SPRINGTIME

The older I get, the more I appreciate our Midwest with its four distinct seasons of the year. Maybe that is because I was born and raised here. I cant really say that I enjoy winter, but I think I would miss it. I am sure I appreciate spring all the more because of it. We often hear that anticipation is at least half the joy of anything. I'm sure that a lot of us begin anticipating spring when the snowdrifts are still hip-high to a tall person (Shucks, there goes another of my favorite old sayings that my politically correct friends wont let me use anymore).

I do occasionally run into folks who don't exactly look forward to the seasonal changes. A few just don't care much for change. And then there are some that are pessimists who aren't really pleased with anything. While complaining about the cold, snow, ice, wind-chill factor, and frosty forecasts, they don't like to be interrupted by someone telling about a newly developed variety of seed potatoes he or she is going to order from that colorful seed catalog that came in the mail yesterday.

Believe it or not, such people really don't look forward to spring. There is all that unsettled weather to look forward to, weeks of mud to contend with, followed by days of hard work raking and cleaning up the winters supply of fallen tree branches and trash and gravel from the lawn. And indoors, how will they ever find time to get all their spring-cleaning done? Then there will be all of that never-ending work in garden. And spring gives them nothing to look forward to but all of that lawn mowing and other hard work and, worst of all, the intolerable heat that summer will surely bring.

And that hot season will give them nothing to look forward to but fall. How could anyone enjoy a busy time of year like that? All of those dry, fallen leaves from the neighbors trees that the wind will deposit on their lawns will have to be raked up and burned, or bagged up and carted off. The garden has to be put to bed for winter. And then there is fall housecleaning. And soon there will be the cold and the deep snow, the icy, slippery, dangerous roads, and the huge fuel bills.

And when winter is finally finished, along comes that busy, messy, muddy season we call spring.


SPRINGTIME


A few drab and shabby snowdrifts
Still insist on hanging round,
But if were quiet, and listen,
From the woodland comes the sound

Of the springs very first robin;
We stop just to hear it sing,
As it does its level best to
Turn our winter into spring.

As that season rounds the corner
Judging by these signs we've seen,
Soon the lawns and pastures will all
Turn from dull, drab brown to green.

Trees and shrubs will all be leafed out
In their lacy finery
As they do their best to please and
To thrill folks like you and me.

We can see the buds now swelling
On the maples branches high,
Praying for warm springtime sunshine
As they brush against the sky.

Waves of snow-white and pink flowers
On apple and wild plum trees
Will fill mild air with fragrance to
Awake winter-weary bees.

The brooks music will assure us
That, once again, spring has sprung,
Nests and dens of many creatures
Will be homes for brand-new young.

In farm fields, the newly plowed ground
Will echo the tractors roar.
Awaiting the new birth and growth
This great season has in store.

As we look around, we cant help
But feel we've been truly blessed:
All these wonders of creation
Displayed at their very best.

Free Spirits

I recently received a welcome e-mail from a reader who had a question regarding the making of wooden willow whistles. He said that when he was a boy his grandfather taught him how to make them, and fe felt the time had come for him to pass that knowledge on to his own grandson, but all of his recent attempts at whistle making had failed. He said he had forgotten some of the details including how to remove a large area of the willow twig's bark without damaging or destroying it.

Several times over the years, I have mentioned these whistles. On one occasion I wrote a published article that contained complete step-by-step instructions for making them. Perhaps the time has come for me to see whether or not I can still practice what I preach. It won’t be long until spring and the “sap will be up,” the time when willow twigs are the greenest and most tender and in ideal condition for whittling wooden willow whistles.

When spring finally arrives, if I can find the time (which should not be too hard) and the ambition (which may be more difficult) I will go out and select a nice straight unblemished willow branch. After sharpening my jackknife, I will cut off a 4-inch length, then whittle the mouthpiece and cut the sound hole. The next task is to make a girdling cut around the piece, making certain to cut all the way through the bark. Then, holding the knife by the blade, the handle of the knife is used as a hammer to bruise the area of bark I want to remove, loosening it from the wood. If everything goes as planned, this area of bark can be slid off the wood in one piece. After whittling away more of the bare wood, the bark is slid back on and, hopefully, we’ll have a willow whistle that whistles.

Who knows, perhaps the whole whittling experience may bring back a few precious memories and at least a bit of that wonderful feeling of freedom a boy felt each spring when he no longer had to attend school. In the woods or in a field or pasture, and armed with his trusty jackknife and perhaps a BB gun, he could be a pioneer, a mountain man, or a cowboy. He was free and the world was his to explore and to enjoy.

FREE SPIRITS

A small boy sitting on a log
Reached out to pet his faithful dog
Both content as
The warm summer day passed by

The boy said, “Shaggy little hound,
No matter where I’ve looked around,
I’ve found no friends
Who are close as you and I.

”If need be, we’ll forage for food.
If forced, we can act crude and rude.
No one’s ever
Accused us of being shy.


”Like me, you can act brave, small hound,
Bark loud and throw your weight around.
We won’t look for
Fights, but we won’t pass them by

”No one can guess, or much less, know
In this world, how far we will go.
We’re much alike,
Friend, as far as I can see.

”We’re kind of like a pair of strays –
Rough, tough, and real set in our ways,
And I know that
You lack a real pedigree.

”At heart, we’re a pair of free souls,
Without any real long-range goals,
Kind of taking
Life the way it comes and goes.

”If fate presents a real tough test,
We won’t just come in second-best,
We’ll rely on
My sharp wits and your keen nose.

”I‘ll bet no one will ever see
Two friends loyal as you and me
Together, we
Make up a real winning team.

”We both find the fresh air so grand,
Out here in nature’s wonderland,
A place we can
Dream the impossible dream.

”But right now, we will have to go.
Lengthening shadows tell me so –
By now, Mom has
Supper ready. Come, let’s run!

”I’ll fill your food bowl to the brim
To maintain your vigor and vim.
Come morning, we’ll
Come back here when chores are done.”

Degree of Education

Quite number of years ago, one of the young professionals at an agricultural research department was showing a summer college internee around and getting him acquainted with the job and with the people. I heard him tell the student, “And Scottie has his ‘post-hole digger.’”

That one had me stumped for awhile. Then it finally dawned on me that in agricultural college boy lingo, a post-hole digger meant a Ph.D. degree. I couldn’t help but wonder how many other such names they had for various degrees and accomplishments. That looked like a fairly fertile field for growing a new poem, so I began rhyming a few words.

At that time I didn’t know of any publishers looking for rural rhyme so today’s poem never was submitted anywhere, but I kept it in my repertoire for public readings. When working with our company’s sales department, I was frequently asked to “loosen up” sales meetings by adding a little humor with a short poetry reading.

Of all the poems I read to farmer-seed dealers and their wives, this one was the favorite:

A young man drove a farm wagon
Down a dusty country road.
He grinned as one of the steel wheels
Almost nailed a lazy toad.

A well-dressed stranger flagged him down
And he said, “As you can see,
My car has a flat tire. Would you
Please install the spare for me?

“I’d hoped someone would come along.
I’ve been waiting for some while
And I’m afraid that changing tires
Has just never been my style.

”Getting down, the young man tied his
Mules so they’d not stray away.
He said, “This won’t take five minutes,
And I’ll have you on your way.”

The older man admired the young
Man’s ambition and his zeal
As he promptly jacked the car up
And removed the airless wheel.

The older man said,“Young fellow,
You should really be in school
With higher learning, no one would
Look on you as just a fool.

“At City College, with a bit
Of alumni help, one can
Pull himself up by his bootstraps –
Be an educated man.

”“You’re tall, and sound of wind and limb;
Plenty broad across the beam.
I’m sure there would be room for you
On our college football team.

The young man smiled a happy smile,
When he’d finished with the car,
He said, “Sir, you just don’ know how
Far off-base you really are.

“My working skills and fencing tools
Make my future very bright.
I’ve all the work I want to do
Every day from morn’ till night.

“I ain’t got much education,
But can write and I can read.
I’m happy and doing nicely,
With all the degrees I need.

“These Muscled Arms are my M.A.
I make a good living and
This Post-Hole Digger’s my Ph.D.
My work’s always in demand.

“This Blunt Shovel and Broad-Axe are
My B.S. and my B.A.
My M.S. is this Muddy Spade
That I use ‘most every day.

“If a sticky problem stumps me
My dad will consult with me.
Like me, he is a Mule Driver,
So he, too, is an M.D.

“I get exercise and fresh air
Without paying no greens fees.
I face right up to my Maker
When I’m praying on my knees.

“You look down your nose and tell me
To just what I should aspire.
Shucks, at least I’m smart enough to know
How to change this gol-darned tire!”

THE CAT’S MEOW

An old friend recently remarked, “My wife always reads your columns. But she wonders why you never write anything about cats.”

I think I have mentioned cats a time or two. Most people who know me don’t consider me a “cat lover.” Or overly fond of any kind of pets, which may not be completely true. I recall a number of cats and dogs I have enjoyed and considered friends. But, for the most part, I much prefer the company of humans.

During my days on the farm, cats were always welcome. In exchange for shelter, a small amount of food, and a certain amount of protection, a farm cat paid its way by helping control the rodents around the farmstead. Most farmers who milked cows were happy to give the cats a pan of fresh milk twice a day.

Many young people today, having never known a time when kitchens didn’t have garbage disposals, may find it hard to believe that “table scraps” once made up an important part of the diet of many cats and dogs, I’ve seen pets engage in some exciting fights over table scraps. Once, even a family’s pet crow was right in there, taking and getting in his share of licks in exchange for a share of the goodies.

Mother cats regularly supplied new kittens with which children could play. The survivors grew up to be mousers and ratters. Wandering tomcats often made their rounds, killing any small kittens they found. As farm kids we could never quite figure out why. Many small tykes today, having spent time watching an animal channel on TV, have witnessed this same thing happening with lions in the wild, and might explain it as nature’s way of strengthening a pride of lions (or clowder of cats) by preventing excessive inbreeding.

OK, about that word “clowder” – that’s a “book word” for a whole herd of cats. But in my eighty-plus years, I have never heard the word used in conversation.

For the most part, cats haven’t changed much since they first left the wild and agreed to live with humans. Numerous distinct breeds have been developed. And a few cats have learned, and are willing to perform, various tricks. I’ve always felt that felines could be taught to do almost any stunt a dog can perform, and many a dog can’t. But most of them refuse to lower themselves to that level. After all, in ancient history cats were often considered to be god-like creatures, and not jugglers, fools, or clowns.

Some of my cat-loving friends are convinced that their cats love them and miss them when they are not around. I certainly won’t argue with that. But I’ve never heard of a cat lying on its dead master’s grave and starving to death. That’s more the kind of behavior we expect of dogs.

Anyway, if you wanted a “cat column,” Mary, this is about the best I can do.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Morning’s sun warms up the front steps
And the old cat lounging there.
Now and then, she’ll lazily stretch
And she’ll comb and groom her hair.

Tabby’s master comes outside and
Sees her enjoying the sun.
He wonders if cats remember
Things they’ve known and things they’ve done.

The first day she came to his farm
He encouraged her to stay
By setting out a small pan filled
With fresh cows’ milk twice a day.

That was 14 years ago now.
Tabby’s old as farm cats go.
She’s survived the hottest summers
And waded through winters’ snow.

People at her farm home were kind
And mostly treated her nice.
The cat paid her way by helping
Them control their rats and mice.

Her body, so slim and agile,
And her teeth strong, sharp, and keen.
And her claws, like sheathed steel daggers,
Made her a “killing machine.”

In the summer, she would visit
A pasture or field of hay.
There she’d stalk and kill striped gophers.
She would bring one home each day.

She produced a hundred kittens
Give or take, maybe a few.
All in all, Tabby did what farm
Cats are expected to do.

She always hid well her kittens
When they were helpless and small,
Protected them from tomcats that
Would have tried to kill them all.

A farm cat’s life is no picnic,
Dodging mean dogs and rat traps,
And each day having to fight for
Her share of the table scraps.

The farmer knows, before long now,
Tabby will have to move on.
Up to Cat Heaven, the day when
Her ninth, and last, life is gone.

LIFE'S STREAMS

One unexpected stocking stuffer I received for Christmas was a set of video tapes of four of the old Gene Autry movies. I looked over the titles and…Wow! I was fortunate enough to have the show titled “Oh Susannah!”

I couldn’t wait to get that one home and get the cellophane cover ripped off and get it popped into the VCR. I knew this was one of the two Gene Autry movies in which the country music group “The Light Crust Doughboys” had appeared. I once met and spent half a day with Marvin “Smokey” Montgomery, one of the members of that group.

In 1931, the Doughboys were organized and sponsored by the Burris Mill, the producer of Light Crust Flour. They first performed on radio station KFJZ in Fort Worth five days a week. One of the original members of the group was Bob Wills (of “New San Antonio Rose” and “Faded Love” fame), who not only played fiddle and sang, but also drove truck for the mill, and all for $10 per week.

With the daily radio show, the Doughboys’ popularity grew, and their transcribed musical performances were soon heard on stations all over Texas and a number of the neighboring states. By that time, naturally, they were in big demand for personal appearances all over the Southland.

The group grew from three to seven members. Bob Wills eventually left to organize his own “Texas Playboys” band. As years went by other members came and went, including names like Herman Arnspiger, Zeke Campbell, Hank Thompson, Slim Whitman, and Charlie Walker. Marvin “Smokey” Montgomery and his “Smokin’ Banjo” joined the group in 1935.

The Doughboys were off the air from 1942 to 1945 because of World War II, but came back strong and broadcast regularly until 1951, when TV began to put pressure on the radio industry. They continued to make personal appearances at state fairs, rodeos, super market openings, TV shows, homecomings, etc. In 1977, the State Senate of Texas passed Resolution No. 463, honoring the Doughboys for their part in Texas history. In 1981 the group recorded an album titled “50 Years Of Texas Style Music.”

In 1982, while visiting our oldest son Mick in Texas, he and I were working on several (non-too-successful) music projects. We went to see his friend Smokey at a large recording studio in Dallas. Smokey gave us a lot of advice, and also wrote up lead sheets for two of my “creations.” He gave me a copy of the above-mentioned Doughboys’ album, also a copy of one of his own albums, “Mostly Banjo,” on which he demonstrated his almost unbelievable skill with the tenor banjo.

My career as a tone-deaf songwriter has been anything but successful. Here is an example of one of my works, a kind of lament in three-quarter-time that just “didn’t quite get published” (until now).

The stream in the valley
Runs murky and black.
Hell, yes, I am leaving
And I ain't coming back.

I’ve been here too long in
This valley of tears,
Just came for a look,

butStayed too many years

In this valley, I’ve had
To face life’s great test.
I’ve seen lots of changes,
But none for the best,

The stream in this valley
Grew old, just like me.
Now muddy and still where,
It once rippled free.

All the homes here are old
And kind of run down.
And black factory smoke

Comes filtering down

The big old machines are
All covered with rust.
In the street I’m up to

My ankles in dust

As I sit on this bench
On a moonlight night
I stare at the bars with
All their neon lights.

My stream in this town just
Ain’t pretty no more
With old dreams and beer cans
Now choking its shore

Now I have found a place
In my dreams at night
Where summers are gentle
And winters are light,

Where an old man can stay
For many a year.
The stream in the valley
There runs crystal clear.

The stream in my valley
Looks murky and black.
Hell, yes, I am leaving

And ain’t coming back

I’ve been here too long in
This valley of tears,
Just came for a look but
Stayed too many years.

NEW YEAR’S

Now is the time to celebrate

The birth of a brand-new year,

A time for faith and hope and trust,

Not for worry or for fear.

No time to mope about the past,

But to look forward, instead.

Focus on a brighter future,

Envision great days ahead.

We know with each day problems come,

Every month’s another test,

Our whole lifetime’s built out of years,

Let’s make this new one the best.

We’ll seek out progress and success

As this new year passes by.

If we fail, let’s make sure it’s not

Because we just didn’t try.

We often can blame just ourselves

For defeats in early years.

We’ve ignored the success blueprint

Hidden right between our ears.

We’re all seeking a better way,

Hoping to “get in the groove,”

But things don’t just “fall into place”

We have to make the first move.

Most times there really is no need

To relocate, rove, or roam,

Often our “acres of diamonds”

Lie hidden right close to home.

So let’s get those brain cells working,

Be prepared to plan and dream.

Keep looking for the bright side, and

Find that winning theme or scheme.

Happiness follows clear thinking,

Persistence and strength of heart,

Making New Year’s Resolutions

Seems the perfect way to start!

THE STORY LIVES ON

In our hearts, the story lives on:
A dark night, with one bright star,
Angel choirs singing to greet
Three wise travelers from afar.

Before beginning their journey
They'd pondered which gifts to bring,
Then chose gold, myrrh, and frankincense
Fit gifts for The Newborn King.

At a stable, they joined shepherds
Who had left their flocks that night.
Walking to the songs of angels,
They, too, followed the star's light.

Together, both high and lowly,
Knelt down on the earthen floor
Before the babe in a manger,
To worship and to adore.

Could any of that group have guessed
That all else would fade away,
But that Baby in the manger
Would still be worshipped today.