Spring Whispers

After basking in the glow of the fireplace, 

winter has kicked off its slippers and cracked open the door to spring.

The ancient yellow daffodils are up a good 5 inches...

and there's new fuzz on the lamb's ears.

A few of the lilac buds have swollen and burst.

Inside, their small purple packages hold,

along with their bottled-up fragrance,

the promise of beauty and nectar.

From the pond, we hear spring peepers singing,

and late at night, under the stars,

coyotes join the chorus with their love songs.

Barley takes note, and is happy to curl up safe inside for the night.

Autumn arrives in the early morning,

but spring at the close of a winter day.

Elizabeth Bowden

Texture by Kim Klassen

After the Rain

Textures by Kim Klassen

One Story House

If houses could tell stories, this decrepit cottage in Isabella, Missouri would probably write a pretty good book.  For years it fronted Missouri State highway 80, which later became US Highway 160.

Several years ago, a former owner, wanting to free himself from the tax liability, and to claim a charitable contribution on his income tax, donated the house to the local art league.  They were ecstatic, until they got the termite report.  The place was riddled with termites.

Two art league officials came to Don at his real estate office for advice.  After discussing the problem, Don asked them, "Is there any way you can give it back?"

The Art League Official, saddened by the suggestion, replied: "But we so wanted to have it open to the public for the display of our member's paintings."

Don paused.  "Well, in that case," he said, "tell your artists not to use any wooden frames."

Apparently, the officials failed to see the twinkle in Don's eye, and on that note, the meeting ended rather abruptly.

The art show never came off, and the league eventually got rid of the building, which, by some miracle, is still standing.  Maybe it's waiting for one more story.

Texture by Kim Klassen

The Homeward Path

On this early morning, a thin layer of ice covers the pond. Before breakfast, a crow tests it cautiously. I bundle up for a walk with Barley and we are off for the hollow, the sun illuminating our breath and bringing out the highlights in Barley's golden coat.

We follow our familiar trail at first, but where it forks, we head down a path I haven't been on much since the ice storm of January, 2009. I used to walk this way a lot, with other dogs. Our 2 Yellow Labs knew our trails well. In fact, Baxter had a tremendous instinct for finding her way around the woods. Whenever I got off the path, all I had to say was, "Baxter, we're going home", and she'd take me right back to the trail. It's good to follow a dog who knows the way home. Barley is new to this route, but he is imprinting all this information, and soon will know his way around the woods better than Don and I do.

We wind our way through trees and deadfall, only guessing where the path used to be, until we get to the winterberry trees, which still stand just south and west of the spot where the path used to slope down sharply into the hollow. Deer had bedded under those trees recently, and a well worn deer path follows our old trail from the trees to the hollow.

In the hollow, we stand and listen to the quiet. Barley's breathing is the only sound at first, then there's the beat of wings, and soon songbirds rise from the undergrowth, flying away as we advance. Cardinals flash their crimson feathers, and juncos flare their black and white tails like pleated skirts.

We head for home, Barley running ahead. When I get back to the yard, he's already there waiting for me. At my approach, he stands up, wagging his tail in welcome. It reminds me of another homecoming.

My mother died 3 years ago, and the memory is still fresh, of Mom, in her bed, looking small and frail, her family gathered around her. We held her hands and talked about treasured memories, and sang her favorite hymns. When we got to "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms", she flew away to heaven, following the One who knows the way home. And when she got there, I like to think He stood to greet her.

I am the way...

Jesus/John 14:6

First posted on 12/8/10

R-Factor

The past few days, tufted titmice have been busy stripping sunflower seeds from the seed head hanging upside down on the porch.  They may not know that this action lowers the R-factor in the walls of the interior.

This same seed head serves as a hammock for 2 Carolina wrens, who spend their nights tucked inside the cavity.  Late at night, when I walk Barley, and pass them at eye level, the only thing visible is a clump of back and tail feathers, and I have to resist the urge to reach out and touch them.

Tonight I walked out on the porch at dusk.  They had just checked in for the night, and one little head peered out at me, unafraid, from her leathery fortress.

Three years ago this past spring, Carolina wrens nested on the front porch, and I was there when they fledged.  As the sweet things took practice flights on the porch, 2 of them landed on my lap and settled down on my well worn blue jeans, while their mother chattered at them from a short distance.  I wonder one of those fledglings might be the same bird now watching me from her night shelter.  And, if she is, I wonder if she's dreaming, on these cold winter nights, of lining her nest with soft blue denim.

Textures by Kim Klassen,
of Texture Tuesday.

Also linking with The Creative Exchange,
Deep Roots at Home,
and World Bird Wednesday.

Carolina Chickadee

This little Carolina chickadee is so like its northern cousin, 

the black-capped chickadee,

I wonder if the ornithologists aren't just splitting feathers.

I can't post these little birds without thinking of the pleasure and inspiration I receive from Pat at Bailey Road.  She's on hiatus because of a death in the family, and she is in our thoughts and prayers.  If you'd like to see some delightful images from the natural world, click here, and scroll through some of her past blog posts.  

The texture used on these photos is pdpa Abstract Scratches.

Little Shepherd

What then can I give Him, empty as I am?

If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb;

If I were a wise man, I would do my part;

What then can I give Him?  I must give my heart.

From the song In the Bleak Midwinter

To hear a beautiful rendition of this song from the CD

James Taylor at Christmas, click here.


For last year's Christmas story, click here.

Our young friend and neighbor, Hayden, is the shepherd in the picture.  

We think he makes a really good one.

The texture is Annabelle,

by Kim Klassen.

Two Lambs

Each year about this time, the first Christmas decoration to come out of our cupboard is this small pewter figurine of Mary and the baby Jesus with a little lamb at her side.  I've had it for 30 some years; having found it on a sale table at a bookstore for $5.  On the underside is stamped Concord pewter, and on the back, the signature Walli.

I've thought about that sculptor over the years, who managed to tell so much with so little; those simple lines show a Mother's devotion to the baby snuggling softly in her arms.

I love this little figurine, but more than that, I love the story it tells, of God who became a human being, who became a baby, to reach us, those children He loves.

"I came so they can have real and eternal life,

 more and better life than they ever dreamed of."

  Jesus, from John 10:10

For a collection of artful images, 

check out Texture Tuesday, 

or click the button below for The Creative Exchange.

Watching the Sky

November in the Ozarks was going out wet and gray, 

until just after sunset Tuesday, when the clouds parted, 

and the trees, their bristles stiff and bare, 

painted bright streaks in the sky, forecasting clear days to come. 

I went outside before light the next morning, warm jacket over my wool robe, 

my hands tucked tightly into the pockets. 

 The waxing moon had set, and countless stars, in all their splendor, 

glimmered brightly against an India ink sky.

Constellations, recently emerged from behind their curtain of leaves,

greeted me like old friends.

High above was the Big Dipper, 

and Orion, the hunter, leaned toward the lake,

his faithful dog, Canis Major, at his side.

The night sky was silent, but in the morning light, 

we heard sounds that turned our faces upward.  

A large ragged V of migrating geese was passing overhead,

calling out praises with each beat of their wings.

We walk the earth, we watch the sky,

and we see glory.

The heavens proclaim the glory of God.

The skies display His craftsmanship.

Day after day they continue to speak;

night after night they make Him known.

Psalm 19:1,2

Also linking with Skywatch Friday

All These Gifts

Yesterday was balmy, and checking on my absent neighbor's dogs was a good excuse to get outside.  

The sun warmed my face as I sat on a stump and stroked Corby's hair, while high above us vultures traced lazy circles in the sky. When a gust of wind sent leaves crashing to the ground, pint-sized Jazz barked at them. At home, bluebirds made an appearance...

 

...and 2 Carolina Wrens fluttered around the dried sunflower that was hanging under the eves. I imagine they were not as interested in a food source as a future nesting site, since they've been checking out a basket on the porch, too.

In the afternoon, there was laughter in the kitchen as a friend and I peeled apples, trying to peel one in a long spiraling strip, like Mom used to do with her sisters. Later, the aroma of apple pie filled the room as we enjoyed dinner with friends.

Warm sun, dog kisses, friends around the table--an ordinary day? Not exactly. But then really, is there any such thing? 

Lifted Hands

In the fresh, cool air of the morning, 

Becky and I walk by the lake with Barley and Comet. 

Passing under the bridge, we laugh as our feet sink into the wet dark sand.  

The dogs swim and race at the water's edge, a picture of joy.

Gourds grow on the shore, and we gather a few,
then watch monarchs working a patch of wildflowers.
Facing an incline, Becky quickens her steps and Barley follows.
 At the top, Becky raises her hands, a gesture thanking God for all of it -
dogs, flowers, friends, water, sand and sky -
 gracious gifts from the Giver of Life.