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..."

Friday, June 19, 2015

The Story of Its People, The First Hundred Years...

Many years ago, in this wild unsettled west
Where grasses, seldom trod, grew upon earth's breast
A rippling brook flowed swiftly down
Through the canebrake, cataract bound;
The song-bird twittered and warbled low;
A rattlesnake glided and slided slow,
Out from the rift of an old fallen tree,
The wild beast awoke and wandered the lea.
A spreading forest, a tangled way,
 With smiling sunbeams there to play,
Mid the jungle's rustle, where winds came to tease
The flowers and trees with a laughing breeze;
Bending blossoms faced the sun each day,
Ungathered and unnoticed, save along the way
Came an Indian maid, an Arkansas true.
Gathered and shook from the petals the dew
Thus a scene in a forest far away-
The Caucasian knew not his possession one day.

~Ella Molloy Langford, 
A History of Johnson County Arkansas, The First Hundred Years, 1921

"Indian arrow-points once found by the hundreds, but now seldom chanced upon, a few fast fading chiseled markings, and a now limited number of grave mounds almost flattened by time and tide, are all the records left by a primitive people to the present habitation of this country.

"with love and ties of human kindness..."
A few of the old settlers, for few are left, tell posterity that this or that is an Indian graveyard. A graveyard indeed - for buried underneath that soil, as also in the silent pages of a long forgotten past, is an unwritten history:  A history of a life, with love and ties of human kindness; of wars and warriors, and struggles for existence; of sadness and sorrow, and death, flits across the mind of civilization, as a myth and a dream:  A dream that is romantic and beautiful because of the uncertainty of its outline, yet a dream of a past that is fundamentally true."

Note:  I found it interesting that my great, great, great grandmother was listed as one of the contributors to this history, but died before it was completed.  


  1. Lovely post. The black and white photos are wonderful.

  2. How very interesting! Such a wonderful post!

  3. What lovely work you do! So interesting to read how you got your nickname..."chip butter white oak", I am going to listen for that song.

  4. The history of the American indians is interesting and sad too. Thanks for the post as we learn alot from you when you show us what you have learned.

  5. Love the poem and the black/white photo of your pretty dolls.

  6. Interesting read, thanks for sharing!