Faith, Folklore, and Friends

Every human being is “formed to be a spectator of the created world – and given eyes that he might be led to its Author by contemplating so beautiful a representation.” ~ John Calvin, Commentary on Romans 1:19

Kind friends, as you search for the perfect pumpkin, this orange monument to autumn, I hope you can feel the dwindling October sunshine on your shoulders and in your heart. Have a joyful weekend.

I think people were more superstitious when I was younger. Some folks I knew recognized and greatly respected omens. We all knew that a black cat crossing the road in front of us could only mean bad luck. Of course, that bad luck could be easily negated by simply making the sign of the cross. A dog starting to howl for no reason could put fear in the hearts of the strongest, for it could only be explained by the presence of the death angel, coming to get someone close by. Nowadays, when my dog starts howling, I know in about two seconds I will hear the sirens from the fire department over the hill. Omens were widespread, but some particular ones were confined to small communities or family units. My Grandma Gean seemingly recognized an omen in every sneeze, itch, or change in weather. One very common omen was seeing a ball of fire, or light, just before a tragic event. Some say it looked like a ball of intense light, others are convinced they could actually see moving flames. One famil

October gave a party; The leaves by hundreds came - The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples, And leaves of every name. The Sunshine spread a carpet, And everything was grand, Miss Weather led the dancing, Professor Wind the band. ~George Cooper, October's Party

Violet Beatrice Gean Stricklin October 26, 1917-November 11, 2007 It's my mama's birthday. The Earth revolved and seasons changed ninety times while she was here. Uneducated, but wise. Beautiful, work-roughened hands never still. Her life was taking care of her family, and that she did well, even when the road was hard. She did massive amounts of laundry on a wringer washer; her clothes lines full every sunny day expect Sunday. She could coax nutritious vegetables out of tired clay soil, rising with the sun to do battle with weeds. Her quilts still warm our beds and our hearts. Known for her incomparable biscuits, she made enough in her lifetime to completely fill a Cracker Barrel. More familiar with pain than joy, she endured. She lived to see adult children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. We are educated, talented, well-traveled, scattered. She lives in all of us. Beadie Haynes, Marie Thompson, Mama, Geneva Gean In heaven, we are promise

When James and Sarah Jackson decided to help settle the wilderness of North Alabama in the early 1800s, they chose the best site in the county for their mansion. They named their new mansion Forks of Cypress, probably because two branches of Cypress Creek ran together not far from there. The mansion was built by skilled artisans, who built a safe and beautiful place. Located on a hill, it is said there was always a breeze blowing across the porches that encircled the house. James and Sarah raised a big family there. Unlike many such mansions in the area, the Forks of Cypress was left unharmed during the Civil War. What it could not survive was a common summer thunderstorm. In June 1966, the mansion was struck by lightning. The Forks of Cypress, with its antiques and memories, burned to the ground in less than thirty minutes. What a loss for our community! The completely symmetrical brick columns are all that remain today.

For the past twenty-five years, on the third weekend in October, scenic downtown Wilson Park has been transformed into something..... 5. 1

Get moving...God doesn't drive parked cars. ~Sarah Palin

George and his family lived more than a mile from the store. He walked there almost every day, picking up some items for his family while catching up on the news. The store was the main source of information in their little community, and George didn't want to miss anything. It had been a long, busy day, and George had not had time for his diurnal trip to the store. As dusk was turning into true night, George set off, his empty tobacco sack overriding his anxiety of walking in the dark. George walked peacefully for a while, surrounded by starlight and the sounds of his footsteps. As he started down a steep hill, he was shocked to discover he was not alone. A woman, clad in a billowy white gown, appeared, crossed the road in front of him, and went into the ditch on the far side of the road. Shaken up, he continued to the store with record speed. George was greeted by the usual gang--retired and unemployed men who spent most of their time sitting outside the store and speculating on

Late yesterday, Hub was scrambling to get the green tomatoes before Jack Frost got them first. Our tomatoes didn't do real well this year. They were almost dead when the Labor Day rains revived them and they put on a whole new crop. The biggest ones were wrapped in newspaper. Some say they will stay good and ripen until ChristmasI remember my Mama making green tomato pickles. The smallest ones will be canned with garlic and hot peppers in vinegar. Hopefully, they will perk up our winter suppers, but I'll have to let you know about that later. The middle-sized ones are for sharing and fried green tomatoes. Remember fried green tomatoes? For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to harvest. Ecclesiastes 3:1-2

Like every reader, I have my favorite writers. There have been so many that have stirred my emotions and made me a part of their world, and I'm thankful for that. The one is love the best, the one I cherish , is Rick Bragg. Yesterday, Rick was in our area. We were privileged to see a newly released documentary about his life called Out of the Dirt . Afterwards, he talked to us about family and roots. His first book, All over but the Shoutin' , was recommended to me years ago. Very early in the book, I was thinking, "Who is this? He is writing about me, about my family." I have never actually met anyone in the book, but they are all my neighbors and kinfolks. His other books are just as well-written. In his book, Writing for the Soul , Christian author Jerry Jenkins had this to say about Rick Bragg: I read other writers and strive to be like them. I read others, like Rick Bragg, the Pulitzer Prize-winning New York Times columnist, and simply surrender, knowing I will

There are various orders of beauty, causing men to make fools of themselves in various styles... but there is one order of beauty which seems made to turn the heads not only of men, but of all intelligent mammals, even of women.It is a beauty like that of kittens, or very small downy ducks making gentle rippling noises with their soft bills, or babies just beginning to toddle and to engage in conscious mischiefa beauty with which you can never be angry, but that you feel ready to crush for inability to comprehend the state of mind into which it throws you.George Eliot

Isn’t this the fast I choose: releasing wicked restraints, untying the ropes of a yoke, setting free the mistreated, and breaking every yoke? Isn’t it sharing your bread with the hungry and bringing the homeless poor into your house, covering the naked when you see them, and not hiding from your own family? Then your light will break out like the dawn, and you will be healed quickly. Your own righteousness will walk before you, and the LORD’s glory will be your rear guard. Isaiah 58:6-8 Thank you for sharing your time to visit with me here. I pray your weekend is filled with blessings.... Wanda

It seems that October and apples just go together. Apples are one of my favorite fruits, and I eat them all year long. Most come from Sam's, pretty apples that are almost good but can't be compared to locally grown October apples. I'm talking about apples so fresh you can taste the sunshine and so juicy that you need a napkin while eating one. Our favorite orchards are in Athens, Alabama, and we went there last weekend and stocked up. The golden delicious are my favorite and I have just about ODed on them this week. My mom was known for her apple pies, which she cooked almost every day. Hers were not fried. She made the half-moon shapes with her dough and apples then baked them. Experience had taught her exactly how much dough and apple filling was needed to make two pies that fit perfectly in her cast iron skillet. When her grandchildren were small, they immediately went to the kitchen to get some apple pie as soon as they got to Grandma's. I wish I had a photo of thos

Everyday, we hear about new discoveries in the solar system. Astronomers are excited about seeing for the first time many earth-like planets in the solar system. Twenty-first century technology is allowing a new peep into the ancient heavens; images that Galileo and Copernicus couldn't fathom. An Austrian astronomer recently estimated the number of stars to be approximately 70 sextillion. 70,000,000,000,000,000,000,000. More than the grains of sand on Planet Earth. They have been there since the fourth day. They have been in their place, waiting, serving their purpose. Twinkle, twinkle little star. Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky. The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Psalm 19:1 *NASA images

Lately, I have been going back and reading some Newbery medal books that I somehow missed before. The books are in the Young Adult category, but I enjoy reading them as much as I love adult books. The oldest one I have read is The Witch of Blackbird Pond by Elizabeth George Speare, which won in 1959. I never tire of reading about colonial times and how their thinking was so different from ours. My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George was also published in 1959. It is a Newbery Honor book. Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson won the medal in 1978, but most children today have heard about it because it was recently made into a movie. The book surprised me with its ending. In his 2001 award winner, A Year Down Yonder , Richard Peck manages to write a delightful book about a Chicago teenager spending a year with her Grandmother in the south without being derogatory to the southern way of life. Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis won the medal in 2000. This book is