Faith, Folklore, and Friends

Butterflies on tithonia...... . . . because who doesn't need a little beauty today?

Yellow Dance by Wanda Stricklin Robertson When spring was new,  winter still lingering beneath the budding trees;  the soil cool and full of worms,  we planted the tiny seeds. We wanted the dance. Seed must be sown;  without the sowing, there is no harvest.   There can be no dance. A spoonful of tiny seed,  some sunlight, some water.  Some pulling of weeds  while the sun burned our skin. We waited with patience,  knowing they would come  Home with the equinox,  ready to do their dance. And now we rest, rewarded for our work.  Tender butterflies with wings of sun dance from blossom to blossom,  and the dying is sweet.

Beautiful September! You bring us nights with raised windows, snuggling under quilts in the wee hours. You mark the time with morning glories  and turn the roadsides yellow. You remind the hummingbirds that it is time to migrate, to journey over a thousand miles to places with warm winters. They know they will have to be fat for the trip, so they fight for the feeders, flashing their ruby throats for our amusement. You sober us with the knowing--summer, the time for growing and gathering, for swimming and playing, for travel and iced tea, no matter how wonderful or fruitful it has been--summer always ends. September. So beautiful, you strengthen us during the transition, and help us face the winter that will surely come. To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.   Eccle...

Try to remember the kind of September                       When life was slow and oh so mellow Try to remember the kind of September                     When grass was green and grain so yellow Try to remember the kind of September                      When you were a young and a callow fellow Try to remember and if you remember                   Then follow--follow, oh-oh.    Try to Remember , Lyrics by Tom Jones and Harvey Schmidt  On this day when we remember horror, grief, and hopelessness, be still and be comforted by the beauty of God's creation all around us.

The desire of a man is his kindness:  and a poor man is better than a liar. ~Proverbs 19:22

Morning Glories may be the flower I have known and loved the longest. My maternal grandmother, Mrs. Georgia Gean, was a great lover of morning glories. She lived in a little four-room house that had been converted from an old church/school house. The front porch, with boards for the floor and tin on the roof, was built across the front of the house, which faced directly west. Grandma had dug up beds running parallel with the porch, on each side of the front door. Each spring, she would plant these beds with morning glory seed she ordered from a seed catalog. Long before the little plants were ready to send out tendrils, she built a trellis for them to climb on. Grandma knew what days in early spring would yield the highest sap, and that is when we would go to collect young hickory trees. Gathering her grandchildren and her chopping ax, she would head to the woods to cut down hickory saplings that were bursting with sap. We would haul them home under our arms, even the sma...

While we were rambling Saturday,  Steph and I visited the Huntsville Botanical Garden. It is huge and alive with color.  All these photos are from the Butterfly House that is just a small part of the gardens.  When you go through the door, it is like stepping into another world with butterflies everywhere!     Looks like I got an extra in this photo.       We only had about three hours there, not nearly enough.  Sounds like another road trip to me!