O ROBIN, ROBIN…."RED-BREAST!"

O robin, robin, red-breast
    hoppin' around
         on the lawn...

Where'd you come from,
    Down South?

And why are you here?
    It's not springtime yet,
         tho' some doves 
              have come.

Ah, red-breasted harbinger
    of glorious spring...

You won't find any worms yet
    around here...

They're all deep on the ground
    and cozy!

But how I envy your agility, energy,
    and keen eyesight----

And what's that you're eating?

A worm-scout?

My, my....
*********************
BY MIL
3-10-15

THERE IS BEAUTY…...

PHOTO BY KINDELL BRINAY MOORE

kindellbrinaydesign.com

There is beauty
            in this world
everywhere.

Just look, you
             will find it.

Even in big, cold,
              lonely cities....

Man's edifices, made
               of steel, glass,
and mortar

Seen against God's blue 
                 sky

are marvelous...

Particularly for sweethearts.
                  under
street lamps

where love is blooming
                   like the buds
on the trees. 
                   on the first day
of spring.
****************
BY MIL
3/20/15

FARMING MEMORIES….IN THE ATTIC

FEBRUARY 25, 2015.... "ATTIC DAY"
***************************************

That Saturday morning, in February, three weeks 
ago, we woke up to nine inches of snow. I
immediately declared "ATTIC DAY."

In stormy weather I liked to slip off upstairs---
think, read, write, watch an old John
Wayne movie on the little TV/DVD player,
and get a nap on my GI bed under Grandma's 
quilt, vintage 1925.

(Our Beloved English house-helper had seen a
good bargain on a set of 25 John Wayne movies 
at Walmart and gifted me...er..well, okay, I gave
her $6.97.)

So I bounded up the stairs, (well, maybe NOT
exactly "bounded"), and threw several small 12"
logs into the little wood stove. That stove got hot
fast!

BE was sound asleep from a tough week of home-
improvement events, such as having the whole
exterior of the house painted, screen repair, carpet 
cleaning, and throw in several meetings.

Anticipating maybe a day-long-stay upstairs on this
Attic Day---and much hunger--- I slipped quietly back
downstairs and made an iron skillet full of my favorite
recipe--one I figured up---myself!

Yes! I was making a skillet-full of "Smokey Baked
Beans and Little Weenies!"

I whipped it up fast, sautéing finely-diced onions and 
celery. Then I dumped in two cans of Van Camp's 
Pork 'n Beans, half cup of catsup, 2 TBS of sorghum
syrup, 1 TBS of brown sugar, 2 TBS of mustard,
3 squirts of Worchestershire, a light tsp of Kitchen 
Bouquet, 1 tsp soy sauce, 1 TBS vinegar, and 1 
TBS of Claude's Smoke Sauce. (Claude's is the key
ingredient.)

Then I added a half sack of little cocktail wieners 
(chopped) and some water and left it on low to
BLURBLE awhile. I added a little water.

Upstairs again, I sat down to relax, and as I sat there,
my eye wandered to the top of the  6' tall raw pine 
bookshelf---up there was my last "farm straw hat," from
circa 1949. It looks like the oldest hat in the world...
and it well may be!

Somehow, my Mother had stored it somewhere and 
given it back to me in later years.

That old straw hat had many tractor miles on it and 
had sheltered my face and eyes from the sun many 
a hot unpleasant, dusty afternoon. It knew about gnats,
from experience!

You could buy 'em--those hats-- there in my home 
town of Clovis, at second hand stores, feed stories, 
farmer's veggie markets, the Country Store, or even 
at Anthony's.

Now my memory had gone back to farming days 
when I was a teen-ager and it was further tweaked
as my eye roved around the attic through old 
memorabilia and it stopped on my last farm water
bag,  hanging on a sixteen penny nail, over in the
corner. Wow, did it look shriveled and old!

Friends, please don't poo-poo this memory until 
you have ridden a big hot tractor, your shirt fading
from the sun-- flies and dust in your face, all the 
while getting thirsty every ten minutes. 

A water bag was your best friend. I haven't seen 
one in years. Maybe it's one of those things they
quit making because they were so good. 

You'd fill it up at the windmill, washing it off good 
and proper. then hang it somewhere on your tractor.
(within reach)---It would seep a little water around 
the seams and this, in theory,  gave you cool water.
It also gave you a muddy bag!

You were always glad when big thunderheads and
a rain storm boiled up about 3:30 or 4:00 p.m.
You needed to get out of the field due to lightning 
and you'd head for the windmill which, by then, was
turning like mad---you could hear it clanging from a
long way off.

You'd dump a couple of straw hats full of water from
the faucet, over your head (a drink could wait a 
minute!) Then you'd wash the bag and get all the
mud off, fill it up with the best water in the world,
drink plenty of it...and run sit in the pickup...for after
all, the windmill could also get hit by lightning, with
you under it!

I regret leaving my thoughts and you, my reader in
mid-stream, but we have all day to talk, you know,
and it is still spitting a little snow outside.

The smell of those "smokey beans," is enticing me,
and you probably started some beans too, when I 
described mine. Let's stop and have a snack and
then I'm going to tell you about quaint little country
stores, as they were around the countryside,
and also how we rented Bobby Joe's dad's farm!

I hate to tell you this, but I've got a carton of NEHI
grape sodas in bottles! YUM--YUM! Were THEY
hard to find!

(continued....)
*********************
BY MIL
3/22/15

THAT INFAMOUS "BOB-WIRE"

 ICY BARBED-WIRE FENCE

There are a few things in life you don't want to get

tangled-up-with!

One of the main ones that comes to mind is: 

BARBED-WIRE.

The early farmers and ranchers called it simply:

"BOB-WIRE."

Like most things in life, it had/has its good points.

It has a poetic side. Oft have I, in driving around

in the boonies, seen old lake beds, maybe, or

trash dumps of sorts, and there would be a 

pile of broken posts with swirls of rusted barbed-

wire--twisted into coils, helter-skelter---all around--

just lying there.

Its life's job...whatever it was---was over--and it 

lay there, almost as if it had stories to tell---about

many cold winters and hot summers, when it did its

task, keeping some critter in...or out.

In the Old West, post-Civil War, as the restless

settlers and homesteaders headed that way, there

came a need for the new farmers and ranchers

to protect their crops from roaming cattle...and

the ranchers needed to discourage rustlers, and

contain their wandering livestock.

Wood and stone were scarce in many places.

Thus in about 1866 Michael Kelly, twisted two wires

together, with a sort of barb and marketed what

came to be called "the thorny fence."

Further developing and perfecting Kelly's idea,

was Joseph Glidden, an Illinois farmer, who 

received patents on a double-wire fence with

a barb that locked in place, and he invented

a machine to mass produce his product.

(American Indians were not enamored of this

development and called it "the DEVIL'S rope.")

Barbed-wire usage spread throughout the West

and by 1888 was being advocated in British

military manuals. Time was to show that the

wire would be extensively used in foxholes,

trenches, military installations, prisons, and

many never-thought-of applications, at the 

time of its discovery.

Over the decades, in the Old West, just about

all grazable mesquite pastures, ranch lands,  

and grassland sites were fenced. The big 

ranches even had wire on their outside

boundaries.

A typical fence, in my memory, was a three-

wire construction with posts every 15-18 feet.

Posts were usually buried three-plus feet in the 

ground and tamped-in good with a heavy bar 

of some sort.

Over time, if not maintained, some posts might

lean and the wire sag as well, after many

years of just being there.

I was once involved in digging a quarter-mile

of post holes, then tamping posts in, stretching

the wire, and stapling it with a heavy hammer.

My weight was only 150 lbs.,so I found the deep

digging to be nigh onto impossible, with mere

"post hole diggers."

Today, there are automatic gasoline post-hole-

diggers mounted on trucks, modern wire stretchers,

and stapler guns available to secure the wire.

If you were out driving the roads, looking for quail,

the worst thing you could encounter was one 

of those heavy-duty four-strand wire fences,

with posts close together (and seemed to be set

in holes with cement). If you were after a bunch

of quail for dinner, your only bet was to crawl

under the bottom wire if it were not TOO low.

Barbed-wire gates--- for driving through a gap in the

fence, were my "bete noire" as a skinny boy. It took

considerable strength to "hug" the gate-post and

the fence-post together enough to lift the heavy

wire loop, and swing the gate open. 

Yes, many are the wire fences I have met in a hundred

locations---plains, mountains, lakes and stream accesses,

fishing holes....and many were the wire gates---and I

can truly say: "I never met a barbed-wire gate I 

liked."

No telling how many jackets, shirts, pants I've

caught and ripped on barbs....or the "honorable

scars" my old hunting boots carry...in the heat of

the chase, of course, these things happen.

Ah, but there were lots of happy times out there

in the wilds chasing blues, hunting deer, calling

coyotes, cutting firewood, fishing a secluded lake,

taking photographs...yes, and crawling thru, under,

or climbing over barbed wire fences...

There were the times when some outdoor friend and 

I sat in a sandy road rut, leaning back against  a tire,

looking along a barbed-wire fence that went up and 

over a hill...times that we drank coffee, ate a 

sandwich, watched the white clouds billow-up 

overhead...and felt the sun, gentle on our faces...

Just think, and you'll remember something poetic

about...old barbed-wire-fences... and a lot of good

memories...of happy outdoor times!

ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI

Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love,
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I may not
    so much seek,
To be consoled, as to console,
To be understood as to understand;
To be loved, as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
It is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE….

Photo by B.J. Snipes

"The flowers appear in the earth, the time of the singing 
of birds is come. and the voice of the turtle is heard in
our land."  Song of Solomon 2.12

Writing poetry, or even attempting it, brings satisfaction,
solace, and rewards to the soul.

It matters not how good you are...or poor.. at writing 
poems...what matters is that you try. You will search 
for new words...new thoughts...deeper ways of saying 
things; you will find new thinking patterns...and finally---
new ways of SEEING things.

First thing you know, you may break into song---for
remember the saying: "Music is the soul's own speech."

Poetry and music might be first cousins.

I never thought much about writing poetry until a few 
years ago. Oh, I had done pretty well on a few long
birthday, retirement tributes, and such poems---ones
that rhyme shamelessly and thus often humorously.

I reckon they were pretty good.

But one day I got a copy of "THE APPLE TREES OF
OLEMA" by Robert Hass. The beautiful bird on the
cover of his book caused me to buy it!

From him, I Iearned that poetry does not have to rhyme!
A great discovery of my life! Rhyming poetry is very
difficult to write well... without sounding trite or
forced.  

You're usually bound by the needed rhyme to alter your
thought a bit, or a lot. It becomes easy to sound...well,
corny. Best leave rhyming to the Masters of history,
who seemed to be able to produce well,  pages of it, 
in some cases.

Brevity is often a good plan for unskilled poets (like me).
Remember the famous "doctor poet," William Carlos 
Williams? Maybe his most famous poem is "The Red 
Wheelbarrow."

"so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens."

This oft-quoted poem does grab the reader, and 
why---is what makes poetry poetry, I suppose.

A  favorite poet of mine is Mary Oliver, one
who also writes with brevity and simplicity. Nothing
in nature escapes her keen poetic eye and soul, 
she has her pencil stub and little old leather note-
book in her pocket at all times. Each morning she 
heads off into the woods to think, observe and 
write poems.

Mary, it is said---once while writing a poem...and
being fascinated by a tree...was up in its branches
counting the leaves.

But back to my original thoughts that started this 
whole conversation.

B.E. ("beloved editor"---my wife), said to me a day or
two ago: "That beautiful Biblical expression 'the voice 
of the turtle is heard in our land'  well---- turtles:don't
makes sounds do they? Does that refer to turtle 
doves?"

She was right. Biblical scholars say it refers to "turtle
doves."

We've had a few white wing and mourning doves 
arriving here at our house already since the latest
cold front.  The Asian doves cannot be far behind!

(I saw a robin yesterday! Blue Jays will soon be 
quarreling up in the very top of  the pines,
where they're wont to air their differences 
publicly.)

So wrapping up these musings about poetry, and
hearing "the voice of the turtle here in our land,"
one week week before official spring.

I'm starting a poem...today...

A brief one...
********************
BY MIL
3-08-15

ICY TREES….BARBED WIRE FENCES…AND QUAIL HUNTING

   Photo by D.M.

Never do I see a good icy, snowy tree photo without my
remembering one that I took nearly a half century
ago, during my photo-competition days. That one was
about as icy and snowy and difficult-to-shoot--- as they
come.

C.R., a fellow musician and I had been on the east
side of the state, to present a music clinic.   We 
were headed back to Albuquerque. It had snowed the
night before and the roads were still somewhat icy.
It was a COLD DAY!

We were driving north toward Clines Corners from
Encino and about ten miles south of C.C. on my
left was the most beautiful ice-coated tree I'd ever
It was about twenty feet tall, and round and bushy,
but leafless.  Among the many species of trees, it
stood out BIG TIME and got my attention.

I pulled of the road, careful not to get into the 
ditch, told C.R. to sit tight, grabbed my Rollei
camera, and made it across the road---to the
barbed wire fence. Snow was all over the ground
under that fence.

There was something I hadn't counted on---
something every farm boy, rural person, or
quail-hunter encountered now and then.

Whoever put up this fence along the highway
knew what he was doing. It was the tightest,
sturdiest four-wire fence I had ever encountered.

Usually out quail hunting in West Texas, fences
had three wires, sagging and stretched from 
years of neglect and inattention, ...you could 
hold down the bottom wire and make a space to
crawl through. Posts were often wobbly.

Not so that morning south of C.C. I had to work for this 
tree photo  on that freezing-cold day. I lay down on my 
back and wiggled through (barely) underneath scooping
up snow that went down my collar! Good thing I was
skinny then.

Fifty yards out I saw the tree and headed for it, slipping 
and sliding. It looked like a painting even before I shot 
the picture! (It looked ever better after I developed
it.)

I took several exposures, varying the apertures---
they call it bracketing. There is an old saw among
veteran magazine and newspaper PRO photographers: 
"When you get to the place where there's a great 
photo in front of you---shoot plenty--film is the 
cheapest thing you've got.!"

As soon as we got to Albuquerque, I delivered 
C.R. to his home and couldn't wait to get into
my darkroom and develop the 120 B@W roll.

In those days I was using Acufine to develop my
film--I bracketed anyway, and I didn't like working
with thin negatives.

Later, after the film dried, I ran some test strips,
chose the best photo and printed a 16X20. It 
was a beaut!

Used to entering photos in competition, I mounted
it with a thin black border on a heavy white photo 
display board.

The picture won a number of awards and I had 
request for copies. So much work went into making
copies that I never went that route, much.

I can't show you the photo---it is stored somewhere
in my garage.

After that day, I quail-hunted many times, but never
again did I encounter such a difficult and stubborn
barbed wire fence---anywhere.

But neither did I ever crawl through or under a barbed 
wire fence...that I didn't think of that cold day, south 
of Clines Corners, when I got all that snow down my
collar...and remember the best-icy-tree-photo I ever took.

(Epilogue---Through the years, passing by that same 
place (I thought), south of Clines Corners--- and looking
for my tree...I was NEVER able to spot it again. Maybe
I needed some ice and snow. Ah, but does LIFE ever...
stay the same?)

I FOUND IT!!

********************
BY MIL
3-06-15