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..."

Saturday, January 19, 2019

Millie gets a snow day...

Her first and biggest concern seemed to be who, or what, had hidden her favorite bone.
  Today's snow was only the third in her life time,
 none of which have amounted to much, so 
she still seemed a bit mystified by it all.
She didn't seem to care much for the white stuff when it was coming down,
but once it was over, she was eager to go,
sniffing out each and every new scent along the trail.

Of course, I was eager to get to the pond for a picture or two.
Snow is not something we see a lot of here, 
so it really is quite special.

I was amazed how every picture I got seemed to be in black and white.  But then
that's the way it was, I suppose.  Snow is like that - white.  The pond surely did
look beautiful all dressed up in all of that white.

By the time Millie and I walked over the trail, the snow had stopped
and a brisk wind had begun to blow.  It will be a cold night.

Snow was falling,
So much like stars
Filling the Dark Trees
That one could
easily imagine
Its reason for being was
Nothing more
Than Prettiness

~Mary Oliver