CWAC Thanks

Dear BaaBee and DanDan ~

Recently I blogged about Cousins Week at Callaway not being over until we gathered again around the dinner table and recounted our stories about the week, but I think there is more.

Truly, the annual reunion is not complete until you two have been thanked in person and in writing for this irreplacable gift of time, talent, and treasure.

As I have continued to think about about each of the days spent at Callaway this year, I came up with an host of nouns that describe this recurring favorite event in my life.

Then I used some of my pictures to illustrate these ideas ~  like


family,
friends,
food,
fellowship,
fun,
feats,
features,
fotos,
fireworks,
fields trips,
and
flowers.







I know others have pictures that showcase these things (like Os's fireworks), but here are mine for a start.

Thank you very much for making this all possible.

We are very much looking forward to next year.

Love, Dana


PS I can already see that I left out my Circle Time photo ;-( Thank goodness for software that allows for easy editing ;-)


Added next day ~ Circle Time


 

CWAC Review


Back home from our week-long family reunion at Callaway Gardens, the celebratory week is really not complete until we've recapped the festivities around the Sunday dinner table.  Here's the only photo I remembered to take that day ~

of my tablescape.

I'm kicking myself for forgetting to photograph the food and the people  :-(

Any who.....

On Friday (the last full day of our reunion), I started thinking about Sunday's menu when touring the Jenny Jack Sun Farm in Pine Mountain, GA,

That's when I made my purchase of:

Green Beans, Yellow Squash, Sweet Onions, Purple Peppers, Tomatoes, and Cantaloupe.

A veggie plate was formulating on my taste buds, but once I got home I realized that I had miscounted the number of guests.

So, I added a smoked turkey breast to round out the meal.

Here's the menu ~

Bloody Mary Cocktail or White Wine Spritzer (while I rolled out the biscuits)

Bates Farm
Smoked Turkey Breast (a 2010 Christmas gift from my brother &his wife)
Brown Rice en casserole
Steamed Green Beans
Sauteed Yellow Squash 'n Onions
Whole Wheat Biscuits

Sweet Tea or Water

Blueberry Crisp a la mode
Coffee

We told lots of stories, shared photo memory cards, and made plans for next year.

Yup, that's right - already talking about next year!

CWAC 2011

Cousins Week at Callaway

For the twentieth time we will gather in Pine Mountain, Georgia for an annual family reunion, complete with photo shoot. We actually started gathering in the early 80s at my parents' home, but we quickly outgrew that.

There are a total of 29 first cousins.

That came from 6 siblings.

That came from 1 mother.

And 1 father

Whose father would be the 123 years old today.

Let the festivities begin!!

Much Depends Upon Dinner*

Children in our culture learn manners at the dining table, and not manners only.


It is believed that falling away from the cultural custom of eating with others at table three times a day can cause backwardness in all of a child's speaking skills.

pg 13




Cultural anthropologist, Margaret Visser, has intrigued me for a long time.  Ever since I received her first book* as a gift.  And while I have not finished reading this one, the two-sentence excerpt above covers a lot of ground when it comes to rearing a family these days.

I think many make the task out to be harder than it really is.

Just remember ~

Eat together often.

Visitin'  happens.

A Home-Concealed Woman

Having attended a funeral this past week for a dear family friend, I was reminded of an obituary found in the Afterword of one of my favorite books.

Magnolia Wynn LeGuin's death was deeply felt by all who knew her, as her obituary in the Henry County Weekly Advertiser (12 November 1947) proclaimed with simple elegance.

On Thursday, November 6, 1947, in the usual quiet of Autumn dawn, a stillness we seldom know seemed to hover over New Hope Community.

Our hearts were pierced with pain and yet, relief mingled together when word came that Mrs. G.G. LeGuin, familiarly know as "Miss Mag," had moved to the "Home not built with hands," a reward she so richly deserved, for such a beautiful life she had lived!

She was a loving mother, devoted wife, friend to humanity, a good, kind neighbor, and indeed a true and faithful christian, if there ever was one.  We know nothing too good to speak or write of her.  To know her was to love her.  These words were equally fitting for her while she lived as they are now.  No one knows just how many lives were enriched nor how many blessings she rendered.

Mrs. LeGuin was before her marriage, Magnolia Wynn, and spent her life at old Wynn's Mill where she was born.  She was in her 79th year.  She loved people, loved to talk and loved old New Hope Methodist Church where she will be missed as the oldest member and where she has been a pillar.  Many think of her as their "second mother."


This book is shelved in my genealogy section not because I am directly related to Mrs. LeGuin but because her diaries offer insight into the lives of my great-grandmothers.

Spiller, Filler, and Thriller

Gardening is not my forte, but I do love a pretty view when looking out the kitchen window.

So, I'm practicing by working with containers on my back deck, before I venture out into the big, bad world that is our half-acre plot here in hilly, rocky Cherokee County, GA.

After reading a newspaper article detailing a formula, I put together this rendition last Saturday afternoon just in time for Sunday company.

A varigated ground cover whose name I forgot, spills over the sides of this black metal chair. 

Petunias fill the bed or seat of the chair.

The pink Calla Lily is supposed to grow taller and be my *thriller*.






Platform feeder on the right where cardinals, titmice, brown thrashers, and chipmunks feast.

Bird bath on the left where I see squirrels, birds and insects drink and bathe.

Here's another view from the kitchen windows which shows a basket of thyme (which happens to be flowering right now) and three orange zinnias.

Look to the left down the deck for my *herb garden* which includes basil, chives, cilantro, mint, sage, and dill.

Toward the end there is a pot of mixed chrysanthemums held over from this past Fall. They are about to bloom. We shall see what colors are mixed. I'm expecting white and yellow.

Then some liriope aka monkey grass.

Then a pitiful hyndrangea purchased for color at Valentine's Day.  Can I find a place for it in the landscape before the hot sun burns it up?

The blue bucket contains four tomato plants waiting for a better home.

Finally, take a peek to the right down the stairs.  The delphinium is joined with some creeping jenny and presides over half a dozen pots of zinnias.

I guess the real test comes later during the long, hot summer.

Will I be able to keep these babies alive?

The garden hose is poised to help  ;-)


What does your garden grow?

Mother's Day Menu

Beef Stew Gaston
Steamed Cauliflower
Multi-grain Roll

2006 Cotes du Rhone Red Wine

Apple Pie a la mode
Coffee

The fun thing about this menu is that I prepared enough to send each of my guests home with leftovers - enough for another meal.

Photo of my nephew with his grandmother.

Yes, grandfather was there.

And KSJ.

Le Cadeau Ideal?  NCIS Season 3  ;-)

Sunday Sermon at Chalcedon Presbyterian Church was delivered by Guest Pastor Donald D. Crowe, author of Creation Without Compromise.

The Fatal Conceit

The curious task of economics is to demonstrate to men how little they really know about what they imagine they can design.

F. A. Hayek
Austrian Economist
1899 - 1992


Not generally a fan of rap, I am do recommend watching these videos using this new type of music to explain economics.  Link to Econstories.tv




FWIW - I had the distinct opportunity to have dinner with Professor/Doctor Hayek in 1977, when I was a student at Hillsdale College.  I was just 19 years old and failed to take the opportunity to ask good questions while sitting on his immediate left.  The main thing I remember were his manners ~ when the meal was over, he politely asked if I minded, if he dipped  ;-)

Opportunity

Today is the birthday of this poet and I've been saving this poem for my final entry of my month-long tribute to National Poetry Month.  Blogger-friend, Cindy, writes to encourage homeschool families and that's where I first read these inspirational verses.


THIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle's edge,
And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-
That blue blade that the king's son bears,-but this
Blunt thing-!" he snapt and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.
Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.



Edward Rowland Sills
American educator
1841  - 1887

Dying Confederate's Last Words

Dear comrades on my brow the hand of death is cast,
My breath is growing short, all pain will soon be past;
My soul will soar away to that bright land of bliss,
Far from the pain and woe of such a place as this.


I left my home and friends to battle with the foe,
To save the Southern land from misery and woe;
I gave my all (oh! not to win a name,
Or have it e'en enrolled upon the scroll of fame.)

Not so, I only wished a helper brave to be
To save the glorious South from cruel tyranny;
My soul with ardor burned the treacherous foe to fight
And take a noble stand for liberty and right.

But oh! how weak is man! It was not God's decree,
That I should longer live a helper brave to be,
Before another day I shall be with the dead,
And 'neath the grassy sod will be my lonely bed.

And should you see the friends that nurtured me in youth,
Tell them I tried to walk the ways of peace and truth;
O ! tell my mother kind the words that she has given,
Have led her wayward child to Jesus and to heaven.

Farewell! farewell! my friends my loving comrades dear,
I ask you not to drop for me one bitter tear;
The angels sweetly stand and beckon me to come,
To that bright land of bliss that heavenly realm my home.



~Author Unknown


Photo Credit:
Myself - Link to Info

Sister Cat

Cat stands at the fridge,
Cries loudly for milk.
But I've filled her bowl.
Wild cat, I say, Sister,
Look, you have milk.
I clink my fingernail
Against the rim. Milk.
With down and liver,
A word I know she hears.
Her sad miaow. She runs
To me. She dips
In her whiskers but
Doesn't drink. As sometimes
I want the light on
When it is on. Or when
I saw the woman walking
toward my house and
I thought there's Frances.
Then looked in the car mirror
To be sure. She stalks
The room. She wants. Milk
Beyond milk. World beyond
This one, she cries.


by Frances Mayes
American Poet
1940 -

Easter Sunday, April 25, 1943

Dietrich Bonhoeffer had been arrested just days before.  He didnt think he'd be there long.  But ended up being there for two years before being hanged by Hitler's posse on April 9, 1945.

Here's a quote from his writings that tell us how he viewed his position that day.

"One of the great advantages of Good Friday and Easter Day is that they take us out of ourselves, and make us think of other things, of life and its meaning, and of its suffering and events. It gives us such a lot to hope for."

Here's a link to my review of a recent biography.


Here's a link to a free download of the Easter Story.


Listen and believe!

For a Time of Sorrow

Sorrow is one of the things that are lent, not given.
A thing that is lent may be taken away;
A thing that is given is not taken away.
Joy is given.
Sorrow is lent.

We are not our own, we are bought with a price (I Cor 6:19-20).

"And our sorrow is not our own." (Samuel Rutherford said this a long time ago.)  It is lent to us for just a little while that we may use it for eternal purposes.  Then it will be taken away and everlasting joy will be our Father's gift to us.

The Lord God will wipe away tears from off all faces (Isaiah 25:8)


Amy Carmichael
Edges of His Ways

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle

But women will be saved through childbearing—
if they continue in faith, love and holiness with propriety.
 I Timothy 2:15


Blessings on the hand of women!
Angels guard its strength and grace,
In the palace, cottage, hovel,
Oh, no matter where the place;
Would that never storms assailed it,
Rainbows ever gently curled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Infancy's the tender fountain,
Power may with beauty flow,
Mother's first to guide the streamlets,
From them souls unresting grow--
Grow on for the good or evil,
Sunshine streamed or evil hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Woman, how divine your mission
Here upon our natal sod!
Keep, oh, keep the young heart open
Always to the breath of God!
All true trophies of the ages
Are from mother-love impearled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Blessings on the hand of women!
Fathers, sons, and daughters cry,
And the sacred song is mingled
With the worship in the sky--
Mingles where no tempest darkens,
Rainbows evermore are hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.



William Ross Wallace
American Poet
1819 - 1881

Sonnet LXXV

One day I wrote her name upon the sand,
But came the waves and washed it away;
Again I wrote it with a second hand.
But came the tide and made my pains his prey.
"Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain assay
A mortal thing so to immortalize,
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out likewise,"
"Not so," quod I, "let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame;
My verse your virtues rare shall eternize
And in the heavens write your glorious name,
Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew."


by Edmund Spenser
1522 - 1599

Sonnet #43, Kitchen Style

Driving into my neighborhood last evening, I noticed that a local had neatly planted and staked about a dozen tomato plants.  That's what prompted the re-posting of this delightful ode. 

How do I love thee, tomato?

Let me count the ways.


I love thee to the depth and breadth and might
My palate can reach,

when remembering out of sight


Your peak month of August, when you bear fruits of juicy Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most urgent need for a BLT, by sun or moon-light.
I love thee with abandon, as Venus might her Mars or Vulcan
I love thee purely, as surely as the summer wanes
I love thee with the passion of my appetite
Above all fruits, and with my childhood's eye of Jersey tomatoes
As if they were falling from the sky.
I love thee with a hunger I seemed to lose
With my lost innocence (and the icky mealy tomatoes of January)! I love thee with the smell,
Unlike no other in the garden, and your vine-ripened sweetness
That bring me smiles, tears, only at this time of year! -- and if the farmer's choose
I shall but love thee better after many bowls of gazpacho.


I'm not much of a gardener.  I like to think I could, if need be.  In the meantime, I'll praise the fruits of others' labor.



Photo Credit:
Myself - July 2010
Fruit compliments of a neighbor

Against the Vices of the Times

The following translation of a ballade, composed in 1386 by the prolific French writer Eustaches Deschamps, a contemporary of Chaucer, is an example of the moralizing use made of the Worthies to contrast the degenerate present with an ideal past.

If it were possible for human nature
To revive those who have turned to ashes,
The worthy Hector, Arthur, and Charlemagne,
Julius Caesar, Godfrey, Alexander,
David, Judas, and Joshua who were willing
To take so much trouble in order to conquer
And to gain honor and renown,
And were they to be brought back to life,
I believe they all would wish to die again
Thus seeing the envy of the world,
And the suffering that everyone here inflicts,
Of coveting, robbing, expropriating, and acquiring,
Of deceiving his neighbor, man or woman,
Of abandoning honor and taking up vices,
Doing evil to the good, and rewarding the wicked,
Doing disservice to the noble and generous heart
But serving and honoring the wicked,
And foolishly waging war against one another;
All the nine worthies would wish to make an end
Thus seeing the envy of the world.
It would seem a wicked thing to them
To compare time present with time past,
When honor was in the world, Sovereign
Knowledge, which made everyone understand
To love the good, and Largesse bestowed
Reward on everyone, in order to uphold valor
And loyalty, to maintain prowess:
Justice and Right held lordship.
It goes otherwise; they would all wish to perish
Thus seeing the envy of the world.

Envoy

Princes, there is no one, if he has common sense,
And knew the tyranny of the world,
Who would not wish to die directly,
Thus seeing the envy of the world.
 
 




I ran across this poem when researching *heroes* for bookclub.  We were reading Anthony  Esolen's Ten Ways to Destroy the Imagination of Your Child.  He decries the modern temptation to denigrate the reputation of all heroes, which tendency was also mentioned by author Eric Metaxas during the Q&A of his lecture on Dietrich Bonhoeffer.


The painting is by Giacomo Jaquerio (c. 1375 - 1453) an Italian medieval painter.

It's Time to Sleep

On Saturday I had the opportunity to hear the author of this poem speak, but not about lullabies.  More like an alarm clock, Eric Metaxas captured my attention.  Entertaining in style, authentic in message, and powerful with vision, he shared his hopes for how the life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer could impact our society for the Lord.  Metaxas has a heart for God and demonstrates it in all aspects of his work.  I 'm on a mission to read/collect all of his books, poems, essays, and writings.

"It's time to sleep, it's time to sleep,"
the fishes croon in waters deep.
The songbirds sing in trees above,
"It's time to sleep, my love, my love."
"It's time to sleep, my love."
So, go to sleep, my love.

So, go to sleep, my sleepy child,"
the tiger whispers in the wild.
The otter utters by the lake,
"It's getting hard to stay awake."
"So, go to sleep, my love."
"It's time to sleep, my love."

"Let's go to sleep, my darling love,"
so coos the sleepy turtledove.
So drones the drowsy bumblebee
inside its hive inside its tree.
"It's time to sleep, my love."
"Let's go to sleep, my love."

"I'm getting very sleepy now,"
so moos the tired milking cow.
So croaks the almost-sleeping frog
amidst the settling of the fog.
"So, go to sleep, my love."
"It's time to sleep, my love, love."

Your dreams will be arriving soon.
They'll float to you in sleep's balloon.
They'll be here when I snuff the wick,
you'd better close your eyelids quick.
So you can dream, my love.
So you can dream, my love.

And as you dream inside your sleep,
the fishes crooning in the deep, and
all the songbirds up above
will sleep and dream of you, my love,
of you, the one I love.

by Eric Metaxas


Now that you've read through the poem, listen to Sally Taylor sing it.
(daughter of James Taylor and Carly Simon).

What a perfect gift!



Image is by Nancy Tillman and borrowed from her book.

Fire and Ice

Quoted in Frances Mayes's Swan, a book recently reviewed (here) by me, Frost's poem rang a bell not only because I'd just read this fine review of Stanlis's book (link) by my college advisor, John Willson, but also because I'd been contemplating parenting (aka teaching) with the book club selection, Ten Ways to Destroy the Imagination of Your Child.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great,
And would suffice.


by Robert Frost
American Poet
1874 - 1963




Adding The Poet as Philosopher to my Wish List at Amazon, I'd love to know what's on yours.

Who am I?

Posted in anticipation of a Saturday morning seminar devoted to the life of this poet who was hanged on April 9, 1945.


They often tell me
I stepped from my cell’s confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a squire from his country-house.

Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
As though it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
Equally, smilingly, proudly,
Like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really all that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were
compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectation of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all?

Who am I? This or the other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army,
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

Who am I?
They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, 0 God,
I am Thine!

by Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Lutheran Pastor/Theologian
1906 - 1945