Hodgson Mill

These days, when afternoon temperatures have hit above 100˚, it's nice to be out in the relative cool of the morning.  Last week a friend and I left early, driving north from Gainesville, Missouri through quiet countryside on highway 181.  At a bend in the road, we stopped at the historic Hodgson Mill in Sycamore, Missouri.

Built in 1861 to utilize the power of a huge spring, the mill was once a bustling center of community activity, powering a cotton gin, a clothing factory, and a lumber mill.  Now, it's image can be seen on flour sacks from a national chain that adopted its its name, and it serves as a back country stop for tourists.  

The mill's activity has changed, but the spring hasn't; 

Of the nearly 3,000,000 gallons of water that gush from it daily,
some of it flows into a clear mill pond 

that encases an underwater garden, moving with the flow of the current, 

then over a small waterfall...

...before ribboning its way to join the clear waters of the Bryant River. 

It was cool there that day, relative to the surroundings, 

the icy water spreading its influence in the nearby woods.

Downstream, at Warren Bridge...

Where cliffs tower over glassy waters...

...we hated to break the silence.

Only the birds and bullfrogs had that privilege. 

...He leads me beside quiet waters,

He restores my soul.

Psalm 23:2, 3 

Linking with Weekly Top Shot

and Your Sunday Best.

A Sea of Blueberries

Friday morning two friends and I made our way to Eckart's Blueberry Farm in Dora, Missouri. After a string of hot, dry days here, the TV weatherman said the jet stream was bringing in a batch of cool air straight from Oregon, and he was right. Under overcast skies, we were layered up; I wore a jacket over two shirts--unthinkable a couple of days ago.

I love this annual trec, as do my friends, and our conversation along the way was lively.  As we neared the farm, on the familiar dirt road, my mind flashed back to my childhood when excitement rose as we neared the beach.

The farm is a bit like an ocean, with those rows of blue, like the waves, stretching into the distance, and that day, I could almost smell the salt air.

The heat had ripened the berries early this year, and the farm had opened for picking on May 18th, the earliest ever. While I was following other pursuits and waiting for the perfect weather, some industrious pickers were harvesting the first fat ripe fruits, and when we got there, the bushes were no longer as heavily laden with berries. But were they delicious! Every possible bit of sweetness was concentrated in those tasty morsels. We picked to the music of mockingbirds and bobwhite quail and cardinals, all plump and satisfied from their berry breakfast, and when our buckets were full, we headed home.

We took another way back, and along the road, 

an old barn and home place stood, abandoned to the weeds...

...and an old church, abandoned to chicory and dock. 

As I stepped into the weeds, 

hundreds of young grasshoppers scattered in every direction.

The morning had been rich with beauty and friendship, laughter and conversation; 

our buckets were full,

and like the birds, we were blessed with our bounty.




Linking with Your Sunday Best.