I am referring to the original "pins and needles" when I say that's what I'm on these last few days. Every time the phone rings I jump. My sleeping hours are semi-wakeful, expecting that nighttime call. My heart beats just a little faster than normal as I anticipate what is just ahead. I've been in nesting mode, even though it isn't my nest that's fixing to change....cleaning, tidying up loose ends, keeping the laundry all caught up, stockpiling some casseroles in the freezer.

When your daughter is expecting a baby at any minute, it ALMOST feels like you're expecting, too. In fact, you are!You so easily recall that swollenness, the back pain, the ready anticipation of every twinge that makes you want to sit down. You feel the heat for her, the tight stretch of skin across wide belly, the tiny headache of anticipation that never goes away. You tick off her list: suitcase packed, older children's bags ready to go to MawMaw's house, plenty of gas in the car, bills paid, extra food in the pantry,

It brings back overwhelming, just-like-yesterday memories. Yesterday was Sunday, and she was born on a Sunday, in the middle of a long, hot summer. A week past the due date, and every day was soooooo long. The twinges had been there for a month, but they were just that -- nothing more. Church was long, too, that morning, and the pew was unrelentingly hard, even with a thin cushion. The doctor sitting in front of me felt my can't-sit-still misery and said to come in the next day -- he might induce if the indicators were all set to green.

Home to lunch, and the body demanded a nap -- for good reason, for it was set to go to work. Awake at 3:00 and real contractions began in earnest. But there was other work to do first -- the first day of school for the older children was the next day, and the son insisted on blue jeans that were in the laundry basket. A quick wash of the last load, drying dishes put away, last-minute instructions given, the call made to the friends who would tend the older kids, and we set off. Suddenly, when we were all in the car, as the engine raced, so did my contractions! Hurry! Don't get out at the friends' house -- just push son and daughter out the slowing car and GET TO THE HOSPITAL! Thank goodness it was just around the corner!

That red-headed nurse was having a quiet Sunday afternoon, in no hurry at all -- until she gave me a quick look. Then it was a mad dash -- call the doctor -- HURRY! Don't push yet! After an interminable 15 minutes, in he comes and catches her -- Why didn't you tell me at church you were going to have this baby today? he asks, laughing. I catch my breath and say, Why did it take you so long to get here? It was now 5:32 p.m. We had left the house at 5:00.

Sunday's child is "bonny and blithe and good and gay", and Baby Sister lived up to her birth day prediciton. And now my Child Number Three is having her own Child Number Three.

We mothers wish we could do it for them -- take the pain onto ourselves, the fear, the trepidation -- but each mother must feel that herself, and it is rightly so, for the hard part only contributes to what comes next: the utter joy, the boundless love, the inner connection that never is severed.

Oh -- the phone rings! I run to it, but it is only one of our helpers on the farm -- so I'll settle back to waiting. Waiting for this blessing in the making. I'm hoping to catch up my ironing today, just in case...

Pieces A'Plenty

Quilts just happen to be one of my favorite things in the whole world created by needles. What is it about something so everyday, so useful, so necessary that makes quilts so wonderful? After all, a polyester blanket can serve the same purpose. But who in her right mind would choose a artificial-fiber -- thing -- over a hand-stitched, colorfully-patterned, cottony-soft quilt?It is the creativity of their makers, of course, that elevate even the most mundane task to art, with a little imagination and desire.

I am deeply involved in a book project this summer featuring quilts in our part of the Ozarks. But we aren't just taking pictures of quilts -- we're also including photos of the quiltmakers, the women (and sometimes men!) who took the time to turn simple bedcoverings into things of beauty. Everytime I see another vintage quilt, I feel as if I have made a new friend -- the one who chose the colors, cut the pieces, carefully stitched them into intricate patterns and then put it all together with tiny quilting stitches. She (or he) speaks to me through the work of her hands. She says, "Let me see how I can make the very most out of this little piece of print, how I can do my very best to make the pieces in this challenging pattern come together just right, and how I can set it all off with precision quilting."

I see how a certain woman put a bit of bright red in the center of an otherwise subdued block -- did she feel a need for a bright spot in her life right at that moment? I notice how another took the time to add some elaborate embroidery -- was she just a little bit proud of her needle skills and want to show them off, just for a moment? And then there are the subtle patterns hidden in the quilting -- for no other reason, perhaps, than the thought that someday someone would find them -- the bird or the heart or the rosebud -- and wonder at it and smile at its discovery.

I do wonder -- at the amazing variety, the incredible beauty, the skill level displayed -- and it makes me think of my own creativity. What am I doing or making that can compare to what I'm seeing in these old quilts? I have access to tools, materials, and time in quantites that would have made those early quiltmakers ache with envy.  But do I take advantage of them? Not nearly enough.

How thankful I am that the quilts I'm seeing have been treasured and preserved and are now being shared. They may just be the inspiration I need to get back to my own quiltmaking...

Isn't this unusual quilt just wonderful? Don't those circles spin across the surface of the quilt? See how she pieced the wedges that make up the circle? And the pink and green background colors contrast beautifully with the mostly shirtings in the circles. I would never have thought of that!

I've always wanted to make an Ocean Waves -- I just love all those little triangles. And that sweet woman sitting on the quilt? She's a fabulous quilter, too, just like her mother who made this Ocean Waves more than half a century ago.

So, while I don't have time for quilting right now, I'm having a WONDERFUL time just getting to see these treasures and to meet  the beautiful people who are sharing them with us for our book: Pieces A'Plenty: Quilts and Other Comforts. 

Be watching for it come September -- it might just inspire you, too, to take up this time-honored craft that allows for such amazing versatility and creativity. I'm almost ready to pick up that betweens needle again....almost...

EXPRESSIONS OF FRIENDSHIP

I had the most delightful surprise visitor yesterday! I was buried at my desk, working on tedious data entry, when the doorbell rang, and there stood my friend, Donna walker, clutching a tattered quilt and grinning from ear to ear. She had just been given a precious surprise gift and could not wait to share it with a fellow quilt lover.

Donna grew up in the tiny communities of Almartha and Souder. I live smack-dab between the two, and she is my go-to source for all historical questions concerning our area. We sat down together, spreading the quilt between us, and she gave me a history lesson.

Donna's new old quilt had just been given to her by the women who are charged with settling the estate of the late Irene Beach Young. Irene (August 6, 1916 -- March 2, 2012) was raised in this community, too. She was technically born at Souder, but her family attended church at Almartha and was closely connected to the families there. Donna was more than 11 years younger than Irene, but their ties to their childhood home had kept their friendship strong through the years.

The reason Donna received the quilt is that those wonderful women settling Irene's estate recognized Donna's grandmother's name on the quilt. They knew it would mean something to her. Isn't that nice? It would have been such a shame for this treasure to wind up in an auction, being bought by someone who had no idea of its provenance.

There are 20 appliqued, embroidered butterfly blocks on the quilt, and each bears the name of a young woman who lived here. Donna believes it was made for Irene's mother -- or perhaps for Irene when she married her first husband. Donna instantly knew 18 of the women; I feel sure she will solve the mystery of the identity of the other two. As we talked, a picture began to unfold in my mind -- a colorful, vivid picture of a lively ommunity.

There was the woman whose large family was known for its boisterous, fun-loving nature. Everyone loved to visit Granville and Mabel Prock's home! Another block was made by a girl who eventually married a man who was a successful entrepreneur; they lived in the city, but this woman never forgot her country roots and loved to come back to visit. On one block I recognized the name of the mother of one of my dearest childhood friends. Guavana Eslick Sims still loves to tell about growing up at Souder and Almartha, and of the old swinging bridge over Spring Creek. She enjoyed getting her future husband, John R., on that old bridge and then would jump up and down and nearly topple him over the edge! Another block featured the name of a woman from one of the oldest families in our community. They lived with very modest means, but still managed to host popular "tacky parties." Donna said she remembered her dad, Lyle Murphy, going to one of their tacky parties dressed in his long johns!

Making friendship quilts was something women could do for one another, at a time when buying store-bought gifts was impossible. A square of fabric, some other bits of prints, and a little embroidery thread could be turned into a personaloized keepsake; when the blocks were gathered together and sewn into a quilt top and then hand-quilted, the result was a memory-filled expression of love.

Donna suspects her grandmother, being one of the older women on Irene's quilt, was probably the one who organized its making. She remembers her grandmother was often the "instigator" of such friendship-quilt projects. Carrie Murphy, who with her husband, Ora, had the general store at Almartha, would enlist her young granddaughter to take the makings for a block to neighbors. Donna didn't particularly like that job; it often meant a long walk on a hot summer's or cold winter's day. But because she loved her grandmother, she wouldn't complain but would try to find a friend to go along. That made it a lot more fun!

The quilt is made from old prints, appliqued onto muslin background squares with each butterfly outlined with buttonhole stitching. The sashing and binding are solid pink. Donna smiled from ear to ear as she said she would be sleeping under her new old quilt last night. 


After Donna took her keepsake home, I wondered about the records we are leaving today. How are we writing our history? What will our great-grandchildren have to touch, wrap up in, to see and hear our stories and to know the way we live? It's difficult to cuddle up with a computer....

Pre-Dawn Snack

I had a little snack this morning while standing in the lane, waiting for the cattle to come toward me. I'm the official turn-'em-in-to-the-corral person. Mostly I just wait. And wait. But when they come, they COME! And I get a teeny bit panicky -- but so far I've been able to wave my arms just right and say just the right "Hey, now..." to get the cattle to turn in and not run over me.

When we first got married (a few years ago) I was told that when we gathered up cattle, I would "stand in a hole." I thought that meant STAND IN A HOLE. No, it meant "stand in a place where you do not want the cattle to go through and keep them from going through it at all costs, even to the point of sacrificing your body if they insist."  Sometimes I've been tempted to turn tail and run. Sometimes I've acted like a complete idiot, jumping up and down and screaming. But I've always managed to turn the cattle, and WOW, I'm glad.
Because if they get away, there is no getting them back. Doomsday. We don't want that to happen.

We're more than halfway through this summer's cattle-working, and it's heating up out there. The humidity is rising and the red line is going up on the thermometer. Tempers are getting a little shorter, and some of us are getting tired. And a little cranky.

Thank goodness for blackberries. Sweet, juicy blackberries. A tiny reward is a nice thing.

It has been a most unusually hot and dry spring in the Ozarks. We depend on this season to give us vital moisture with which to face a long summer. 2012  has decided to be different and has, instead, skipped spring and gone directly to the baking season. We will cope with it, but it is a challenge. Never before have we had to feed cattle for lack of grass in May. Never before have we had to purchase hay because the initial crop is so short. It is what it is, and we do what we must. 


The grass is brown, but there are a few spots of color, and on this late spring evening I've been out appreciating what blooms there are.

Never let it be said that there is no true blue in nature. This clematis looks blue to me.

Stan's grandpa's old milk can and strainer are a good host for one of my favorites, calibrachoa, which I call a miniature petunia. I just love these dependable little pot plants and have them in several colors.

Another clematis grows near an old planting of lamb's ears. 

Though they seem almost insignificant to my human eyes, the bees just adore the blooms on this old garden plant.

I don't have to ever think of pruning this honeysuckle. The horses think I put it here just for them to nibble on.

Oakleaf hydrangea perked up after an early morning shower of rain. They were so droopy just yesterday, pouting and unhappy with the dry conditions. Today is a new day!

The asiatics add a bold pop of color for a little while.

We're just hoping and praying there are more showers to come. Perhaps spring and summer just decided to take turns. 

Baseball and little lids for little kids

If it was a business and I wanted to publicize it, I'd call it "Little Lids for Little Kids." But a business it is not! I just love to knit hats for tiny heads -- and sometimes for bigger ones, too. In the last few weeks, my knitting has slowed considerably -- the longer days mean I don't sit down in the evening as early (I only knit at night.) But now that the Cards are back on television (in other words, baseball season is officially open!) I foresee that I'll be back to knitting full-strength again. 

The tiny ones in this batch will go to Newborns in Need. It's so gratifying to think about the work of my hands helping a tiny baby get a warmer start in life. Even when the weather is warm, it's usually cool inside a home (here in the USA, anyway.) So my knitting season can extend into baseball season with no delay, rain or otherwise.


And the need only grows, so there is no time-out for production. Babies continue to be born, to families that can care for them and also to parents who cannot. There are too many newborns who need a pinch runner to help them get around the bases. 


I'm no big-name star when it comes to knitting; I think of myself as more of a utility player, behind the scenes but ready to come in and help where needed. Yet when I hand over a stack of my little lids to be given to needy babies, I feel as if I've hit a monster home run--out of the park, baby! Fire up the fireworks!

I'm excited for a fresh, new look for my beloved Cardinals (who got a great first win last night for their rookie manager! Great job, Kyle, my man!) It's a day off today, but tomorrow night I'm going to pull out some red cotton yarn and cast on one for the newborn team, while I root, root, root for my home team. Peanuts or crackerjacks, anyone??

Daffodils

A fresh new season is making its presence felt in the Ozarks! The days are warmer and balmier, and the grass is beginning to green up. Looking out over the treetops from a high vantage point, there is a distinct blurring, indicating the soon-to-pop-open leaf buds. Serviceberry and wild plum add a bright spot of white in the dull gray of the late winter woods, while redbud and wild cherries lend splashes of pinks and purples to spring's first bouquet. The lime green of sassafras buds in the fencerows let us know that the time has passed to dig their roots and make tea. Birds are singing up a storm and pairing into couples, and we can hear the peepers when we stand outside at night. There is new life everywhere...baby calves, goats and ducks abound. This season truly celebrates life.

If there is one thing that speaks spring to me, it is daffodils. What a miracle they are! Plant them once and then just sit back to be rewarded, year after year, as they faithfully rebloom and multiply, while requiring no care whatsoever. Could there be a more perfect flower?

My favorite rite of spring is to drive the backroads around our farm, looking for these dependable bloomers at the old abandoned home sites that were once busy farmsteads. I love to imagine the women who planted them and wonder how they came to be here. I think of wagons packed somewhere back East, with  little room to spare for luxuries. But surely space could be made for a tiny bundle of bulbs, dug from a mother's or grandmother's garden. Carried across the wild frontier to a new home in a strange place, tenderly planted as fall's winds blew colder and colder, the daffodil bulbs with their promise of spring were also a living connection to loved ones left behind. To think that they still bloom today, scores of years after being set out, seems a real wonder! 

When I was growing up, we called them Easter lilies. I guess they are mere imitations of the real thing, but I much prefer a fruit-jar bouquet of simple, yellow daffodils to any delicate hothouse plant. Their golden color and sweet fragrance are such a welcome bright spot after the long, dark winter. 

So off I go on a warm March afternoon, in search of an old, tumbledown shack that was once a family's home. Sure enough, scattered all around the place, coming up through the refuse and rubbish and weeds and tangled vines, there they are. Hundreds of them, faces turned to the sun, as they fulfill their promise, year after year, without fail. And after I've gathered a bouquet, once again, I pull out my shovel to dig some clumps and set them in one of my flowerbeds. They won't be missed here, and I'll enjoy them for years to come. That sharing,that began so long ago, continues to this day....