of the cellar, and with a window in it. Good butter cannot be made without a free circulation of fresh air. Strain the milk as soon as it is brought in, set it immediately in its place. To remove milk after the cream has begun to rise, prevents its rising freely.

When the butter has come, continue the strokes of the dasher a few minutes to separate all the little particles from the butter-milk. This done, take it out into the wooden bowl with a ladle or skimmer. The bowl and ladle should have boiling water on them when you first begin to churn. After a few minutes it should be poured off, cold water should be poured on them, and they should stand until you are ready to use them. This is to prevent the butter from sticking.
Work the butter with the ladle, until the butter-milk ceases to come out; then sprinkle it with clean sifted salt; work it in well, and taste it to see if more should be added. Mould the butter, with the ladle, into balls or lumps of any form you prefer; put it into a covered jar or tureen and set it in the ice-house or cellar.

Glimpses of ante-bellum life in Kentucky, part 1

2007-07-26T09:42:00.000-04:00

I rose early, disturbed by the storm. I wanted to crawl back in under the blankets but knew I had much to accomplish this day. Mindful that guests were expected, I took extra care while dressing my hair. I made my way to the summer kitchen and found the logs had already been stacked and lighted. It was already hot, the rain had done nothing to cool the house.

Breakfast finished, I went to the cellar to retrieve the various things for the baking I had before me. Back in the kitchen, I began to stir the ingredients in the heavy bowl. First butter and eggs, then sugar and blackberry jam, now soda, spices and flour. I poured the mixture into the two ready tin pans, and placed each in a heavy dutch oven on the hearth. I retreated to the garden for a walk trying to refresh myself from the heat. I found no breeze in the garden, and so returned to my labors.

Now for the tea biscuits; butter, cream, sugar and flour. I mixed the ingredients with my fingers. I patted and rolled the dough until it was just the right thickness and then cut out the biscuits with a water glass. The tea biscuits would cook quickly, but might still be warm when the guests arrived. I thought that I might serve them with apple butter. I hurried to lay the tea things out on the table.

Behind the Ring...

2007-07-24T11:10:00.000-04:00

Smells of pungent manure and sweet alfalfa mingle this morning,
Aged by a gentle whiff of charcoal and hickory smoke now and then. The overcast skies have opened a little,
Letting the sun show her pale face a bit,
Warming man and beast alike on this cool March morning.
Final drags on cigarettes are carried away on frosty breaths,
Swirling, then disappearing, over the backs of the penned animals.
Folded arms resting on the cold steel rail of the cattle panel,
Chin perched on gloved hands, I take in this moment of peace.
As I watch calves suck the last of their breakfast,
I know this is the calm before the storm.
As I wait, I listen…

I hear the crushing of straw as cattle shift their stance,
Taking another bite of hay or licking a calf.
Behind me I hear the hurried crunch of gravel,
As booted feet shuffle past, headed for the sale barn.
The quiet din from inside the building gets louder,
Then slowly grows vague again as the door opens then closes,
Allowing passage for someone in or out.
The voices from small groups gathered around are a soft buzz,
Broken by occasional bursts of laughter as some tale is told.
Impatient animals rattle metal gates and chains,
As a final test of their confinement.
A bellowing bull or a bawling calf,
Drowns out the song of the mockingbird,
Who has taken the stage in a nearby redbud tree.
As I listen, I watch…

Cowhands sit, stand or mill around the places they will work today.
Older men and young ones too, all colors, shapes and sizes,
All equal in the job at hand, all ready to do their duty.
Confident men with quick eyes, legs and wits,
A Godsend, in that moment of truth, should an animal go wild.
Fathers and mothers walk the pens, talking quietly amongst themselves,
Pointing here and commenting there as they move along their way.
The eager ears and curious eyes of sons and daughters close behind,
Clinging on every word of the lessons being offered up today.
An old man with a garden hose wets the ally between the panels,
Filling the air with the smell of a new plowed field after a rain.
It won’t help much and it won’t last long, but it will settle the dust a bit.
As I watch, I think…

Nervous sellers greet anxious buyers with smiles and handshakes;
Much of their livelihood is at stake here today.
The sellers have the past year of their lives on the block,
And the buyers gamble their futures.
It is what they do, it is who they are, these Herdsmen,
Raising cattle as a vocation of total commitment.
The stewardship of these massive, fragile beasts,
It is a way of life to those born to it.
Bulls breed, cows calve, calves grow and are sold,
And the endless cycle is repeated again and again.
The blood, sweat and tears of years past and yet to come,
Sweeten the pot to be played for here today.
The ante is up and the cards are dealt,
Let this hand begin…

"All right, girls! Is everybody ready?" shouts the yard boss.
Startled cowhands jump to their feet and face the old man.
Grinning through his gray stubble he yells, "Then bring `em on!"
Coats are pulled off and flung across fences, as the first gate opens.
Daydreams shatter against the wall of reality as cattle sticks are found.
Shouts and whistles fill the air!
The first group of cattle runs past me in the ally.
The cowhand pushing them turns back for the next bunch.
I close the gate behind him with a metallic clank.
The cattle are driven up into the working chute.
Sliding gates close behind them.
I open my gate again, just in time for the next group to pass.
Over and over again the cattle are driven past me.
Over and over again I catch them in front of me with the cut-off gate.
The pace is furious and the pulse is rapid,
I wipe sweat from my brow, keeping it from my eyes.
Soon the chute is full, as are the pens formed from cut-off gates.

Taking a moment to catch our breath, we rest and wait.
But there being no rest for the wicked, as they say,
The ring door opens and the first cattle up disappear through it.
"Keep `em movin’, girls." shouts the yard boss, over the song of the auctioneer,
"That auctioneer charges by the hour, and he can’t work if it ain’t in the ring."
The pace has slowed some, but remains steady as we advance one group at a time.
Cows with calves are sold, bred heifers, bred cows, open heifers and cows.
All are moved through, sold and returned to their pens.
"All right, ladies," hollers the yard boss, "Now you earn your keep."
We all know what he means, time for the bulls.
"Work `em easy now, don’t need anybody gettin’ hurt."
"Just remember the boss man’s policy, if you get killed, you’re fired!" he chuckles.
The laugh that leaves my mouth is replaced by the taste of brass,
As the first bull moves down the ally towards me.

I face the fence, avoiding eye contact with the big animal.
As he lumbers past me, I can feel the ground move,
And feel the heat coming from his body.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a passing glance from him,
As he seems to almost float by, sniffing the air as he goes.
He knows who owns this alley today and it isn’t me.
Straight up in the chute he goes without a hitch.
What a magnificent, majestic creature!
One by one, the other bulls are moved forward,
Filling the chute and the catch-pens at last.
The ring door opens and the sale resumes.
One by one the massive beasts are moved forward.
One by one they enter the chute and then the ring.
Several of the younger bulls balk at the chute, trying to turn back,
But relent and go on at the behest of cattle sticks and twisted tails.
As the last bull enters the chute, I climb the gate out of the alley.

I pull my bandana from my pocket,
And wipe the sweat and dust from my face.
I light a cigarette and take a deep drag on it,
Just now realizing how warm the day has become.
Picking up my coat and cattle stick from the fence,
I turn to walk to the sale building.
s I enter through the passage door,
The last bull enters the sale ring.
Hell," I grin to myself, "I wanted to see at least one of `em sell."

Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson

Just Something to Think About...

2007-07-23T17:59:00.000-04:00

I didn’t write this but wish I had. I like to read it now and then. If anyone knows the author, please post their name in the comments section of this post.

The Daffodil Principle…

Several times my daughter had telephoned to say, “Mother, you must come to see the daffodils before they are over.” I wanted to go, but it was a two-hour drive from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead. “I will come next Tuesday,” I promised a little reluctantly on her third call.

Next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy. Still, I had promised, and reluctantly I drove there. When I finally walked into Carolyn’s house I was welcomed by the joyful sounds of happy children. I delightedly hugged and greeted my grandchildren. “Forget the daffodils, Carolyn! The road is invisible in these clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world except you and these children that I want to see badly enough to drive another inch!” My daughter smiled calmly and said, “We drive in this all the time, Mother.” “Well, you won’t get me back on the road until it clears, and then I’m heading for home!” I assured her. “I was hoping you’d take me over to the garage to pick up my car.” “How far will we have to drive?” “Oh…just a few blocks,” Carolyn said. “But I’ll drive. I’m used to this.”

After several minutes, I had to ask, “Where are we going? This isn’t the way to the garage!”“We’re going to my garage the long way,” Carolyn smiled, “by way of the daffodils.”“Carolyn,” I said sternly, “please turn around.” “It’s all right, Mother, I promise. You will never forgive yourself if you miss this experience.”

After about twenty minutes, we turned onto a small gravel road and I saw a small church. On the far side of the church, I saw a hand lettered sign with an arrow that read, “Daffodil Garden.”We got out of the car, each took a child’s hand, and I followed Carolyn down the path. Then, as we turned a corner, I looked up and gasped.

Before me lay the most glorious sight. It looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold and poured it over the mountain peak and it’s surrounding slopes. The flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns, great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, creamy white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, and saffron and butter yellow. Each different-colored variety was planted in large groups so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue. There were five acres of flowers.

“Who did this?” I asked Carolyn. “Just one woman,” Carolyn answered. “She lives on the property. That’s her home.” Carolyn pointed to a well kept A-frame house, small and modestly sitting in the midst of all that glory. We walked up to the house. On the patio, we saw a poster.
“Answers to the Questions I Know You Are Asking” was the headline. The first answer was a simple one. “50,000 bulbs,” it read. The second answer was, “One at a time, by one woman. Two hands, two feet, and one brain.” The third answer was, “Began in 1958.”

For me, that moment was a life-changing experience. I thought of this woman whom I had never met, who, more than forty years before, had begun, one bulb at a time, to bring her vision of beauty and joy to an obscure mountaintop. Planting one bulb at a time, year after year, this unknown woman had forever changed the world in which she lived. One day at a time, she had created something of extraordinary magnificence, beauty, and inspiration.

The principle her daffodil garden taught is one of the greatest principles of celebration. That is, learning to move toward our goals and desires one step at a time–often just one baby-step at time–and learning to love the doing, learning to use the accumulation of time. When we multiply tiny pieces of time with small increments of daily effort, we too will find we can accomplish magnificent things. We can change the world.

“It makes me sad in a way,” I admitted to Carolyn. “What might I have accomplished if I had thought of a wonderful goal thirty-five or forty years ago and had worked away at it ‘one bulb at a time’ through all those years? Just think what I might have been able to achieve!”

My daughter summed up the message of the day in her usual direct way. “Start tomorrow,” she said.

She was right. It’s so pointless to think of the lost hours of yesterdays. The way to make learning a lesson of celebration instead of a cause for regret is to only ask, “How can I put this to use today?”

Use the Daffodil Principle.

Stop waiting…..

Until your car or home is paid off.
Until you get a new car or home.
Until your kids leave the house.
Until you go back to school.
Until you finish school.
Until you clean the house.
Until you organize the garage.
Until you clean off your desk.
Until you lose 10 lbs.
Until you gain 10 lbs.
Until you get married.
Until you get a divorce.
Until you have kids.
Until the kids go to school.
Until you retire.
Until summer.
Until spring.
Until winter.
Until fall.
Until you die…

There is no better time than right now to be happy
Happiness is a journey, not a destination.
So work like you don’t need money.
Love like you’ve never been hurt, and
Dance like no one’s watching.

Hometown Boy Does Good...

2007-07-22T08:34:00.000-04:00

There are quite a few aspiring writers on the Internet, myself being one of them. We come here to have a forum to practice the craft. The immediate feedback is such that it affords writers the opportunity to study their work and the work of others, in an effort to determine why a particular piece works or doesn’t work. One of the fundamental tenants of writing, in any form, is the need to be concise in presentation, yet clear in meaning. It is often one of the hardest objectives to achieve.

One of the best examples of a concise yet profound piece of American literature may be found in the remarks of one of our presidents at the dedication of a new national cemetery on 19 November, 1863. Following is an account of the event as it occurred that day and the impact this short, concise piece has had on readers ever sense.

- - - - - - -

Cemetery Hill, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania November 19, 1863

The weather was quite brisk on that late autumn day. The ground was still a bit muddy from the late fall rains. Fifteen thousand or so weary onlookers, soldiers and dignitaries were on hand, either by design or duty, to witness the ceremonies that day and to hear the famous orator from Boston address the crowd. Edward Everett, a man of many letters and accomplishments was to be the principal speaker that day. Everett; former congressman and senator, 4-term governor of Massachusetts as well as a former president of Harvard University, was considered to be the foremost orator of the day.

Around noon the ceremonies opened with the benediction followed by music from the Marine Corps band. After introductions, Everett rose to speak and did so in a fashion that belied his 70 years and gave those present what they had come to hear. Everett began with an unfaltering voice and was in his best form as he addressed the crowd for nearly two hours. When he had finished, the crowd was exuberant in their appreciation of the words he had spoken and applauded him hardily. The Baltimore Glee Club then sang a song that had been written for the occasion followed by the introduction of the President.

Ward Hill Lamon, personal friend and bodyguard to the President did the honors. “The President of the United States”, he announced.

The President, almost like an afterthought, had been invited by the organizers to “set apart these grounds to their sacred use by a few appropriate remarks.” Lincoln stood, tall and gaunt, walked to the podium and put on his spectacles. Taking a single sheet of paper from his pocket, his high pitched voice strong and clear, laced in his frontier accent, he began:

“Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation: conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war . . . testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated . . . can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war.

We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that this nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate . . . we cannot consecrate . . . we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.

It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us . . . that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion . . . that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain . . . that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom . . . and that government of the people . . . by the people . . . for the people . . . shall not perish from this earth.”

He spoke for barely two minutes, 269 words in ten sentences. He was through before the crowd had realized that he had begun. A photographer, who was taking his time to focus his camera, didn’t even get the shutter open before Lincoln was back in his chair. The bewildered collection of onlookers gave him only a sprinkling of applause and Lincoln, taking his seat again, turned to his friend Ward Lamon and told him, ” that speech won’t scour”, in reference to a worn out plow that will not turn the mud off in the field. Lincoln felt that his speech had failed.

In reality though, it was recognized almost immediately as a literary masterpiece. Edward Everett wrote to Lincoln the next day, praising him for his eloquent words, “I should be glad if I could flatter myself that I came as near the central idea of the occasion in two hours as you did in two minutes.”

This simple prose-poem by Lincoln, words of healing for all people for all times, is so elegant and graceful that the grandeur of its message is obscured.

Authors note: some 150,000 people were involved in the Battle of Gettysburg, with over 28,000 casualties. It was fought in the most ordinary of places when the two forces, seeking the shoes stored there, clashed on the field of battle. It is the largest battle ever fought in the Western Hemisphere and considered by most to be the turning point of the Civil War. Over 7,000 Union troops are buried there.

A History Lesson

2007-07-20T10:35:00.000-04:00

Each year, hundreds of Kentucky's best eleventh grade students spend five weeks of the summer before their senior year at Centre College. I can validate their experience, I was a Governor's Scholar in 1990. I guess that was a year or two ago.

In recent years, these students are presented with a choice of field trips. Many choose the Perryville battlefield as their day out. Saturday, we'll be there interpreting the events surrounding the October battle.

The Situation at Perryville - October 1862
Kentucky was suffering from an extended and extreme drought. The town much like many Kentucky towns sent their sons into both armies. Political tensions were strained. Throughout the summer of that year Confederate forces had been operating in the area. Several CS cavalry regiments were recruited from the surrounding communities.

The citizens were uneasy about the military situation and rumors were wide spread of an impending battle as the Union Army of the Ohio had been dispatched from Louisville to overtake Braxton Bragg’s Confederate Army of the Mississippi.

The first shots of the Battle of Perryville erupted in the early morning hours of October 8 when Federals and Confederates searching for water collided in the predawn darkness. Fighting escalated along the Springfield Pike west of Perryville until the Confederates withdrew back toward town. Buell's army arrived on the field throughout the morning, and took up positions on the heights west, northwest, and southwest of Perryville. Realizing that he was facing a significant Federal force, Confederate General Leonidas Polk (commanding in Bragg's absence) chose not to attack.

Bragg, 10 miles away in Harrodsburg, grew furious when he did not hear firing from Perryville. He rode to the battlefield and set up headquarters at the Crawford House north of town. Over Polk's objections, Bragg sent most of his army across the Chaplin River to attack Buell's left flank, composed of General Alexander McCook's I Corps. The Confederate storm broke at 2 PM, when elements of General Benjamin F. Cheatham's division attacked McCook's left.

Karrick– Park House
In early October, the town of Perryville was buzzing with rumors of an impending fight between Union and Confederate forces that were converging on the town. Harriet Karrick, lived in a large brick home in downtown Perryville and was warned by Confederate officers that she should vacate the town because of the coming fight. Ms. Karrick had several children and fifteen slaves. She vacated her residence and upon returning found her home in ruin. Her furnishings had been smashed to use as firewood, her family’s clothing had been ripped to shreds to provide bandages and her home was occupied by Federal Army surgeons who had converted it into their headquarters.

Dr. Polk’s Office
Dr. J.J. Polk was a staunch unionist. Polk was also a part of the re-patriation society that sent freed slaves back to Africa. His home and office was just down the street from the Karrick’s House. Polk was retired at the time of the battle but was forced out of retirement in order to help treat the thousands of wounded soldiers crowding every standing structure in Perryville.

The students will witness various members of each of these families attempting to deal with the situation just after the battle. Interpreters are encouraged to interact with the students in a first person manner and discuss the desperate situation of depravities that they will encounter over the coming months.

Growth Charts

2007-07-20T10:25:00.000-04:00

It occurred to me last night while I was picking blackberries, that I can age my daughter by her role in the blackberry picking. Some people have growth charts hanging on their wall. That'd just be too easy.

The summer Anna was two, she was fearless and ferocious in her quest for the purple fruits. Briars were no match for Miss Anna. She dove in head first. She ate most of the berries she picked and about one third of the ones I put in the bucket. She giggled and bounced like Tigger during the blackberry adventures.

When Anna was three, she was more of a pointer. "There's one, mama." Older and wiser, she left the scratches and pricks and the bramble bites to me. She understood well what became of anyone who got too close to the limbs of the blackberry bush. Mind you, she still managed to return to the house with a purple ring around her mouth.

This year Anna is four. She picks a few berries and then talks a lot. She eats a few berries and then she talks a lot. She points out a few berries and then she talks a lot. She is four now, and, oh so good at it. She only dumped the berries on the ground twice. And, yes, she came back in the house sporting a lovely blackberry juice moustache. She claims that she only eats the berries that she picks.

Eventually, she'll figure out like her brother and sister, that you can shirk the blackberry picking and still get to eat cobbler. That's okay. I imagine picking blackberries quietly might be a nice change.

Winter Sounds Good About Now...

2007-07-19T01:12:00.000-04:00

Written while sitting on a log in a secluded patch of woods near my home. The ground covered in a virgin snow that not even the birds had tracked across.

Sweet Lonliness...

Silence... Dead silence
That is all I hear
Save the pounding of my heart in my ears
This blanket of white silence
That has buried living and dead
A silent shroud of tranquility
Nothing but the grave could ever be as silent
As the woods, under cloudless skies, covered in snow
The songs of birds are frozen in their throats
And not a leaf rustles or stirs
All is silent… Dead silent
How peaceful, how sacred
How absolutely divine
No sound on Earth is quite as profound
As woods asleep in the snow
The sound of sweet loneliness

Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson

Just Off Broadway...

2007-07-17T07:12:00.000-04:00

It was such an odd thing to see. I’m still not sure why I didn’t fall in line with all the others and ignore it or simply pretend it wasn’t there. But I couldn’t. My attention was drawn to it, and somehow it had a hint of familiarity about it. You know the one I am talking about. That strange kind of displaced deja vu feeling you sometimes get and can’t explain away or remember why it effects you so. Maybe that is why it caught my eye while remaining invisible to the rest of the world.

The sun had slid behind the skyline of the tall buildings to the west, leaving the city below cast in varying shades of shadow and light. I guess it had just become weary from its failed efforts at trying to warm the frozen city and decided to call it a day. I hurried across the courtyard of the elegant Aegon building, taking long strides down the well-manicured sidewalk to Broadway. Somewhere along the way, I became the Pied Piper to a group of hungry pigeons that followed the scent of the popcorn I was snacking on.

Reaching my destination, I found myself held hostage in the three-sided glass cubicle of the bus stop. The cocky birds demanded a ransom before allowing me to pass to the curb. They scattered after the rolling kernels of unpopped corn as I flung the remnants of the bag to the sidewalk before me. Relieved of this distraction, my mind was free to consider other things and that is when I saw it.

A movement caught my eye and I looked at it as much with reaction as intention. Old crates and debris cluttered the alley across the street of lumbering traffic. My gaze traveled to the dumpster at the far end. Something had moved there, and my subconscious had picked it up as being out of place. It took several seconds before I recognized what I saw in the darkness of that cubbyhole. Two legs, with feet off the ground, kicked and twisted a bit as the body attached to them leaned over the side of the dumpster. The sounds of the city melded together around me into a noisy silence as I watched and waited.

The feet soon found the ground again, their legs supporting the frail, rumpled form of an old man. I could sense his excitement as his hands fondled the treasure he had found. His shabby coat and unkempt hair could not keep a toothless smile from spreading across his stubbled face. Even at this distance, I could see the look of expectation die on his face to be replaced by that of a disappointed child on Christmas morning. The empty Krispy Crème box fell to the ground at his feet as our eyes met and locked across the way.

His pale eyes neither gathered nor gave any information. They simply stared off into some distant place of thoughtless ether. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it but I knew I had seen it somewhere else before. I knew what it was. It was the look of a soul so tortured and full of despair that it couldn’t even feel the pain anymore. A chill shivered through me as I looked into the eyes of suffering as old as mankind itself. My humility begged me to look away but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything but look into his eyes and wonder what had taken him to this place he was in. Wonder what had worn the teeth on the gears of human resolve and dignity to the point that they broke off at bleeding gums. It was not a look of indifference, but rather that of hopelessness.

My trance was broken and my mind stumbled back to reality as the large frame of the bus floated to a stop between us. Stooping to drop my change into the meter, I looked past the driver’s shoulders and into the alley. The old man was gone but his image was imprinted on my mind and stayed with me well into the evening.

It was not until bedtime that the answer presented itself to me. I spit the last mouthful of rinsed toothpaste into the sink and splashed my face with some cold water. Picking up a towel, I dabbed my face dry and stared at my reflection in the mirror. And that is when I saw it.

Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson

Even Plowboys Fly Sometimes...

2007-07-15T08:48:00.000-04:00

I had occasion to make a cross-country trip a year or so ago. Tranferring flights in Texas, I made these observations.

Leaving Houston...

Hunkering down I pass under low ceilings
Turning sideways to get down the narrow aisle.
I wait as the woman in front of me rams and jams
Her last carry-on bag into the overhead compartment.
Moving on, I find my seat, halfway back on the port side.
"Ask for a window and they give you a wing,"
I chuckle to myself as I place my jacket overhead.

Taking my seat and buckling the belt
Cool air hisses through the vent above me
A bit stale and smelling slightly of disinfectant.
The cabin is quiet yet noisy at the same time
Each sound amplified in the silence.
Electric motors whir from the bulkheads and floor
On again, off again from their secret places.
Muffled voices, almost whispers, can be heard:
Speaking to cell phones or the seat next to them.
The occasional cough or baby’s squeal breaks the silence.
The aircraft rocks now and then, to and fro
Thrown baggage moving the giant avian beast.

A change of pressure in my ears tells me the cabin is sealed
I open my mouth to find relief and look out the window.
What a strange place for a hearse, I think
Sitting there on the tarmac with its back door open.
A shiny gray casket is slid onto a wheeled bier
The handlers slow and deliberate in their movements.
It dawns on me that someone is making a final trip home
As they slowly move under the belly of the aircraft.
A final thud and the last compartment is closed.

Closed…. the word is ringing in my head now.

Closed…. many chapters in many lives have just closed.

My mind wanders in curiosity for a moment or two
At my brothers and sisters here with me today.
How many of them are leaving home for the first time?
Who, like the one in the cargo hold
Is going home for the last time?
Some are just passing through, I guess.
Births, deaths, graduations and failures
Marriages, divorces, running to something or from it
New jobs, lost jobs, new loves, lost loves
Or just knocking about seeing new country.
All gathered briefly in this microcosm of humanity
In a common place with a common goal:
Simply to leave here and get there.

We begin to move away from the terminal
Headed for the runway and the sky.
I half listen to the spiel of the flight attendant
As she tells us all the things we will never need to know.
The sudden thrust of the engines hurls us down the runway
One final bump, as the wheels leave the ground, and we are airborne. Cities, towns and countryside pass far below us.
As we ascend to cruising altitude,I descend into sleep.
My thoughts return to her as I drift away.

The sudden jolt of the wheels touching down
Startle me out of my slumber as I struggle to quickly place myself.
The roar of reversed engines slows the aircraft down.
We leave the runway and taxi toward the terminal.
Coming to a stop at the gate, people begin to shuffle about
Gathering their belongings for departure.
A hearse is backed into place on the tarmac
Its cargo somberly loaded before it drives away.
"Last one on, first one off," I grin to myself
Looking at the crowded aisle before me.
"Maybe being dead ain’t so bad."

Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson

NOTE: This piece won an award as "Most Original" in a contest over on Writer's Cafe. It beat out 236 other pieces, so I guess that's something. lol

Dark as a Dungeon...

2007-07-11T14:03:00.000-04:00

SPOKEN: I never will forget one time when I was on a little visit down home in Ebenezer, Kentucky. I was a-talkin’ to an old man that had known me ever since the day I was born, and an old friend of the family. He says, “Son, you don’t know how lucky you are to have a nice job like you’ve got and don’t have to dig out a livin’ from under these old hills and hollers like me and your pappy used to.” When I asked him why he never had left and tried some other kind of work, he says, “Nawsir, you just won’t do that. If ever you get this old coal dust in your blood, you’re just gonna be a plain old coal miner as long as you live.” He went on to say, “It’s a habit [CHUCKLE] sorta like chewin’ tobaccer.”

Come and listen you fellows, so young and so fine,
And seek not your fortune in the dark, dreary mines.
It will form as a habit and seep in your soul,
ill the stream of your blood is as black as the coal.

It’s dark as a dungeon and damp as the dew,
The danger is double and pleasures are few,
Where the rain never falls and the sun never shines
It’s dark as a dungeon way down in the mine.

It’s a-many a man I have seen in my day,
Who lived just to labor his whole life away.
Like a fiend with his dope and a drunkard his wine,
A man will have lust for the lure of the mines.

I hope when I’m gone and the ages shall roll,
My body will blacken and turn into coal.
Then I’ll look from the door of my heavenly home,
And pity the miner a-diggin’ my bones.

The midnight, the morning, or the middle of day,
Is the same to the miner who labors away.
There the demons of death often come by surprise,
The fall of the slate and you’re buried alive.

It’s dark as a dungeon and damp as the dew,
The danger is double and pleasures are few,
Where the rain never falls and the sun never shines
It’s dark as a dungeon way down in the mine.

By Merle Travis: singer, songwriter and fellow Kentuckian.

Coal. It’s what runs the economy for a large portion of eastern Kentucky. It’s what has shaped the personality of the people there. The men who take it from the earth are a special breed, and women now, work right along side them.

Coal mining and miners are a part of my heritege. I remember growing up listening to the tales of the bawdy coal camps that lined the valleys of eastern Kentucky. Tales of the great accidents, fist fights, gun fights, dog fights, gambling, whiskey and whores. I heard tales that would make the hairs stand up on the back of your neck or make your ribs hurt laughing. No better example of a people rising above adversity exists in humanity. These gentle people, primarily of Scotch-Irish descent, have risen to the occasion over and over again.

A close knit community that shuns outsiders to a large degree, but then look what the outsiders have done to them over and over again; taking advantage of their trusting nature. Big city lawyers and business men have come to the mountains, swindled the coal and timber rights from the hands of the people there, destroyed their homes with their rape of the land and made virtual slaves of the inhabitants. There is not much choice but to work in coal or timber or leave the mountains to find work.

I never could understand the desire to lay flat of your back in a coal boring machine and look down between your feet as the the huge augers twisted the coal from its place in the earth. Some mines are five miles or more back under the mountain before you get to the place the coal is being dug now. If something happens down there, you are just kinda on your own, ya know? Poison gases, floods or a cave in. One minute you’re here, the next they may not even be able to get to your body. And don’t forget the Black Lung…every miner that stays down there will eventually get it from the coal dust.

I don’t think a lot of people realize how much coal plays a part in their lives. Coal is what is producing the electricity that is running your computer as you read this. Or its importance in the manufacture of steel and other such commodities. Gotta have it.

So, here’s to all the miners and their families, that most special breed of people. America depends on you and we appreciate your efforts.

Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson

To Simply Be...

2007-07-11T13:10:00.000-04:00

Dawn, dusk
Daytime, night time
Sunshine, rain
The chill of a first cool Fall day
The warmth of a shirt-sleeve day in Spring

A mother duck, string of little ones behind her
Watching the bees working the clover in the pasture
First peach blossoms in the Spring
First killing frost in the Fall

Cats piled together, a furry carpet on a sunny porch
A newborn calf sucks its mother the first time
Bale hay, cut tobacco, feed cattle
Fish, read, hold her hand as the sun goes down

Get up early in the morning
Sip coffee,listen to the day come alive
Lay down to rest at night
Tired and satisfied from the day worked hard

I find much to be happy about
As I face the challenges of life
All things, good and bad
Sing their songs to my heart
And in that moment of quiet gratitude
I am thankful for the chance to simply be

Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson

Dances with Bees...

2007-07-11T12:35:00.000-04:00

Well, it’s coming on to that time of year again; it’s time to start thinking about harvesting some honey. I know it’s the right time because I just finished my last jar of last year’s crop with some hot buttermilk biscuits a few minutes ago. And being out of honey is just against the rules with me; it just won’t do at all. Nope. I get a little nervous just thinking about being out of it, like a smoker without tobacco or a drinker with an empty glass. It just makes me get a little antsy, I guess you would call it.

I have been keeping and tending bees quite a few years now. It’s a good hobby that produces its own rewards. People I know that I have not seen in a year, suddenly start showing up at the house and hinting around about how divine it would be to have a little honey for their biscuits. It’s kind of funny how that works. You can’t find one of those devils when it’s time to throw square bales of hay or hoe the tobacco out. But just like magic, they appear on your doorstep when word gets out that you were seen fooling around in a beehive. Pretty peculiar, isn’t it?

I usually make pretty good money for my troubles. I get $5.00 a pint or $8.00 a quart. Last year, I got 27 pints out of one hive and sold every jar by dinnertime (that’s lunch for you city folks). The reputation of my honey precedes it and it’s not hard to move at all. The hard part is having enough left to do me over the winter! But I manage to stash away 3-4 quarts when they aren’t looking, and that’s plenty for me.

While thinking about harvesting some honey a while ago, I reviewed some bee keeping basics:
Never open a hive on a cool day, it can chill the brood of unhatched bees and this is not thought of highly by the rest of the hive.
Never open a hive on windy, overcast days for the same reason.
Always open hives in the middle of the day, so the majority of field bees are gone gathering nectar and pollen.
Always move in slow deliberate moves so as not to startle the bees.
Always have plenty of cool smoke available to soothe the bees.
Wear light colored clothes and a head net at a minimum.

I thought back to last year when I harvested honey...
It was a little later in the year than it is this year. I had been planning on bush hogging that day and had on a pair of blue jeans and a dark green t-shirt. I was coming back up the drive from having breakfast at the little country store on the corner. The wind was blowing a bit and it was drizzling rain. It was basically just a dreary, cool autumn day in the making. It wasn’t cold but yet cool enough to see your breath. It had just got light enough to see good and I thought, “what better day than today to harvest some honey?”
I stopped the truck up the drive from the beehives. I figured this to be fairly quick work, so I left my smoker and head net behind the seat of the truck All I took with me was my hive tool (a small pry bar). My bees are always tame and I’m experienced at this right? It will all be ok.
I let the tailgate of the truck down to set the super on (the box that holds the honey frames) and went on down to the hive. There were a few bees mulling around the entrance, but mostly it looked pretty quiet. I took my hive tool and carefully pried the top cover off and then the hive cover itself underneath. The super had 9 frames in it packed with honey and ready to go. It was also packed with bees. I was thinking that I had better go back to the truck and get the smoker. I bet there were 5000 little heads sticking up between those frames and they were all looking at me.
As I started to turn for the truck, I saw a blur just before the first one stung me right above my left cheekbone, in that real tender place under your bottom eyelid. Well, that hurt. I instinctively raised my hand up rather quickly to remove that little devil as two more popped me on the back and side of my neck. I kind of stumbled backwards a few steps and swatted a few times around the bees gathering in my face. About then I saw what looked like a steady stream of black and yellow demons pouring out of the top of the hive. And I said to myself, “Self! You better run!”
The decision to run had been made, but run where? My mind raced and I thought-water-pond-quick! I stumbled back a few more steps and did a whirl or two and a few sidesteps and then I tripped and fell flailing in the gravel of the drive. I got back to my feet, flailing around and ducking and dodging as I headed for the pond. I noticed that a friend’s truck had slowed down out on the road several hundred yards away and he was watching me I suppose. I guess he wondered, “Now, what’s that fool doin’? Out there in the driveway break dancin’ in the rain!” But I was pre-occupied and didn’t have time for him right then. I still had fifty yards between the pond and me, so I pulled out in that direction.
My only problem was that I forget about the high-tensile electric fence between the pond and me. So there I went, flailing around like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, straight into that fence. Pow! Pow! Every second it poured it on me again. I had bought one of those real good fence chargers, the kind that pops through 100 miles of fence in heavy weeds. There I was; wet and grounded on wet grass! Pow! Pow! Every time the fence hit me, the bees were knocked off and came back even madder than before!
I managed to roll over the fence and do a somersault and come up running. I am fairly sure I have seen some of the moves I did that day on MTV. Between the fence and the thud on the ground on the other side of the fence, I think the bees about had their fill of me for one day. I know I sure had my fill of them for a spell. I did finish running to the pond though, just in case. I sat right down in that wet grass and struggled with my shaking hands to get a cigarette lit. And there I sat for a good thirty minutes or so before I dared get up and move around again.
It had started a slow steady rain by then and I was hoping against hope that every one of them little devils drowned. But they didn’t. After we all got calmed down a bit, I got my bee suit on and went and covered the hive for another time. I had just lost my appetite for honey that day. I was reminded of an old saying I had heard years ago. Every time you are riding a motorcycle and think you are the boss, it will lay you down in the gravel and bark your hide a little just to remind you who’s really in charge. I reckon tending bees is about the same. I got a little cocky with them and they gave me some re-enforcement training, no questions asked. I did everything wrong that I could do wrong. Guess I was lucky I didn’t get hurt worse than I did. You just can’t fight Mother Nature on your terms and win.

Copyright © 2006 WML. All Rights Reserved

Welcome One and All !!!

2007-07-11T10:08:00.000-04:00

Thanks for stopping by the Kentucky Farmer Web Journal. We hope you become a regular guest here in our home.

The purpose of this journal is to give exposure to some of Kentucky’s finest writers, particularily those with ties to the land. Although content will not be limited to just rural writings.

You will find fiction, nonfiction, poetry and prose here. Not to forget articles, essays, humor and novel excerpts.

It is our intention to provide a venue for little-known writers to ply their craft for the reading enjoyment of their fellow Kentuckians. We hope you find their efforts to your liking and return often.

You can find out any additional information you might want to know in the pages at the top of the site.

We encourage writers young and old, novice and seasoned to submit work to us for possible publication. Those who exhibit exceptional skills, will be offered the opportunity to participate as full staff writers for our site.

Kick back and relax with us a spell. Get yourself a cup of coffee or a glass of tea and let us tell you our tales. Or, if you prefer, you can tell us one of yours; the choice is up to you.

Kentucky Farmer