The Wolves’ Night Before Christmas

Posted by Dec 24, 2020 Wolves Leave a Comment


Former Defenders of Wildlife Senior Northwest Representative Suzanne Asha Stone has rewritten what is in my opinion the greatest rendition of “Twas the Night Before Christmas” since its inception.  It has become a revered part of our Christmas tradition, and I hope perhaps yours as well.  I am grateful for her generosity in allowing me to repost her work.  This is the only blog I have ever repeated and it is in its sixth year.  Whatever your race; whatever your religion; wherever you may be:  I implore you to care for our wolves who are all in peril.  They are the world’s heritage.  

Happy Howlidays!

The Wolves’ Night Before Christmas

‘Twas the eve before Christmas
And to Santa’s dismay
Came such an icy storm
The reindeer couldn’t budge his sleigh.

As Santa paced and worried
And elves began to scowl
‘Rose a song through the wind:
A wolf pack’s mighty howl.

From the thick of the storm
O’er deep snow on big padded feet
Came eight silvery wolves
Ice and wind could not beat.

Santa’s mouth hung open for a blink
As the wolves lined up in front of his sleigh
Then he sputtered to the elves
“Well… let’s be on our way!”

Santa thanked each wolf
As the elves finished loading the last gift
Then he sprinkled them with fairy dust
Chuckling, “That’ll give you the lift.”

“They won’t believe this …”
He laughed, a merry twinkle in his eyes
Then the elves harnessed the wolves
And they took to the skies.

On Lightfoot! On Blacktail! On Windswift! On Howler!
On GreenEyes! On MoonSong! On Hunter! On Prowler!
The wolves’ eyes glowed as they leapt through the storm
Santa wished his own coat could keep him as warm.

That night the wolves even taught Santa to howl
An ancient song filled with hope for Peace and Joy
That this season may bring for all Life on Earth
As they left special gifts for each girl and boy.

‘Twas that eve before Christmas
Santa will always fondly remember
When wolves rescued his mission
That stormy December.

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Firelight And Fellowship

Posted by Dec 20, 2020 Food 2 Comments

Awhile back someone invited me to a bi-monthly outdoor gathering.  I was happy and surprised but asked if it would be OK if I brought my nine year old along.  My husband works late hours and I will not leave her alone.  Given that we are still in the midst of a pandemic I try to be cautious with any type of socializing — whether for her, myself, or with my husband’s extended family.  They said she’d be the only kid but that she was welcome.  I assured them, as an Episcopalian (or “Whiskeypalian”) she was no stranger to seeing wine.  I TRULY did not think my little one would want to go but I asked.  Before I had even finished she’d run upstairs and donned her winter hat, coat, gloves and boots; jumping up and down and pronouncing she was ready!  Blinking, I said I would put on a wrap and get a bottle of wine from our pantry.  It was almost dark, but we could just make out the welcoming crackle of the fire pit and the soft, portable chairs arranged in a circle around it.  I only recognized the man who’d so kindly invited me but the little group was open and nice.  To this day, the greatest culinary delight I have ever had remains in discovering freshly roasted chestnuts when it was only October in Paris.  All those years I’d heard my beloved Nat King Cole sing of chestnuts roasting by an open fire, but I’d never actually tasted one until I was 44.  My gluten intolerant one had literally plowed through two and a half bags of jumbo marshmallows but she was so grateful and ecstatic no one seemed to mind.  To my surprise and delight, I discovered my friend had brought chestnuts.  CHESTNUTS!!!  I’d only ever had them that time in Paris and, as we roasted them, he and I agreed that Paris is magic and nothing compares with theirs.  Still!  I had no idea where one could even acquire any chestnuts in Dallas and I was thrilled.  Meanwhile, another kind man was showing pictures of his grandchildren to my little one on his iPhone.  Everyone watched out for her with a firm but gentle collective eye as it became darker.  The moon rose overhead and our circle moved in a little closer to the fire.  I snapped the picture above and I will never forget the look of sheer delight on my only child’s face.  The ancient Greek philosopher and essayist Plutarch said, “The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled.”  I love that.  I took us on this outing intending to stay about an hour.  It turned out I had to cut my little party girl off after almost three; ironically coinciding with the number of bags of marshmallows she’d consumed.  We walked away chilled and a little tired, but happy.  I couldn’t help but reflect upon how welcoming these people were to have included us.  She and I left feeling there is a special kind of magic in firelight and fellowship.

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Spirit Animals

Posted by Dec 13, 2020 Wolves 4 Comments

I have just realized that I have not written much about one of the great loves of my lives … wolves.  If one hears the term “spirit animal” I think they tend to think Native American.  As a part Choctaw I am proud of that, but the idea is widely popular in many beliefs and cultures.  It is interesting to note various cultures have given amazingly similar attributes to the bison, bear, lion, eagle, stag, and wolf to name a few.  Animals have been and still are considered protective spirits, messengers, guardians, and even gods.  The ancient Egyptians had the falcon, the crocodile, and the jackal to name a few.  Hindus honor monkeys and cows.  Buddhists believe that all animals are sentient beings with a soul and that they are humans reincarnated.  The Druids and the Scandinavians took omens and signs from the animal kingdom.  Most Native American cultures believe different animals come to different people and that each person’s spirit animal is very personal.  They have rituals to determine animal guides including dreams, meditation, fasting, and being exposed to the elements.  Sometimes one leaves their people/clan for a period of time usually referred to as a “vision quest.”  I am Christian and I would say this:  if one is attracted to a certain animal (for instance someone with a hippo collection) it is not to be scoffed.  I believe we seek out those qualities we feel in ourselves.  Wolves are known to be highly-family oriented, to mate for life, to have strong intelligence, sharp instincts, and an appetite for freedom.  As someone who had a full-blood Choctaw grandmother I can remember distinctly freaking out over ravens and crows.  As a child I used to actually talk to them, but as I got older I became afraid; fearing they symbolized death.  When I met my husband, I noticed a link between him and crows/ravens.  Believe me when I say it is no coincidence.  Just as wolves have been demonized for centuries, I came to fear these black birds as harbingers of death.  I did not learn until after I was married that wherever wolves hunt, ravens are present.  They not only scavenge prey, they sometimes lead wolves to potential prey.  While it may seem that wolves have the “short end” of this symbiotic relationship with ravens, wolves and ravens have been observed playing together.  The raven is said to symbolize wisdom, affection, healing abilities, and longevity just to name a few.  It has been said the bird has been granted great power and is a symbol of mystery, memory, and thought.  I can tell you my husband loves the “high strange,” has an essentially photographic/incomparable memory, and his thoughts have really been ahead of their time.  Things I have dismissed as “nuts” have ALREADY come to fruition.  No matter what your religion:  I believe we can still learn lessons from God’s creatures.  The late American politician Stewart Udall once said, “Cherish sunsets, wild creatures and wild places.  Have a love affair with the wonder and beauty of the earth.”  As the entire world still grapples with Covid and staying home more, I would urge you to look at the wonder and beauty of the earth, and to give thought to what you may be attached to in terms of spirit animals.

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“Texas Water”

Posted by Nov 29, 2020 Food Leave a Comment


Of all the major soda pops in America, Dr. Pepper is the oldest.  It was invented by the pharmacist Charles Alderton in 1885 in Waco, Texas.  Made with 23 flavors, it has been said the owner of the drugstore where it was sold named the drink after his good friend Dr. Charles Pepper.  It gained such a widespread following that other soda fountain operators in Waco began buying the syrup and serving it.  By 1891 the growth of Dr. Pepper became so huge they formed a new firm, the Artesian Mfg. and Bottling Company, which later became the Dr. Pepper company.  In 1904 Dr. Pepper was introduced to almost 20 million people attending The World’s Fair Exposition in St. Louis that year.  From 1910 to 1914, Dr. Pepper was identified with the slogan, “King of Beverages.”  At that time research was discovered that sugar levels providing energy for the average person fell during a typical day at 10:30, 2:30, and 4:30.  A new advertising slogan was formed saying, “Drink a bite to eat at 10, 2 and 4.”  As I began my research for this blog I learned that in 1923 the company moved from Waco to Dallas; my hometown.  The period was dropped from the name in the 1950’s and the slogan became, “Dr Pepper, the friendly Pepper-Upper.”  I can still remember the shock I experienced in the late 1980’s when I went to visit Minnesota.  The people were all very friendly … but they literally had THREE soda dispensers EACH both for Coca-Cola AND Pepsi everywhere from restaurants, to the mall, and even their fantastic zoo.  I just could not believe it!!!  It was like NO ONE knew about Dr. Pepper up there!  It is practically akin to water here.  FINALLY a little gas station was discovered which sold the “exotic” drink in small quantities.  In a previous blog I believe I wrote about tearfully breaking up with a boy over soda preferences.  The famous singer Cher is quoted as once having said, “I can’t do coffee, but can do Dr. Pepper.”  I’d say that summed up my mama’s tastes.  I also believe I have written in a previous blog about not eating turkey since 1976.  That’s because when I was seven (the following year) I recall my mother trying to teach me how to cook a turkey.  Between the yawning, cavernous hole and the mysterious bag of “parts” I was OUT at seven; hence the year 1976.  I was already allergic to seafood so the turkey simply became another critter I couldn’t stomach on my “protected” list.  After that I can recall Mama switching to ham.  What she managed to cook from our tiny galley kitchen in our small apartment humbles me still to this day.  I think I’ve freaked our little one out on turkey (unwittingly) and my poor husband loves meat.  Our little girl does as well, but she has inherited my squeamish/sympathetic tendencies.  So when the hubs suggested a “ham steak” for Thanksgiving I had absolutely NO idea what he was talking about.  Then I recalled watching Mama bake her incredible ham.  So there I was with my precious little family in the grocery store Thanksgiving morning.  I felt inadequate knowing Mama would have already had her ham baking overnight in the oven.  God BLESS my sweet husband, who offered to go over to the butcher’s and inquire.  I know that for him food is very much an extension of love.  So my husband bought the ham and I endeavored to cook it.  I didn’t use a recipe; I just found myself automatically lining a deep baking pan with aluminum foil and scoring the ham just like my mother used to.  I opened a bottle of Cherry Dr Pepper, took a swig straight from its container (it was only for the three of us!) and then I slowly drizzled it over the ham.  After being in the oven for an hour I took it out to pour pineapple juice on it, and then recalled something about mustard.  So I got out my French Dijon (which I am never without) and mixed it together with the pineapple juice.  Dumping some more Cherry Dr Pepper on it, I put pineapple rings with maraschino cherries all over it just like Mama used to.  Offering up a silent prayer, I stuck it back in to bake for another two hours.  We took a walk with our wolf hybrids and then I began preparing the side dishes.  Our little girl decorated the table with the acorns and leaves she’d collected on our walk, while my husband proudly accepted my request to “mash” the potatoes.  I know big families have sometimes looked upon mine (both when I was a child and now that I am a mother) with pity.  Three is a sacred number for many reasons …  It was a picture perfect Thanksgiving and my husband and daughter both raved and raved over the ham.  Turns out I forgot to baste it with brown sugar like Mama did.  Despite my oversight, I believe I have my little family’s happiness to thank, I suspect, to the “Texas Water.”

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Bloom Where You’re Planted

Posted by Nov 22, 2020 Nature 3 Comments

Some years ago our wolf hybrids dug up and proceeded to eat the sprinkler system on one entire side of our house.  Luckily it was “their” area so I just decided to put down mulch and let it go since we had no water.  We have a koi pond though and it has since looked barren.  When I think of a garden my mind goes to an English one.  However gardens as we know them date back historically to about 10,000 BC.  Egyptian tombs have provided evidence of ornamental horticulture dating back to the 16th century BC, with lotus ponds surrounded by acacia trees.  The “paradise garden” is of Iranian origin, with one of its most important elements being water for ponds, canals, and fountains.  It spread throughout Egypt and the Mediterranean during the Muslim Arabic conquests, reaching as far as India and Spain.  Scent was also an essential element, with flora being chosen specifically for their fragrance.  I love the perfume of jasmine, honeysuckle, lilies, and old-fashioned roses which still smell like heaven.  It is said the cultivation of garden roses began over 5,000 years ago.  During the Roman period roses were grown in the Middle East.  I was surprised to discover that in the seventeenth century roses were in such high demand that royalty considered rose water as legal tender.  For me, an ideal garden contains roses.  However, I have come to learn that “gardens” come in many forms.  There can be flower gardens, woodland gardens, water gardens, butterfly gardens, edible fruit and/or vegetable gardens, rock gardens, and even bottle gardens.  Recently our little area went from rather dull to absolutely enchanting.  In our backyard we now have gravel, stone, and river rock around the pond, which has waterfalls and water lilies.  We also have a small designated area planted with my beloved roses.  The picture you see above is the result of an old cement garden knickknack I had which was buried under a pile of leaves and debris.  Now my tiny trio of howling wolves is nestled amongst leaves which produce grape-like fruit clusters.  Our little garden just about has it all:  water, trees, plants, flowers, butterflies, rocks, and bottles.  We didn’t spend a ton of money; we made better use of what we had.  Cory Booker, the United States Senator, said, “You’ve got to be one that, wherever you are, like a flower, you’ve got to blossom where you’re planted …”  One can bloom regardless of the circumstances, location, or time.  Witnessing the transformation of our little back yard has helped me better learn to utilize what I have, weed out the bad, to not allow stagnation, and to cultivate the good.  In short:  bloom where you’re planted.

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Ayes Through Their Eyes

Posted by Nov 8, 2020 History 2 Comments

I can remember chuckling in high school when Mama informed me they wouldn’t be out too long — just long enough for her and Daddy to cancel each other out at the polls.  Even though they could have both simply stayed home, since they often negated each other, they NEVER did.  Mama was red-headed; half Irish and half French with brown eyes and lived in a genteel, southern home in Ferris, Texas.  I can remember high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and exquisite, thick textured wallpaper in the dining room with roses on it which my grandmother adored.  Mama’s clothes came from Neiman’s and the majority of her relatives were well-off.  However I have learned that this definition is definitely subjective.  For many around the world that means clean, running water, and electricity.  Mama had a beautiful baby grand with which she was gifted at the tender age of ten, and my grandfather owned the town drug store.  He was a pharmacist.  When Mama and Daddy met in high school it was a classic story of “the boy from the other side of the tracks.”  Despite my father’s lack of money, every weekend he brought my mother a corsage until my grandmother asked him to please stop doing so because their refrigerator was full.  When my father served in Korea for two terms (eight years) they sent my mother off to an aunt and uncle in Florida during the summers.  Since her aunt by marriage got an invitation to Princess Graces’ wedding, I’m going to say she was wealthy.  During those years Mama would not be swayed.  Her heart and loyalty remained with my daddy.  When he was home for good and they were dating in college Mama said Daddy HUMILIATED her by driving to pick her up for a date with this enormous Republican billboard he’d somehow fashioned and affixed onto the top of his car.  During all their time together I’m not quite sure if they ever voted the same.  But somehow, they always entered the polls smiling at each other, hand in hand.  For them, religion was their unifying factor.  Despite how passionate one or the other ever became in politics they never made it personal.  Little did I realize it was due in part to the great respect they had for one another.  I cannot ever recall my father trying to belittle my mother; nor can I ever recall my mother haranguing my father about his beliefs.  I always assumed if I got married my husband and I would agree politically.  After all, in the seventh grade I broke up with a a boy whom I ADORED simply because he preferred Coca-Cola.  I said it could never work since I loved Dr. Pepper (“Texas water,” and the oldest “soda” in the nation, by the way.)  I have always been interested in the Civil War but I never could grasp how family could turn against family.  I think I get it now.  The thing that saddens me is I believe our country has reached another great divide.  Allow me to dispel some stereotypes:  Republicans are mostly white.  My daddy grew up in a place in the early 1930’s with the dubious distinction of proclaiming it had “The Blackest Land and The Whitest People.”  Both of my father’s grandparents, who reared him, were full-blood Native American.  His best friend was an old black man with whom he loved to go fishing.  My father said one of the scariest sights he had ever seen was witnessing the crosses the KKK burned on the old man’s lawn.  The town paster was enrolled in the KKK and never even knew it; apparently it was for his “protection.”  To be a red man is to neither be wolf nor dog.  Somehow his family was accepted by whites but they also had fellowship with former slaves.  In Korea my father fought alongside black and Jewish men and he was respected by all — including the whites and the Koreans.  Daddy once told me he watched a man die just to keep the American flag from hitting the soil.  He was very conservative and worked fervently for Barry Goldwater.  Mother’s family were long time southern Democrats who spoke highly of the WPA.  Frankly, I stilll think most of the lovely things this country has is due to that project.  This summer we stayed for a night in an historic Mississippi “Inn” which had really been a plantation.  The hired help was so very black I remember actually feeling self-conscious; no inter-racial mingling there.  I had a deep conversation with this man who could have stepped out of an old Shirley Temple film.  He told me he supported Trump and proudly listed the reasons why.  My husband was blessed to come from money but he has often spoken of “Limousine Liberals.”  I am not criticizing him for that; I am simply describing how he views things.  You cannot guess what political party I am.  I am certainly for birth control but against abortion unless it comes down to the baby or the mother.  I think we should have a flat tax.  My father taught me that no one “deserves” anything; so we are not entitled to what the rich have.  I was also brought up by my mother to protect the innocent.  When I was younger things seemed so black and white; no pun intended.  Big government, in my opinion, can be scary and yet having American citizens go without basic necessities is also frightening.  So then who is right?  What constitutes “big government” and what constitutes “necessity?”  Forgive me, dear readers, far and wide.  This will be the first time in almost six years that I shall not attribute a quote (because I cannot be certain of its origin, although it is thought to be Native American).  “What if I told you that the left wing and the right wing belong to the same bird.”  So I am posting a picture of our wolf dog Shadow.  It has been said one can see their soul in the eyes of a wolf.  I would encourage you:  try to see someone’s “ayes” through their eyes.

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Carve Out Your Own Pumpkin

Posted by Oct 25, 2020 History 2 Comments


October is my favorite month for many reasons … it is when my birthday falls and it is also the month in which my beloved father shares his birthday with my precious only child.  He passed away before he ever even got to meet my husband.  Autumn is such a fleeting, magical time.  For me it is a chance to revel in the bright Harvest Moon, to savor the scent of hay, to hear the music in the sway of rustling corn stalks, to feel slightly chilly temperatures at night, and to rhapsodize about the glorious color changes in the trees.  It is a time to give thanks to Mother Earth for her blessings and to remember we are a part of her.  I am not a great artist but in my early twenties I discovered the delights of creating one’s own Jack-o’-lantern.  The carving of vegetables has been a common practice in many parts of the world.  However, it is believed that the custom of making Jack-o’-lanterns at Halloween began in Ireland.  In the 19th century turnips were hollowed out to act as lanterns.  They were said to represent supernatural beings that were used to ward off evil spirits.  Over the years I have found that life is very much like carving a pumpkin:  maybe you are given a “perfect” one and the carving is easy; maybe one is a little skewed by how it grew in the patch and it requires more time to properly take shape.  I have found the key in carving your own pumpkin is that it lies with the carver.  Your gourd may very well be imperfect:  maybe the stalk on top is broken for all to see; maybe it doesn’t have a lot of seeds on the inside but no one can tell; maybe it has gotten dented or scarred along the way.  Regardless of the pumpkin you were dealt, I believe you can always carve it into something which brings you joy.  After all, isn’t life what one makes of it?  One can focus on the blights or choose to create character and beauty from them.  I am no Martha Stewart, but the pumpkins I have carved over the years have brought me contentment and I have learned something from each one.  Sometimes they have been perfectly symmetrical; sometimes they have looked a little wonky.  Sometimes I have compared mine with others and felt it wasn’t enough.  Regardless, I believe we all have a chance each year to make our own proverbial pumpkins better — both inside and out.  The French novelist and playwright of Guadelopean origin, Simone Schwarz-Bart, said, “Only the knife knows what goes on in the heart of a pumpkin.”  God has given us free will to carve out our own destinies.  In that carving, we can either focus on the best or dwell upon the worst.  What does your Jack-o’-lantern reflect this year?  Each one of those glimmers and grooves, regardless of how they got there, make it unique.  How we choose to carve out our souls with what we have been given makes us who we are.  You don’t need fancy tools; you just need the willingness to work on it.  Never stop trying; never stop striving; never stop believing.  Your light may serve to shine a way for others.  No matter what the circumstances:  I pray you never feel too old, too “good,” too sad, or too afraid to continue to carve out your own pumpkin.

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Sugar Rush

Posted by Oct 18, 2020 Food 6 Comments

I think I was in the fifth grade when I told my folks I no longer wanted to be a part of an elite choir called The Dallas Girls’ Chorus.  My public school elementary teacher, Mrs. Martin, had suggested when I was in the third grade that I try out.  I think I sang for a year and a half and I absolutely LOVED it.  I never wanted to quit the choir!!  Then the entire chorus of maybe 100 something girls got the opportunity to travel to Washington D.C. to sing for the current President of the Untied States.  I knew there was no way my folks could get that kind of money and I wanted to protect them from the pain and embarrassment I felt.  They had sacrificed a lot just to provide for my uniform!  I felt guilty, but not as much as if I had told them how ruthlessly I was shunned by the choristers there.  I distinctly remember this one girl in particular, who wore her beautiful dark hair in two French braids.  Once when we were standing in line at the water fountain during a break the girl in front of me said to her that she liked her hair.  With a hollow voice, I can still recall her saying, “the maid did it.”  That is the precise moment I realized just how very rich I was.  It killed me to leave the choir but I knew I had the unconditional, unwavering love and support of my parents; parents who were ALWAYS there for me.  As I look back I feel it was deplorable to not somehow provide for the maybe four girls who could not afford to make the trip.  But what does all this have to do with a sugar rush?  Well, every now and then when I was a kid the ice cream truck would stop by our apartment complex.  Daddy always had quarters and he would send me out to the black top road to choose something.  I am married now and we live in a house with a little girl of our own.  I had not heard the sound of a real ice cream truck in four decades!  Our third grader heard the music from a distance and shrieked with glee!  She asked if she could go see if they had anything for her that was gluten-free.  I texted my girlfriend who lives about a mile away with a little girl about the same age.  She told me he was going sort of door-to-door by request (text) and was kind enough to pass along our address.  When that truck pulled up I felt so very small again.  Sure enough, they had some old school classics I had loved that were gluten-free.  My little girl jumped up and down and thanked the man repeatedly.  I could feel her excitement and saw the light in her eyes.  The young man could not have been more genuinely kind.  Since they accepted credit, I added an “adult” ice cream on for myself.  You have not LIVED until you’ve had whiskey ice cream!!!  As I spoke with the operator, I learned it was a family business.  The magic and wonder those tunes and that truck managed to bring back was indescribable.  Dylan Lauren, the daughter of the American fashion designer Ralph Lauren, said, “People will say candy is recession-proof, and we’re definitely seeing nostalgic candies coming about, and people want that sugar rush and that nostalgic happiness, like their childhood times.”  I told Mr. Sugar Rush that anytime he was in the neighborhood he could count on us!  Childhood lasts for but a moment; magical memories last a lifetime.  Life is short:  if the opportunity presents itself and you are able — indulge in the sugar rush.

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Milestones

Posted by Oct 11, 2020 Family 2 Comments

I remember when I was growing up I had so many milestones … the first time I was tall enough to ride the cool rides at the State Fair, when I got my ears pierced, when I could ride a big bike.  They sort of went from size related to being age related … the first time I could drive; the first time I could vote; the first time I could have a margarita without my parents at dinner.  This is picture of a milestone for my little one.  A little over a year behind the other kids in terms of bone growth, she finally qualified to ride in the back of the car without a booster seat!  She requested Starbucks, because everyone knows big people drink coffee.  So we toasted with two Mocha Frappuccinos; one “leaded” (with coffee) and one unleaded (chocolate milk.)  As we grow older I think sometimes we lose sight of those first “big deals” we experienced.  Milestones can be measured in so many ways … sometimes it’s by default, (the physical things) and sometimes it is measured by accomplishment.  I never had an age I wanted to marry; I just knew I always wanted a family of my own.  On the other hand, I wanted to have my college degree by a certain time.  Milestones and time often go together.  For instance generally babies learn to sit, crawl, talk, and stand by a certain time:  those are the physical to which I refer.  Then there are the goals we set for ourselves which often a time constraint is placed upon.  It took me seven years to graduate from SMU but I did it on my own.  Some things we can control and some we cannot.  It took me two decades to find the man for whom I had been praying to marry.  Life seems to me like a spool of yarn.  When we begin we are young and the possibilities ahead of us are endless.  I can remember when summertime lasted forever.  Now I view it as a few precious months that fly by.  A couple of days ago I passed a big milestone.  To me any milestone is a blessing, and they are markers whether we like it or not.  My father taught me to always set goals.  Once they were achieved, he taught me to have more to which to aspire.  “Goals” are viewed differently:  for some it is measured in money, for others it is measured in the completion of a project.  There are goals to lose weight, goals to pray more, goals to travel, and goals to be more organized.  Milestones are often measured in meeting those “goals,” wittingly or no.  As I reflect upon the major milestone I have just reached, I find myself turning less toward what I want and more toward what I can do for others.  And here I go aging myself, but one of my all-time favorite groups is ABBA.  Agnetha Fältskog, one of the singers in the famous Swedish pop supergroup, is quoted as having said, “My path has not been determined.  I shall have more experiences and pass many more milestones.”  My life begun in many ways later than others.  My daddy used to say that time and tide wait for no man.  He also used to say that time was the one thing that could not be replaced.  More than any physical gift, I cherish the precious time I had with my beloved parents.  Now I cherish the precious time I have with my beloved husband and daughter.  Wherever you are; whomever you are:  I pray that you be thankful for all of your life’s milestones.

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A Field of Flowers

Posted by Oct 4, 2020 Nature 2 Comments

From the time I was around three to the time I was seventeen I lived in a small two bedroom apartment with my parents on the edge of Dallas.  We did not have a even have a pool, but we had something far better:  all three of our windows (the living room, my bedroom, and my folks’ bedroom) faced an enormous, undeveloped field.  The wildflowers grew taller than I:  there were Queen Anne’s Lace, sunflowers, “Indian blankets,” and Black-Eyed Susans that I could identify.  I have countless fond memories of watching the voluminous tall stems dip and sway in the wind.  It was the ’70’s:  the last of an era where kids could run wild.  When I was little I rode FAR on my Big Wheel which I loved more than anything.  As I became older I rode my bike.  Every night I would pick a small bouquet of wildflowers for Mama to put on the table.  She cooked everything from scratch and I was to be in by the time Daddy got home.  I never realized what a tremendous blessing I had in that field.  There were no houses, no lights, no wires … just unmown flowers as far as the eye could see.  My dream was to get married, be a mother, and have a house on a creek bank not far from where I grew up.  God was gracious and my husband was able to buy our house when we got married.  It sits on a hill and just opposite it are miles of greenbelt with tall trees rising up from the creek beds.  It is one of the only places in Dallas where one may still encounter something natural.  By that I mean no concrete, no “helpful” stone erosion barriers, and no professional landscaping.  I have taught my little girl to recognize Morning Glory, to savor the scent of wild honeysuckle, and to value “trash” trees like the Mimosa which are considered an invasive species and are now undesirable.  Trees and shrubs improve soil and water conservation, store carbon, moderate local climate by providing shade, regulate temperature extremes, increase wildlife habitat, and improve the land’s capacity to adapt to climate change.  Any time we see a field while we are driving I shriek at my child to REALLY look at it.  “Undeveloped” land in the city is a rare and priceless thing.  I find it mostly remains on flood plains.  A favorite poet of mine, William Wordsworth, once said, “How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold?  Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.”  I brought my little girl to the place where I grew up, and it was so rough she was wary to leave the car; not out of snottiness — out of fear.  I had her and my husband get out and we walked into the field pictured above which was my childhood and the life which formed me.  If I could grant one wish for my precious child it would be this:  for her flower to be free down to her root, and in that freedom she be bold.  I grew up with nothing and yet I had everything:  I had a field of flowers.

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