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, September 11, 2012

Through the Sewing Room Window...



The little garden area outside the sewing room window had a rough time of it this summer; definitely time for a fresh new look.  Grasshoppers and heat had taken a toll on most of the perennials, while the grasses seemed to thrive as long as water from the hose kept coming.  I decided to move out the old mowing machine and in its place lay a stone path from flat stones, which I gathered from a stream bed on the place.  Dan's only job in the project was to move the old mower; a job for the tractor. 







So, there was a different view from the sewing room window this morning.  A new doll (a work in progress), inside the window, who has been measuring up to Jubal, seems pleased with what he sees (through temporary eyes penciled in; always give my dolls eyes right away). 




The old mower now sets farther down the hill near a persimmon tree and a stack of rocks from an old barn foundation.   (Removing the rocks has been an on-going project.  The older Dan and I get, the heavier the rocks seem to be.)  The old International Harvester No. 9 seems to belong there as though  waiting for an old farmer to hook up the team for a day's work mowing hay.



 

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