About Blog Title...
As a child, it was one of my greatest delights to visit my grandparents in the spring when the whip-poor-wills began to call. Grandma and Grandpa lived in a remote valley of the Ozark Mountains where there were trees a plenty, and, seemingly, a whip-poor-will, or two, in each one.
My grandmother insisted that a whip-poor-will's call was not "whip-poor-will," but instead, "chip-butter-white-oak." I would listen really hard trying to hear it exactly as she said it was, but all I could hear was "whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will,..." But, I never let on to her.
I remember my grandpa watching and listening, with an amused look on his face, to one of these listening sessions. Shortly after that he began to call me, just for fun, "Chip Butter." It is a name I am proud to wear for I still love to hear that long, lonesome call on a warm summer's eve. And, sometimes, when I listen really, really hard, it seems I can hear quite clearly, "chip-butter-white-oak, chip-butter-white-oak..."
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Only a Trickle...
The path I walk is really nothing, these days, other than a dusty cow trail. Dust and grasshoppers fly upward with my every step. There are no cows on the path now for they stay most of the day and night along the little streams where there still remains some green grass.
The streams of water have become nothing more than shallow pools. The watery homes of small fish become smaller each day and will only be replenished when the rains come again.
The bridge culverts are now almost empty and hollow; only a trickle flows through them. But that small trickle fills my spirit and gives me hope. There will be rain, then more rain. The streams will fill and the culverts will become bubbling torrents once again. Feeling assured of this blessing to come, I walk back up the cow path, kicking up dust, but dreaming of rain.