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..."
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Thursday, March 14, 2013
hangs on a vine near my walking trail. It looks as good as new to me. I would like to bring it home, but the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918 makes it illegal to collect or have in your possession live native birds, bird feathers, nests or eggs. I haven't always known about that law!
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Monday, March 11, 2013
According to records, this old house was built around 1861-1862. It is amazing that the chimney, which was built of stones and clay 150 years ago, still stands. How proud the woman of the house must have been when she built a fire in the new fireplace, and cooked a meal inside, out of the wind and rain.