tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54272554053517478832024-02-23T20:04:30.026-06:00The RuralhoodTHE RURALHOOD - a condition or state of living in the country and or small towns- a feeling and experience.T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.comBlogger106125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-87172956984535460742022-08-13T00:30:00.001-05:002022-08-13T00:30:00.168-05:00Where Buzzards Roosted in Trees<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib7eT6pUaS35klFOeVr2-yyOmmEdpEeZB4FxA0uH46jwzR6PpndPVn1B7q2QlLiAlQknvHa4JyfBeJIiga89rtlEEZGCC4gOqm8tKXTWzF1DjkHIwG_OTtBb4ICQTXzAyKRxYhiitj5DkchYoii0kdPdHAWbDOlKOrx7P7c4kFovpHC1w2QiZXoGmc/s640/Buzzard%20painting.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A buzzard painting by my dad" border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="514" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib7eT6pUaS35klFOeVr2-yyOmmEdpEeZB4FxA0uH46jwzR6PpndPVn1B7q2QlLiAlQknvHa4JyfBeJIiga89rtlEEZGCC4gOqm8tKXTWzF1DjkHIwG_OTtBb4ICQTXzAyKRxYhiitj5DkchYoii0kdPdHAWbDOlKOrx7P7c4kFovpHC1w2QiZXoGmc/w257-h320/Buzzard%20painting.jpeg" width="257" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A buzzard painting by my dad.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Seemingly, my dad and I had little in common. He wasn’t a parent who spent one-on-one time with his children, but he worked hard at hard jobs providing for his family and keeping our home place in good order. Rarely did I see my dad doing nothing or sitting still for long periods. He wasn't that kind of person. His key interests included exploring the countryside, oil painting, woodcarving and writing. His cousin labeled my dad an Indiana Jones type. I agreed.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A couple of things Dad and I did have in common included writing stories and a fondness for the turkey buzzard (or turkey vulture). I can’t help but admire this odd-looking, amazing bird. I appreciate the nasty but crucial job they do.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 12pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">When I bought my 35mm camera in the 1970s, my dad told me about a bluff with a possible photographing opportunity, where buzzards roosted in the trees that grew along the steep cliffs. When the sun rose, the buzzards would awaken, stretch to dry and warm their wings before lifting from the trees to do their day job as <i>Nature’s Biohazard Carrion Cleaner-Uppers</i>. They ate decaying animals! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 12pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">One early morning, before light, we traveled down a gravel road, a driveway and then into a pasture heading for a cliff. We parked near our destination and waited for daylight by listening to the noisy and wonderful predawn fauna. A glow, in the eastern sky, became our signal, and we headed for the edge of the bluff to get ready. When daylight allowed us to see the buzzards in their morning routine, there were none. The trees that seemed to grow out of jagged rock stood—empty. There was no awakening. No stretching of black wings readying for lift off. No red heads to photograph. And there were no noisy pounding wings beating the air to fly from the cliffs in search of breakfast.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(47, 51, 51); margin: 12pt 0in; white-space: break-spaces;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Although disappointment filled me, my dad seldom lingered in disappointment. He said we’d try again another day. My photography opt now changed. I took pictures from the bluff’s edge, but also sidled down the sloped cliffside by clinging on to saplings along the way while capturing images of fields and water in a valley below. <span style="color: #2f3333;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 12pt 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="444" data-original-width="640" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjavS9pUCntiijFYYTHe-Rikh1TL9fk0AOgLaVcZoC9WGyftZUDwiqiQh6ZJ9HNgYLmsbK27zX0tyT9KgRlZoJgWwBDiUkdQ2O0VSJwD9CaG_dF9lYSbRtWd3W0PNth4FXRRmIcgwBOVMH2Z4HZzIRy0nN25rbdzmxqdZfbxq0ZTY6-H_NTftjHmQwg/w320-h222/buzzard%20carvings%20.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Bookends carved by Dad" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bookends carved by Dad.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">We went back to my parents’ house with that promise to do it again, but we never did.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p style="margin: 12pt 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I’ll insert those pictures with this post… when I find them. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p>T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-50050360050711167232022-07-23T00:30:00.001-05:002022-07-23T00:30:00.161-05:00Millie has a tissue issue!<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ahmK6mzMvni0J3kdQqBZSxMUUF1mPGJg_v2y4dflUm0ZII7OjhaImWlv-ZOIqvZdmwHg2kFRn1c2ynEd1XOADyMbrnE1a0COpFITiKnyddOb0SpOXP2O9CXNT1vgnvgTqoSJcUrGsy6oRyfscTDJMQo2L405D8zMA2Zczf-Hz8bdgfkqOKBZyLRL/s640/Millie%20under%20my%20desk.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="594" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ahmK6mzMvni0J3kdQqBZSxMUUF1mPGJg_v2y4dflUm0ZII7OjhaImWlv-ZOIqvZdmwHg2kFRn1c2ynEd1XOADyMbrnE1a0COpFITiKnyddOb0SpOXP2O9CXNT1vgnvgTqoSJcUrGsy6oRyfscTDJMQo2L405D8zMA2Zczf-Hz8bdgfkqOKBZyLRL/w279-h300/Millie%20under%20my%20desk.jpeg" width="279" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Millie under my desk <br />when I'm writing,<br /> and there's not room for two.</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">My dog, Millie, is supposed to be a Maltese and Shih Tzu mix, but I often wonder if she is part bloodhound and wily coyote, too. Her nose (sense of smell) is off the charts good, and she is sneaky.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Millie has a tissue issue. Not toilet paper, but tissues for your nose. In her eight years of running my house and me, she’s never pulled a tissue from its box and ate it, but she will eat them unused or used (sorry about the image that just grossed you out), if they are outside the box. Her bloodhound nose will lead her to them just as soon as one is pulled from a box and the scent hits the air. Yes, we could say that it’s my fault for leaving tissues where she can harvest them, but it is difficult staying one step ahead of Millie. Finding tissues is always on her mind. Eating them fast is her talent. She has no qualms about nosing in small trashcans to yank one out or pull them from a jacket or pant pocket if they are within reach. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I came home from a writer’s meeting one night and stepped out of my jeans, letting them fall on the floor. Normally, I put clothing away, but that night I did not. With my sinus issues, I went to the meeting prepared by stuffing a tissue in one pocket and a paper towel in another for sweat dabbing, as needed. I didn’t use either. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The next morning, after Millie ate her breakfast, she went MIA. By this stage in her game, I know that her absence means nothing good. Usually, it means there could be an escaped tissue somewhere in the house, and she has gone in for the kill. I was almost to my bedroom door when Millie raced out and passed me like something was chasing her. It was guilt. Guilt was chasing her. The minute I walked through the door, I saw the remains of a tissue on the floor next to my forgotten jeans. I had interrupted her feast. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFSbxLLOWLwU5amPI3qLV6DJN4RiLNxslX0lFQ4IsSRSqEq15DSZawsGXBBvKJ8MeBaK_MV4Q2t5VgcVZJZlOwdieOs2qzyb1Bfxs4e-TtXUah0D2k7IaBsYaJvSXmYYnsqYFxXiGvkEK3BPwhbWk-Dd0qz6sNcEZ1Rzn1SCWi-lOQcxDBrFJHQbi/s1500/Millie%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1470" data-original-width="1500" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFSbxLLOWLwU5amPI3qLV6DJN4RiLNxslX0lFQ4IsSRSqEq15DSZawsGXBBvKJ8MeBaK_MV4Q2t5VgcVZJZlOwdieOs2qzyb1Bfxs4e-TtXUah0D2k7IaBsYaJvSXmYYnsqYFxXiGvkEK3BPwhbWk-Dd0qz6sNcEZ1Rzn1SCWi-lOQcxDBrFJHQbi/s320/Millie%20.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Millie sleeps in my bedroom. I am certain that she schemed on extracting the tissue all night long, until 5a.m. arrived, when I left the bedroom and my coffee distracted me. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I wish she could answer these questions?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Why do you eat disgusting things?</span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Do tissues taste like vanilla? </span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Did you dream about the yummy goodness of a good tissue all night?</span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Or did you stay awake all night with excitement? </span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Lastly, would you consider a career as a rescue dog IF I made sure that the people needing rescuing will stuff a tissue in their pocket before things happen?</span></li></ul><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Millie is sometimes a mess, but she is a perfect mess. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">T. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-71661680125149267352020-09-05T06:16:00.002-05:002020-09-05T06:17:55.620-05:00IN THE GARDEN: Summer Critters<span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">A few of my summer visitors. </span><div><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDD9W5ethJGmM0uof9F5sVwCX7vzLC4j-GiZt8A61XMNBD33vXYJOuACIou6uA8bBG4oULt0hI865MJxelDrtuaJb4PjGY00gSuvesE-DX-Mspu8W7wXDGymhfvzLjP9_OWr6pj63mABM/s6000/baby+praying+manthis+.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDD9W5ethJGmM0uof9F5sVwCX7vzLC4j-GiZt8A61XMNBD33vXYJOuACIou6uA8bBG4oULt0hI865MJxelDrtuaJb4PjGY00gSuvesE-DX-Mspu8W7wXDGymhfvzLjP9_OWr6pj63mABM/s320/baby+praying+manthis+.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">A baby <i>Praying Mantis</i>. Can't see it? Here's a closer look.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGeK7hXqZOTDxpq6B1YdnY9pjn_MLCLphq0KKVwyyjfo1THjJNEAlSlsnnKGufX3QphF8jq4pqTdnr6tqjuw2B0bEpiZuMgklqhuHXMml8GqkyAvAw0Swo3359mvg0DuHMAQr7XSbbaOk/s2048/praying+mantis+3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGeK7hXqZOTDxpq6B1YdnY9pjn_MLCLphq0KKVwyyjfo1THjJNEAlSlsnnKGufX3QphF8jq4pqTdnr6tqjuw2B0bEpiZuMgklqhuHXMml8GqkyAvAw0Swo3359mvg0DuHMAQr7XSbbaOk/s320/praying+mantis+3.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">There it is at the back, where the cucumber leaf is trying to come together. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSrc4mns2AYCu8wTfTrP1LF1zDL7z3J3P2HO21Z_4PvXIAu0rbDjBW-SwWRAhhuaVnsV0HByG7yAITTgzgwPYpIb1X-AwPoTHK_wHpBz-2EPzXDGfVl-BXnPbaK9gmdjO48fZbwWCO6cY/s2048/turtle+2020+visitor.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSrc4mns2AYCu8wTfTrP1LF1zDL7z3J3P2HO21Z_4PvXIAu0rbDjBW-SwWRAhhuaVnsV0HByG7yAITTgzgwPYpIb1X-AwPoTHK_wHpBz-2EPzXDGfVl-BXnPbaK9gmdjO48fZbwWCO6cY/s320/turtle+2020+visitor.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Slow and steady wins the race?</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNfCpI0FH_MUYX_4QEZKNun1PU0ZVC2fL37XJZ55nFnisa3b2CVGMXptrsjDhp-2yyA-QmtCJFRpKebKcl4dEqxjx8wnYVo9FB7OMeVA1Ob7zUgeBZQDFNnHPmR6Kkq6z84VAbz-FQjw/s2048/turtle+larger+ruralhood+watermark.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1316" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNfCpI0FH_MUYX_4QEZKNun1PU0ZVC2fL37XJZ55nFnisa3b2CVGMXptrsjDhp-2yyA-QmtCJFRpKebKcl4dEqxjx8wnYVo9FB7OMeVA1Ob7zUgeBZQDFNnHPmR6Kkq6z84VAbz-FQjw/s320/turtle+larger+ruralhood+watermark.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Hello, Beautiful!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha1uUR4Dz6DvbtILU-tjb3MKYdZ3QFfdIiSMRYx4s-djZ7gEniPjeSJLI7p49hIY4HQXKaGvpWKw_Kfjhwxh_LwOf0f_cocQS5kDWaR1ly_ikoEZP0Ga1rkSQn4XKbmlWpoCahJhDs6oA/s2048/Cone+flower+and+bumble+bee.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha1uUR4Dz6DvbtILU-tjb3MKYdZ3QFfdIiSMRYx4s-djZ7gEniPjeSJLI7p49hIY4HQXKaGvpWKw_Kfjhwxh_LwOf0f_cocQS5kDWaR1ly_ikoEZP0Ga1rkSQn4XKbmlWpoCahJhDs6oA/s320/Cone+flower+and+bumble+bee.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Don't look at me that way, little bee, the flower is for you!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">T.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></span></div>T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-89076229671612210672020-04-25T06:53:00.000-05:002020-04-25T06:53:28.905-05:00Laura Ingalls Wilder: The Masters Hotel - Burr Oak, IowaI am a fan of Laura Ingalls Wilder, Almanzo and their daughter Rose Wilder Lane. My interest in little Laura and little Almanzo began in grade school when a teacher read one of the Little House books to our class. I was hooked! Little did I know at the time that when my parents moved our family back to Missouri, from Illinois, that Laura and Almanzo's Mansfield home would not be far away. <br />
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Recently, I found a couple of pictures from a trip to Iowa and a hotel that Laura's parents managed when she was a child. Their stay was for only a year according to the Masters Hotel <a href="https://lauraingallswilder.us/" target="_blank">website</a>. Because most tourist places are currently closed due to the <a href="https://www.cdc.gov/coronavirus/2019-ncov/index.html" target="_blank">Coronavirus</a> pandemic, I thought I would share!<br />
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<h3>
Traveling through Iowa </h3>
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It has been a few years since I dragged my adult daughter along on a trip to Iowa and the town of <a href="https://visitbluffcountry.com/iowa/burr-oak/" target="_blank">Burr Oak</a>. Before I share our short visit there, I need to talk about traveling through Iowa. Of course, I knew that Iowa grew corn because I had ridden in the backseat of a car at the age of 18 to an Iowa based wedding, but I was not prepared for driving through the state of Iowa during a prime growing season of corn. On each side of the highway, corn stood tall, thick and in perfect rows. I had never experienced claustrophobia aggravated by corn until that trip.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivXDRwRu-jufJb30azwuZI053L7icr0xVUM6Jm9i7Wf0Xr8A7_k-Ozpd8LWYo3eQfJY_sUGQS6vtWy4t9ZINYMe4QmK2KIfdTS-Trq-xLtra8bC0zkc5CurTMrhiNMNWrk_11ODwx2OT4/s1600/Iowa+trip+to+little+house+hotel+with+Tessa+2012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivXDRwRu-jufJb30azwuZI053L7icr0xVUM6Jm9i7Wf0Xr8A7_k-Ozpd8LWYo3eQfJY_sUGQS6vtWy4t9ZINYMe4QmK2KIfdTS-Trq-xLtra8bC0zkc5CurTMrhiNMNWrk_11ODwx2OT4/s320/Iowa+trip+to+little+house+hotel+with+Tessa+2012.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
When there were breaks in the cornfields, we were allowed glimpses of beautiful farms with houses.<br />
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Now back to the trip.<br />
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<h3>
On the Road</h3>
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The trip from Southern Missouri to Burr Oak, Iowa was not a day trip for me. It was necessary to stop in a small city with a name I don't remember and at a two story "motel" with a name I also don't remember, to spend the night. Before we left home, I found on the internet a possible place to stop, but did not make reservations since I wasn't sure we'd end up there. It was an easy location, just off the highway we were traveling. In those days, I used <a href="https://www.mapquest.com/" target="_blank">Mapquest</a> printout pages to assist me in traveling.<br />
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The minute we entered the building (NOT pictured above), I didn't like the dirty feel or the smell. No problem! We couldn't stay there anyway. The place was booked up with road construction workers who were living there until they finished the construction on the highway we'd just exited. This is one of those "God things" that I love, where he watches over me and gives me blessings without my asking. I had no way to check the internet from my phone for another place to stay. I'm pretty certain it was the era of my flip phone (still have it in its original box). So I did the next best thing! I asked the clerk if she could recommend a nice place in or near that city. She recommended a beautiful inn (place in photo above) that was built in a country setting. Our room with two comfortable beds was super lovely and clean!<br />
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Burr Oak</h3>
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The next morning we headed out and finally reached Burr Oak, Iowa. I wish that I had driven around Burr Oak and photographed it, but I did not.<br />
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There was a visitor center with items you could purchase for souvenirs.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8AnHBJEb7td1_9gj1lCOg9wkZK4jJrBrl29kDu9StsiKpyapFV6duzIHbXpPA5gISifb0X-mTIPlzCEu6cecUgVdnR7cE1ObeY2zlziA7tFZYmP2oG-sLirlSiJ_EWiIrf4Kog1X6QP8/s1600/Iowa+Little+House+Hotel+site++visitor+center+.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8AnHBJEb7td1_9gj1lCOg9wkZK4jJrBrl29kDu9StsiKpyapFV6duzIHbXpPA5gISifb0X-mTIPlzCEu6cecUgVdnR7cE1ObeY2zlziA7tFZYmP2oG-sLirlSiJ_EWiIrf4Kog1X6QP8/s400/Iowa+Little+House+Hotel+site++visitor+center+.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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The Masters Hotel</h3>
<a href="https://lauraingallswilder.us/" target="_blank">The Masters Hotel</a> sat across the street from the visitor center. The hotel was operated by Charles and Caroline Ingalls (Pa and Ma) after leaving Walnut Grove. Pa did more of the managing and Ma did the cooking. Laura is reported to have been nine years old at the time. Her sister Grace was born in Burr Oak. Read about her birth <a href="https://lauraingallswilder.us/grace-ingalls" target="_blank">here</a>. In my photo below, you can see a window air conditioner. Photos on their website do not show the window unit. I conclude they switched to a central air system.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVbA36XYxlU-mYhnqS4FLrlCrdlUXVmcPXlXC9GNsitRtc8g4rkkY2W8vv-Y2ckHBILjWkWw7JKh8yhF6Sr8ndw4grjRWGZCMt1xRX4CnIvU4npVTZnFO6BldjOgL98j8NrDpOwLpkhkI/s1600/hotel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVbA36XYxlU-mYhnqS4FLrlCrdlUXVmcPXlXC9GNsitRtc8g4rkkY2W8vv-Y2ckHBILjWkWw7JKh8yhF6Sr8ndw4grjRWGZCMt1xRX4CnIvU4npVTZnFO6BldjOgL98j8NrDpOwLpkhkI/s400/hotel.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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The Masters Hotel was its own museum. We took a step back in time and with a guide toured the hotel. It's been years since we took that trip, but I remember the kitchen's location was in the basement. I believe the Ingall's bedroom was located there, as well. Something else that stuck in my memory was a bedroom on the top floor, a tiny room, smaller than most of today's walk-in closets. Our guide told us that the room was often used to bunk several men overnight. It was hard to wrap my head around that at least two men would sleep on the tiny cot like beds while other men slept side-by-side on the floor. The hotel got their money's worth!<br />
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The day was beautiful. The hotel was alive with history. Our guide helped us imagine life then and the people who passed through the Master's Hotel. </div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><i>Have you read any of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books? </i></span><span style="color: purple;"><i>Have you visited any of the historic home sites? </i></span></div>
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<br />T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-40774191601710961942020-01-30T14:38:00.001-06:002020-01-30T14:38:40.144-06:00Little House on the Prairie Museum - Kansas<div style="text-align: justify;">
If you know me at all, then you might remember how much I loved reading Laura Ingalls Wilder books as a child. Who am I kidding, I still read them. I'm a huge fan of all things Laura Ingalls Wilder and her daughter Rose. Since I live near-ish Mansfield, Missouri, I have visited that home site many times since my children were in elementary school. I have visited yearly, sometimes once, sometimes twice a year. </div>
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I didn't mean to (yes I did), but I got my daughter hooked! Dr. Lovely daughter is a voracious reader and one summer as a child, while we were perusing a flea market, she picked up one of the Little House books and asked me if it was a good book.</div>
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My heart jumped to my throat. Could this be true? Was she really asking me this question? At that time, I didn't realize that Laura and Almanzo Wilder's Missouri homestead was under two hours away. Once I found out it was there, we took our children and visited the homesite and its museum. My daughter loved the first trip. My son not so much.</div>
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The other day, I was going through some of my old digital pictures and found pictures from two road trips in 2011. Dr. Lovely Daughter and I had traveled to Kansas to visit the <a href="https://www.littlehouseontheprairiemuseum.com/" target="_blank">Little House on the Prairie Museum</a>. As close as Kansas is to Missouri, I had never been to Kansas or the Little House on the Prairie Museum. This was a day trip. Here are photos from that trip.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hxip7-Vf21NeIwciGqmoGFiIu2Z6XTCyDY2S0rS2FwcI9Y6t_QKQzYoiMuO70K4UY4sVmppAHpRv6qYDTI17lLBtYWdCquqpnE7uvr-AMPmxt4PcdOBnOQSwZv89COH9-o8XTUenm-Y/s1600/Independence+KS++copyright.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hxip7-Vf21NeIwciGqmoGFiIu2Z6XTCyDY2S0rS2FwcI9Y6t_QKQzYoiMuO70K4UY4sVmppAHpRv6qYDTI17lLBtYWdCquqpnE7uvr-AMPmxt4PcdOBnOQSwZv89COH9-o8XTUenm-Y/s1600/Independence+KS++copyright.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hxip7-Vf21NeIwciGqmoGFiIu2Z6XTCyDY2S0rS2FwcI9Y6t_QKQzYoiMuO70K4UY4sVmppAHpRv6qYDTI17lLBtYWdCquqpnE7uvr-AMPmxt4PcdOBnOQSwZv89COH9-o8XTUenm-Y/s400/Independence+KS++copyright.jpeg" width="400" /></a><br />
Before we saw the Little House on the Prairie site, we saw <a href="https://www.independenceks.gov/31/Community" target="_blank">Independence, Kansas</a>. I can't recall what this building is but I sure love the architecture. If anyone knows what the building is or was, let me know in the comments.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQnUthsKk4Gw44eiqdeVR01FylBMMOWNpRdH0O-4Bk7eiirjwuDo_ZyTSwsYdijyFFnt5-hOXu4sBuvwcGb89pZZwQvswFHoXOMvXrh67dqaTzyTuBpIEoaTbPUMo9LzcemzlN-USa9w/s1600/Road+to+Kansas+Little+House+on+the+Prairie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1079" data-original-width="1600" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQnUthsKk4Gw44eiqdeVR01FylBMMOWNpRdH0O-4Bk7eiirjwuDo_ZyTSwsYdijyFFnt5-hOXu4sBuvwcGb89pZZwQvswFHoXOMvXrh67dqaTzyTuBpIEoaTbPUMo9LzcemzlN-USa9w/s320/Road+to+Kansas+Little+House+on+the+Prairie.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Then there was this road to the Kansas homestead and museum. </div>
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Then a sign to let us know we had arrive. I'm not positive, but I don't think any of the buildings are original buildings to Laura's family. I believe, however, that the land was actually homesteaded by Ma and Pa Ingalls. </div>
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A schoolhouse and another building. To the right of them is a cabin built in late 1970's. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOVwaHdwJeLxysa7uXmUN_gMRxuso0VJYiUD24guy6bDC8YMxVD6rHE6BeTj4gdXtDsIF6BSNE_2GMz4w1W7TiOUJSHcrgrw786JB3RK7iMGcqS5cOoCK1CTe8-mAV9DeB_vVHsqkNA4U/s1600/Little+House+on+the+prairie+Kansas+cabin+copyright.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="844" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOVwaHdwJeLxysa7uXmUN_gMRxuso0VJYiUD24guy6bDC8YMxVD6rHE6BeTj4gdXtDsIF6BSNE_2GMz4w1W7TiOUJSHcrgrw786JB3RK7iMGcqS5cOoCK1CTe8-mAV9DeB_vVHsqkNA4U/s640/Little+House+on+the+prairie+Kansas+cabin+copyright.jpeg" width="336" /></a></div>
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Here's the cabin a little closer. </div>
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A sign!</div>
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Inside the little cabin.</div>
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Inside the school on the property. </div>
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I had to add this picture of an ugly tourist in the school room! Do not make fun of her. She hates her picture taken. She told me so.</div>
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Here is Dr. Lovely Daughter sitting on the front porch, looking out over the land that little Laura lived on. Well actually she was looking at the camera, but before that she was looking out over the land.</div>
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Visit their website for more information <a href="https://www.littlehouseontheprairiemuseum.com/" target="_blank">here</a>. I have a couple of pictures from our Iowa trip where we traveled to see the hotel where Ma and Pa worked. I will write that for a future post. The Iowa trip was not a day trip. I might have gone corn sane a few times. </div>
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If you're interested and haven't read them here are posts regarding the Mansfield site: <a href="https://theruralhood.blogspot.com/2018/07/laura-ingalls-wilder-gravesite.html" target="_blank">Laura Ingalls Wilder Gravesite</a>, <a href="https://theruralhood.blogspot.com/2018/10/laura-ingalls-wilder-and-more-pictures.html" target="_blank">Laura Ingalls Wilder and more Pictures</a> and <a href="https://theruralhood.blogspot.com/2018/06/laura-ingalls-wilders-quilt-block.html" target="_blank">Laura Ingalls Wilder Quilt Block Patterns</a>. </div>
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T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-80538461321227248512020-01-08T10:02:00.001-06:002020-01-08T10:02:53.296-06:00Not My She-Shed!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz-x7XJEBw686sWGESowJ-7UIg_I7pQIbcL9QH8dtvQ6Oyc_BrL8-nsUsFjjaX0y91LVLNTPxO3W3yHdX8N1xRzqDWj7c_dd3Y3RS17iwAe4QgXKNc-fbOvSA4C9q2U2mcatz5gnNJBRI/s1600/1-2-20+Old+shed+needs+haircut.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz-x7XJEBw686sWGESowJ-7UIg_I7pQIbcL9QH8dtvQ6Oyc_BrL8-nsUsFjjaX0y91LVLNTPxO3W3yHdX8N1xRzqDWj7c_dd3Y3RS17iwAe4QgXKNc-fbOvSA4C9q2U2mcatz5gnNJBRI/s640/1-2-20+Old+shed+needs+haircut.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My Barn/Shed that is about 40 years old and needs a haircut!</span> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">It was a warm day in January when I decided to spend thirty minutes cleaning out the winter creeper vine in a section along the back fence. I'm having lower back issues so don't tell my family that I did that, but I needed to start the process. I have fought the invasive </span><a href="https://www.invasiveplantatlas.org/subject.html?sub=3024" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">winter creepe</span></a><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">r for years--a battle I am not winning. I have no clue who introduced this vine into our rural neighborhood, but those people are not my friends. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I took this photo January 1, 2020 of my old barn/shed that is covered in the winter creeper vine. I did not work on this project. The building is made of old but sturdy wood and it's a mess with it's missing boards and creepiness. I need to have it taken down, but it's not in my way. It has character. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">When I looked at my photograph, the shed gave me the vibes of a hairy monster. The least I could do is give it a haircut, I guess. </span></div>
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T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-76119402170953340812019-11-20T14:53:00.002-06:002019-11-20T14:53:32.226-06:00Rural Rewards and Blocks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7DSQF09V9Uo1ICCTr_4_7RobC7gh2wJ7lUbajHKLw_pwKzaasyCetn8AW2swicU7l6Ay6efEl7IyWDxrTVhDe8VPqLYGhbtnCDy_4U0NCHUFwTuP_udIYNcxi2MYM-YxLAFGk92wFr5c/s1600/sunset+off+dd.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="879" data-original-width="1600" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7DSQF09V9Uo1ICCTr_4_7RobC7gh2wJ7lUbajHKLw_pwKzaasyCetn8AW2swicU7l6Ay6efEl7IyWDxrTVhDe8VPqLYGhbtnCDy_4U0NCHUFwTuP_udIYNcxi2MYM-YxLAFGk92wFr5c/s400/sunset+off+dd.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; text-align: justify;">Living in a rural area where the people population is less and small towns are your go to place for goods and services seems like a wonderful idea and a Mayberry experience. If you want to avoid others being in your face and place, if you want the government to stay out of your business more, if you want fewer restrictions on building structures and if you’d rather hear frog peepers instead of people voices, rural living might be for you. Well-water tastes better than city water. The air smells better unless you happen to live downwind from individuals who buy up real estate to run egg laying farms that are not favored close to towns or cities. If you want to cast your eyes on an ever changing country landscape complete with wildlife and experience stress relief, the rural experience might be for you. People in rural areas mostly know your name and sometimes your business, but if anything goes wrong, rural folks line up at your door, in the olden days. Today, they might show up on your social media page to help out.</span><span style="font-family: "courier new"; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><strong>Rural life offers rewards, but it also can be a stumbling block.</strong></span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">Growing up rural meant for me that I rode the school bus for at least an hour one way, depending on the year. Back then, I couldn’t join after school activities. I wanted to but knew the reality of the commitment. We lived in the area where my mom grew up, but when she was a child/youth her school was only a couple of miles away from her home. She could join activities and walk home after, as needed. My school was much farther away. Kids today in rural areas still have a long commute to school. At our district, there are school activity buses now where kids can participate after school and be delivered to centralized bus stops for parent pick up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Remote rural areas can also draw in the criminal element. Because of the remoteness, rural areas are handy places for manufacturing meth and stashing stolen goods.</span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Rural individuals go to their doctors less and often miss early diagnosis of chronic diseases </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">(Saylor, 2012)</span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">. If there are tests to be done, patients are sent to large cities quite the distance away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Getting to any appointment anywhere can be difficult for the elderly or for anyone who does not own or can't borrow a vehicle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Aging in place in remote rural areas is a concern unless you have family living with you or nearby. If those are in place is your house aging compliant and if not do you have the money to make it so. If you have passed the above obstacles, there is one more--a shortage of people who can help the aging population with housekeeping chores in rural areas.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Unavailable transportation not only restricts doctor visits, but other important life things. Without transportation, the pursuit of higher education is a struggle or not attainable. In most cases, education is a way to escape poverty.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Employment opportunities cannot be continued if an individual does not have a vehicle or a ride to work. There are no city buses in the country and most of the time not a reality in small towns. However, in town individuals can ride a bike or walk to their destination. And without a job, it’s difficult or impossible to buy or maintain transportation. If an individual is lucky enough to have a car, then the cost of fuel can be a hindrance especially when the commute to employment is from a rural setting. Therefore, living in a small town is a better option, if you do not have access to transportation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><strong>Shopping Choices</strong></span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Choices of grocery stores are limited in rural towns and often are not as affordable without the competition. The same goes for buying clothing. What choices are there in a small town? Why not order online you say? We'll get to that later.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">If you live in the rural and become ill, do you have time to wait for an ambulance that might be traveling twenty plus miles to get to you?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Living in the rural, you might be an easier target for criminal activity since they also know that law enforcement does not patrol rural areas as much as (perhaps) they should. How will you protect yourself and property until county law enforcement can assist you? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Inclement weather takes down electricity on a regular basis in some rural areas. Are your lines the last to be fixed? These are issues rural people face daily.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Let's talk about internet options and actual working internet. Internet connectivity in my mom's area was better ten years ago than now. Today, it is a pathetic or nonexistent reality in many rural areas. You might think that the internet is a privilege and not a right, but I argue that most things in today's business world are performed through online access: job applications, online medical care and education access, just to mention a few. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">All over the United States, broadband legislation is introduced and not adopted (NCSL). Profit over people, in my opinion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Many administrators and teachers do not want to teach in the far away land called The Ruralhood. In my 29th year working for a school district, I have lost track of the number of building administrators who have passed through our doors. Some used the district as a stepping stone, some left because they wanted a school closer to home and some exited due to the noncompetitive salaries we offered at the time. The same goes for getting good teachers and keeping them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">However, the quality of education in our district has never waned. I can't speak for other rural schools, but our district through the years has provided excellent learning opportunities with up-to-date technology for both college and trade school bound students. We also have a vocational school. Not only have we kept its doors open, but in the next five years, with the support of our community, we will build a new vocational school so that our students and neighboring rural school districts' students may learn a trade.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Housing is also a rural and small town problem. Well, let me clarify. Often rural communities and towns lack not only in quantity but quality housing options, places where humans should live. It's easier to be a slumlord in rural places. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">As the rural child grows up they are faced with life decisions that includes where they will call home. Will they live in a rural area where the benefits are soul pleasing or in a city where opportunities and conveniences abound? Many of our career bound students do not return after college, which is sad, but I can't blame them. Sometimes the land of opportunity wins out over soul pleasing. I mean, we need to pay the bills. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="color: blue;">Do you live in or ever have lived in a rural area? </span><span style="color: purple;">Did you experience any of the issues listed above? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Sources:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">RHIHub</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Problems of Rural Life Support the Rural Landscape Saylor</span> Academy, 2012 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">NCSL: Challenges facing Rural Communities </span>T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-48139220976535734342019-10-14T13:41:00.001-05:002019-10-14T14:43:34.602-05:00Returning To Where We Started<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-SUs-0CzHCZhr9-5ZYCu8reoCirZbwpS7g5g3VYeOMxBUnWdSMKDxyvRJhGnwe_MYgkrdPoNuIbshmrsMn7excSIX7fxUibU-QDqfQ6eidSwGiHPV8kQIqzoR_tC5vSvSnW0xIZI5tlo/s1600/me+ronnie+and+tammy+without+signature.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1179" data-original-width="977" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-SUs-0CzHCZhr9-5ZYCu8reoCirZbwpS7g5g3VYeOMxBUnWdSMKDxyvRJhGnwe_MYgkrdPoNuIbshmrsMn7excSIX7fxUibU-QDqfQ6eidSwGiHPV8kQIqzoR_tC5vSvSnW0xIZI5tlo/s200/me+ronnie+and+tammy+without+signature.jpeg" width="165" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I’ve said this before and will repeat; I loved
living in Illinois for the three-ish years we lived there. This was actually my second time at Illinois residency. My parents (with me) also lived in Joliet, from my age of 6 months to 3 years old. There are a couple of things that I consider memories, from that time, which is interesting since I was so young. That will be a future post. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The story of our
moving day from country living to city living is featured in </span><a href="https://theruralhood.blogspot.com/search/label/Significance%20of%20Childhood"><span style="color: #0563c1; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Trading
Lives</span></a><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">. I think I was twelve when my parents made their very happy decision to move back </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">to the place
where they belonged. I kind of had to go with them, but I had built friendships and expectations on the next school year. As a kid you go where the folks go and make the best of the new until it becomes your normal. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdINcxZsfH-ZPcCsZyS2g-i6kIZUGfKv03n8HSRrnAyjFp25JUQnqkIR2ihDypUfc04BVQFFNpdUePILzfiHAZuUx5Exd_FSizBhcnKl4l-Nyuvlr1rbK_I5e9Wpje6nytqVrPJC0KoWg/s1600/morris+minor+car+and+family+with+copyright.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdINcxZsfH-ZPcCsZyS2g-i6kIZUGfKv03n8HSRrnAyjFp25JUQnqkIR2ihDypUfc04BVQFFNpdUePILzfiHAZuUx5Exd_FSizBhcnKl4l-Nyuvlr1rbK_I5e9Wpje6nytqVrPJC0KoWg/s320/morris+minor+car+and+family+with+copyright.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: x-small;">Washington, IL: Family Picnic</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">When we were just a couple of weeks out from moving for
good, my dad loaded me up with our Rat Terrier, Bluto, a few of our household and personal goods in the car and headed to Missouri. </span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">MEMORY #1</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Before we left Washington and sorry in advance for "too much information", my stomach began to hurt. I think I was nervous about traveling to Missouri, with my dad who really didn't talk to me much and staying with my grandma and cousins without my mom. At one point, I begged my mother to give me a laxative because I had not had a BM in a while. She did NOT want to do this, but I pleaded and won, if you call it winning. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The last hour before we landed in our tiny hometown, I was ready to explode. The first place we stopped was at our neighbors house. They owned one of the country stores and ran the post office. I stayed in their one bathroom so long that both Dad and the woman of the house knocked on the door, at separate times, asking me if I was okay. Of course, when I exited the bathroom there was some teasing, and I was embarrassed.</span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">MEMORY #2</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Our little Rat Terrier, Bluto, was a mighty dog, rarely</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: x-small;">(R-L) Me, my brother and Bluto with</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: x-small;">his head turned. I'm probably 4 and</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: x-small;">my brother near a year.</span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> afraid of much. He was a bit energetic so the long distance car trip was not his favorite thing to do. Along the way, he became...gassy. This was not fun for the humans, but it did make my dad (who NEVER wanted to stop and stretch) stop so that Bluto could take care of business, as needed.</span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">MEMORY #3</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">As a child, anytime I stayed all night with anyone other than home, I missed my mom terribly. Until my parents, two siblings and a truckload of furniture and things arrived at our house, I would be staying with my grandma. Staying with my Grandma Sadie and the three cousins was fun, but I was so homesick for my mom. They were so excited to have me stay and spend time with them that I told no one of missing my mom. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">My Uncle Charles, his wife Glenda and their children lived with my grandma and ran the farm. My uncle was leaving the army when my granddad died of a heart attack. Grandma couldn't run a farm on her own so Charles moved in. Later he would marry Aunt Glenda and their five children would grow up there. My youngest cousin was actually a couple of months older than my son. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Ultimately, my family moved back into our farmhouse, near both sides of our family. Bluto got to explore wherever he wanted--a much better life than in the city. Throughout the years, I felt sad for kids who did not live near grandparents and cousins. I understood the gift I'd been given. Not all family members are people you want to live near, but living near the "roots" of your family gives a glimpse into your own identity. A cool thing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">Teresa </span></div>
<img height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh963gJu0ontYOmumieIYKJAwJa0IKaCbbD5aTG2oLk72qBVAI58fMdcmAJSc5UuApgk8YsSmV4QVGRnKrnhrvX45GzRXe1mUbju0g2DpME_u4iizemdgILfBOA6Euoq9enDkV0olHOl_Y/s320/morris+minor+car+and+family+with+copyright.jpg" style="left: 371px; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 356px;" width="96" />T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-25759436270116712802019-09-27T10:29:00.000-05:002019-09-27T10:29:36.622-05:00Cherry Tomatoes: After the rain <div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">What can you do when you're in between computers and writing from an iPad is not your talent? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Answer: Finish up a draft and publish it <u>OR</u> t</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">ell the story of my cherry tomatoes when it rained this summer.</span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Here it is:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>It rained. My cherry tomatoes got a shower. I think they liked it, but who can tell.</em></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiomlkU-_hyphenhyphencdaM5PdLyeNKZWYBq_hQUA0Yqdk2WBbLH2JzMGx2cbbRhSg8MimAPi763NuhzMQSteSkhklcDlsoZp3vPLrNgB0MMhrl3-c1rFjLugvwjCEXdiq2ng5IS1NGE-0iqtzKBrA/s1600/cherry+tomatoes+after+the+rain+7-16-18+Ruralhood+Copyright2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1341" data-original-width="1600" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiomlkU-_hyphenhyphencdaM5PdLyeNKZWYBq_hQUA0Yqdk2WBbLH2JzMGx2cbbRhSg8MimAPi763NuhzMQSteSkhklcDlsoZp3vPLrNgB0MMhrl3-c1rFjLugvwjCEXdiq2ng5IS1NGE-0iqtzKBrA/s400/cherry+tomatoes+after+the+rain+7-16-18+Ruralhood+Copyright2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>The End!</em></span></div>
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T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-62400052784669976412019-07-13T08:20:00.000-05:002019-07-13T08:20:01.563-05:00The Unlife of GardensNature is alive and well on my 3/4 of an acre. Recently, I read that nature doesn't like voids. This is true for my property. If I clear or clean out anything, nature is already working behind the scenes to fill it up again. Today is not about the living, but about the unlife in my gardens.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOdOev-vMw56i_ovLO5pWI3R02QCkhKXtTQ6R-Q_RyDuFyTT0h4DfrF0sLxdzBW-ddao0o0hrUFLH_WZvoKbTcR3Gc8MEGNcJ129JQ2f3yhARoQh1M8wS9jvV6TMrNOgMpFn8GjzExVvA/s1600/gnome+.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOdOev-vMw56i_ovLO5pWI3R02QCkhKXtTQ6R-Q_RyDuFyTT0h4DfrF0sLxdzBW-ddao0o0hrUFLH_WZvoKbTcR3Gc8MEGNcJ129JQ2f3yhARoQh1M8wS9jvV6TMrNOgMpFn8GjzExVvA/s320/gnome+.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div>
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Mr. Gnome - Some say he is creepy. I think he is wonderful.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIm5xBIULQI5IZW8nVm9U3IJ735DjgUlqiM2RiVO8pgK9pSyBMF_QH682qu1h6Ye2yZqZOeWTCKZLeNBCXQ44dsMbrCa09cI7TpZItrYVox-hTnrSBoQo7aNHws0yS2K2ySdinuXaI6QE/s1600/garden+owl+copyright.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIm5xBIULQI5IZW8nVm9U3IJ735DjgUlqiM2RiVO8pgK9pSyBMF_QH682qu1h6Ye2yZqZOeWTCKZLeNBCXQ44dsMbrCa09cI7TpZItrYVox-hTnrSBoQo7aNHws0yS2K2ySdinuXaI6QE/s320/garden+owl+copyright.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbQk-1q6SMiD-YopM9WcLBiP_86pdUGEuf_jf4-gh2-PSqgaUM7FOsQzTXizvmAhEVS3b8GeDJM1wihRJteQmWkLcydjw3_rR5BiTWzzFBtR29atxPdhyphenhyphenV1bswjWFbaeWm2yatcR0XgXQ/s1600/nightime+owl.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="983" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbQk-1q6SMiD-YopM9WcLBiP_86pdUGEuf_jf4-gh2-PSqgaUM7FOsQzTXizvmAhEVS3b8GeDJM1wihRJteQmWkLcydjw3_rR5BiTWzzFBtR29atxPdhyphenhyphenV1bswjWFbaeWm2yatcR0XgXQ/s320/nightime+owl.jpeg" width="196" /></a></div>
This wire owl I've had for years, but didn't know what to do with it. This year, I decided to repurpose my thirty year old mailbox post and shelf, attach the owl to it, fill the owl with a hundred solar lights, and place it in one of my gardens. This setup looks cute by day and but by night is a glob of eery light in a dark yard.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfAsnp0J2fNNim8uv9vzYTfp5CMe7FQG0nDCQTbG3h_ZM5UgjJgiyAq7OkaHoXrCa1EBQc0ELD3MXazlMtDBZQqt-me03e7VzfdaTZRfkWJUxt-zZ7u0HKNXwDIkel-LZOL_YxyT0O-qI/s1600/frog+garden+copyright.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1104" data-original-width="1600" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfAsnp0J2fNNim8uv9vzYTfp5CMe7FQG0nDCQTbG3h_ZM5UgjJgiyAq7OkaHoXrCa1EBQc0ELD3MXazlMtDBZQqt-me03e7VzfdaTZRfkWJUxt-zZ7u0HKNXwDIkel-LZOL_YxyT0O-qI/s320/frog+garden+copyright.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVVAnSAkMD_zS4vfczjOkuiWWvCJTyDh18jmTXzaQOqQS4o98cp6oIiW9pSGpiV-F-oNvF8rkl6iVcHF7Ah1prru4beLKuA-Ci6JjKcOikCI1EWBjiHRH3AABoJsjAR4qacsFUscLMcLA/s1600/turtle+garden+2019.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="936" data-original-width="1600" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVVAnSAkMD_zS4vfczjOkuiWWvCJTyDh18jmTXzaQOqQS4o98cp6oIiW9pSGpiV-F-oNvF8rkl6iVcHF7Ah1prru4beLKuA-Ci6JjKcOikCI1EWBjiHRH3AABoJsjAR4qacsFUscLMcLA/s400/turtle+garden+2019.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Live frogs and turtles are welcomed here, but also fake frogs and turtles.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSs9W-qAXYXgP74-DVmCexRpobqZfulql6ON7kGnqGqJka0SDbOnKiHTwSYS-k3L6XjwLrvbsxpDFD13IN8LcyCSj9utFMaYphMxw11hDVS5McuSs6Ft6PrKZw8StszpmYwZntPkdX1DE/s1600/phlox+2019.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1461" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSs9W-qAXYXgP74-DVmCexRpobqZfulql6ON7kGnqGqJka0SDbOnKiHTwSYS-k3L6XjwLrvbsxpDFD13IN8LcyCSj9utFMaYphMxw11hDVS5McuSs6Ft6PrKZw8StszpmYwZntPkdX1DE/s320/phlox+2019.jpeg" width="292" /></a></div>
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<b>HEADLINE</b>: Metal Daisy grabs her fifteen minutes of fame by photobombing Miss Phlox and Miss Lily's photo.<br />
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That's all. Just a little unlife in my gardens.</div>
T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-19984493154758155732019-04-24T09:23:00.000-05:002019-04-24T09:23:18.819-05:00A steady pace...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcIgebrXYdB1bNb9mc68qJbkDBLvJ4vJaiMcMlQWPvB6AMzCS-zYePsLbjQeWMztmygepCOZ5kZ6xZzNqY0Tt9AOc65wvnlFim3Zf1kR0MUQZt6q-ky35cQ9ys59I0fvxKO9OKIJByNQ/s1600/230B772D-6207-4BC7-9C4B-32DB932BD187.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="390" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcIgebrXYdB1bNb9mc68qJbkDBLvJ4vJaiMcMlQWPvB6AMzCS-zYePsLbjQeWMztmygepCOZ5kZ6xZzNqY0Tt9AOc65wvnlFim3Zf1kR0MUQZt6q-ky35cQ9ys59I0fvxKO9OKIJByNQ/s400/230B772D-6207-4BC7-9C4B-32DB932BD187.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">and a little slimy is the </span><a href="https://nature.mdc.mo.gov/discover-nature/field-guide/ramshorn-snails" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Missouri snail</span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">, at my place.</span> </div>
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T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-8415065070514307712018-10-28T21:04:00.003-05:002018-10-28T21:04:38.415-05:00Designer Halloween?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52I_h_v-1JhV566WlubXAcHFYHrVSSDS2e81Sfy_dlQK693_i7y7-58EgeveFZWFsmD2Wv3dw3_MJrJS_bIUrTxUaVe7F2zULAf8fGM-3eMUzFxE0dc2qUJr0QjtGXoyXjlcPsgB_BJk/s1600/me+halloween+1990+.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="646" data-original-width="482" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52I_h_v-1JhV566WlubXAcHFYHrVSSDS2e81Sfy_dlQK693_i7y7-58EgeveFZWFsmD2Wv3dw3_MJrJS_bIUrTxUaVe7F2zULAf8fGM-3eMUzFxE0dc2qUJr0QjtGXoyXjlcPsgB_BJk/s320/me+halloween+1990+.jpeg" width="238" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">What is as stressful as helping your child make an original Valentine's Day card box for a </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">school party, a box like no other child will have, something formed in your child’s mind that might win a prize? It’s
a Halloween costume!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Halloween is just as stressful.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Back in the day, I either made my
children’s costumes or made part of it to go with whatever they purchased to wear. I made parts of their costumes for economic reasons, but I guess Dr. Lovely Daughter imagined her costumes were a result of designer couture. With Halloween approaching, she reminded me that as a child she felt sorry for the kids who had to wear the thin nylon costumes for Halloween. She felt that the purchased outfits did not measure up to hers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">You just never know what's going on in a child's mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Fast forward to the present. My Halloweens are easy peasy these days. All I have do for Halloween is</span><span style="font-family: '"courier new"', '"courier"', monospace;">... </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">try not to eat the candy before the trick-or-treaters arrive, except,... <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">my trick-or-treaters are four grandkids (two these days) and a couple of other kids
who show up. I have no idea who the other kids are. They are different children each year and are usually a couple of random kids accepting candy from a
random stranger who has her porch light on. Nothing wrong with that idea, I guess.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The low attendance numbers at my door could be blamed on a city wide candy giveaway, the Saturday before (or on) Halloween (depending), where the kids dress up, visit safe stations of reputable businesses, organizations and churches and all at one easy location. I guess I have to be okay with that one. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Here are a couple of pictures of my babies and
their costumes from Halloween past. And if you're wondering, the first picture (above) is of me in 1990. The bank that I worked for asked that we dress up for Halloween Day. I couldn't afford to buy a costume and my kid's Halloween stuff so I made my vampire dress and bought cheap makeup and hair powder. I look very little like the young woman in that photo. Instead of putting gray in my hair today, I... well never mind. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">This Halloween was in 1987. My son wore his (authentic) karate uniform. I made his mask and hood. We bought the toy nunchucks. My daughter is a kitty cat. She wore her dance leotard and tights. All I did with this costume was buy the mask and attach pipe cleaners to the mask for whiskers. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Fast forward three years to 1990 and here are my beautiful (cough cough) kiddos. I will not tell Dr. Lovely Daughter that I'm pretty certain she's wearing one of those thin nylon dresses in this one. As I look at this photo, I've never been so scared of my children. :) </span><br />
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T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-28337951733416077192018-10-21T21:48:00.002-05:002018-10-21T21:48:20.183-05:00Halloween and a Brown Paper Sack<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifhx2uEG0qiuzibmyZpaC5WR-59edIiY9kwXCYQPPPJqNskYCQUNuUVrMRFpZadPPbAoCxBxbL7LRPR6S0K_qKde0qimB3ENvKJ-GrvIbI7avySYGEf9VzXoZQJwaWPHL89XgQWIuv-Vo/s1600/me+ronnie+sack+head+copyright.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="582" data-original-width="874" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifhx2uEG0qiuzibmyZpaC5WR-59edIiY9kwXCYQPPPJqNskYCQUNuUVrMRFpZadPPbAoCxBxbL7LRPR6S0K_qKde0qimB3ENvKJ-GrvIbI7avySYGEf9VzXoZQJwaWPHL89XgQWIuv-Vo/s320/me+ronnie+sack+head+copyright.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">You might have seen this photo before, on one of my blogs, and read the title thinking that my post is
about this photo. It is not! Was this click bait? You decide while I
tell my next story.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When we moved from
our rural town in Missouri to Washington, Illinois, my mom was so protective of
her children that it often got on my child nerves. Of course, I thought I knew better
than she did. I mean all of my friends roamed the city, and they were still alive.
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sometimes, it takes
growing up, and maybe having your own children, to appreciate your parents and all of
the things that they did for you. Funny how that works.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(You can read about
my rural to city move in <i><a href="https://theruralhood.blogspot.com/2016/08/trading-lives_30.html"><span style="color: blue;">Trading Lives</span></a></i>, if you wish.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One Halloween
evening, dressed in our purchased masks, my brother and I
were allowed to grab a <b>brown paper</b> (grocery) <b>sack</b> and go trick-or-treating, outside
of our neighborhood. I don’t remember Mom or Dad tagging along with us, because we were with a group of neighborhood kids, but
maybe they did. They might have been walking our sister around, if she was old enough, but my guess is that Mom took her around our own neighborhood. Here's another reason I don't think Mom or Dad was with us. Mom told me to keep an eye on my brother that night. I was
around 10 1/2 years old (I think),and the brother would
have been seven. <b>Dear Readers</b>, keeping an eye on him was like trying to hold onto a tadpole in water. I often failed. He was in perpetual motion always and NEVER listened to
me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That night the streets and
sidewalks filled up fast with kids out to find candy. We must have been limited
to the three block area that led to my elementary school since I don’t
remember going any farther. The streetlights showed
the way for costumed kids who roamed, giggled and yelled trick-or-treat. I had
one panic moment when I lost sight of my brother. He had slipped away, folded into the night of Mardi Gras style Halloween-ing. Soon
we caught up with him and his little friend knocking on a door. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One of the houses
that we stopped at that evening set off my creepster meter. We knocked
on the door. A man opened it and told the group that he would not give
us treats unless we did a trick for him and his wife first. (I can still
see the living room in my mind.) The man motioned for us to enter
and my brother immediately dashed inside the room, like they were old
friends. One of the more sassy kids in our group challenged the man, saying
that trick or treat didn't mean that we had to do a trick for candy. It meant
that if he didn't give us candy, then we could do tricks on him like
toilet paper their trees and other things that I can't remember. The man
belly laughed. He was amused, but repeated his request. We do a
trick and we would get our candy treats. Then...our entire group of kids
filed into their small living room. From one to another, down the line, my “candy
colleagues” did their tricks. Some whistled. Some hopped on one foot. Others sang songs. For the life of me, I don’t remember doing anything and
maybe I didn't. I was super shy. However, I do remember getting a regular
sized candy bar out of the deal. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Through the evening,
we ran from house to house, carrying our containers of candy. At one point the
large brown sack that some of us toted became too full to carry.
Some of us ran to our houses on Hamilton Street to grab another bag and
return where we'd left off. We only hit a few additional houses after that and it was time to go home.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGo0X6oTacfUYB3YjtSR7WqxmEeioIkbIiATfASM166dKyk6Kj-SCZ8x_WZOENacy3aYpGAuTMpzNpnws0bLUAnyoCi_PdVFCtbwuLumc4q-u1H8Omh51M23TFfd46r_lWcKyjmjtbDnk/s1600/halloween+sibs+and+me+Illinois.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="490" data-original-width="609" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGo0X6oTacfUYB3YjtSR7WqxmEeioIkbIiATfASM166dKyk6Kj-SCZ8x_WZOENacy3aYpGAuTMpzNpnws0bLUAnyoCi_PdVFCtbwuLumc4q-u1H8Omh51M23TFfd46r_lWcKyjmjtbDnk/s320/halloween+sibs+and+me+Illinois.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I will be honest and tell you that I don't know if these are the costumes we wore that night, but this picture was taken while we lived on Hamilton Street. I'm the troll in the back. Troll dolls were really "in" at that time. I think my sister was wearing a spider man mask. My brother's mask might be a werewolf. I'm guessing.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Back at home, I
remember dad saying the candy needed to be looked at before we ate it since
some people were now putting razor blades in candy bars and apples. It was a
sad day to hear this news. I immediately thought of the creepy man who
gave out great candy bars after the performances, but kept my creepster meter to myself. A kid can't say too much to adults when there is candy involved.
My mom told us to share our haul with our baby sister. I never minded sharing candy with her. She was little and sweet. At some
point, I dumped all of my collected candy on the bed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I don't remember even considering razor blades as I ate a bunch of candy that night. The apples were no problem either since I didn't eat even one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What a haul!</span></div>
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T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-28057884481284773422018-10-04T06:54:00.000-05:002018-10-04T06:54:30.947-05:00Laura Ingalls Wilder and more pictures<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Summer 2018, I visited Mansfield, MO (again) where <a href="http://lauraingallswilderhome.com/">Laura Ingalls Wilder</a> lived with her husband Almanzo and their daughter Rose, on Rocky Ridge Farm. I visit the homes at least once a year, sometimes two. I'm obsessed with the author of my favorite books. This last summer (2018) I revisited the Wilder grave sites in a local cemetary. You can find that post prior to this one.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The new museum pictured here was dedicated in 2016. I was there. Very exciting. I normally start my visits at the museum which is downhill from the farmhouse then walk to the first house. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Here are a couple of pictures from this summer's visit. These are of the outside of the museum.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: small;"><span style="text-align: center;">The precious family in this photo (also visiting) gave a more authentic feel to the place in their normal everyday attire. </span>I love the natural flowers growing on the slope of the front yard. You can't see it, but the family is standing on a sidewalk that winds around to the top and takes you to the front door, just in case you can't climb the stairs in front. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It's a beautiful uphill walk that winds around the yard. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">And there she is, the Wilder Farmhouse. A beautiful home, handcrafted by Almanzo and Laura. They both lived long lives in a place that they loved and built together. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">More next time on my visit to the Laura Ingalls Wilder sites in Mansfield, Missouri, USA. </span></div>
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T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-6618142989980891482018-07-07T12:32:00.000-05:002018-07-07T12:32:12.522-05:00Laura Ingalls Wilder Gravesite<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I had every intention of posting about an ice storm that occurred in my rural area (no, not today) since it's sooo hot here right now. It's not finished, so I will share pictures from my last visit to the <a href="http://lauraingallswilderhome.com/">Wilder sites in Mansfield, Missouri</a>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Not long ago, I made one of my two yearly treks to the Laura and Almanzo homes in Mansfield, Missouri. However, in this post I will share the photos of the cemetery where Almanzo, Laura and their daughter Rose are laid to rest.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I kind of like Cemeteries. They never freak me out except for one that I visited when trying to locate a relative. Normally, I feel peaceful. And I especially love it when graves are full of flowers and the gravesite of Laura and family members was beautifully decorated.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cemetery where the Wilder family is buried.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful setting.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The Wilders have a chain draped around their grave sites and boxwood planted on two sides. Mr. and Mrs. Wilder is on the left (as you look at the screen and the arrow)and Rose Wilder Lane on the right. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Gifts from fans adorn the top of the Wilder stone. Some might find this disrespectful. I find it sweet and meaningful. Laura would have liked the gesture, I think.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daughter, Rose Wilder Lane grave </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">This is the back of Rose's stone. Fan gifts on top, too. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">As you may remember, Laura Ingalls Wilder was the first author that impacted my (reading) life. I still read her books when I'm stressed. The first book was read to me in a classroom. When I read one of Laura's books on my own, I was in fourth grade. After that, I decided to write Laura a letter to tell her how much I liked reading her books. I then found out she had already died. Although, I do love Laura, her daughter Rose is more interesting to me and a person that I would have like to have known. She was talented and spunky. I like spunky. Rose was ahead of her time in forging the way for women to work in careers of their choice. She wrote a boatload of articles for magazines and papers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">That's it for now. I'll post other photos of the houses, museum and countryside in the future. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Teresa</span></div>
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<br />T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-17926132039885432802018-06-22T21:36:00.000-05:002018-06-22T21:36:10.974-05:00Laura Ingalls Wilder's Quilt Block Patterns<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP0H9FAt1teGfPa3XOg9fHbueF4-X3dxTTLOdLCr9g9fJFunx602cZdqNbQXU5JVz_Wzle6_oOof3_3DK6VCbMaYkHUWaWnvh3bxSc2cR4RiQlx4JecLeswYKlaHNnBpNXLglXf1Dnspg/s1600/Laura%2527s+house+copyrighted+.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP0H9FAt1teGfPa3XOg9fHbueF4-X3dxTTLOdLCr9g9fJFunx602cZdqNbQXU5JVz_Wzle6_oOof3_3DK6VCbMaYkHUWaWnvh3bxSc2cR4RiQlx4JecLeswYKlaHNnBpNXLglXf1Dnspg/s400/Laura%2527s+house+copyrighted+.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">For years I’ve visited the Laura and Almanzo Wilder <span style="text-align: center;">Rocky Ridge Farm</span> site in
Mansfield MO, sometimes twice a year. When my children were young, we took them to visit and learn about Laura and her family. At that time, we visited the old museum and toured the farmhouse.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">A new <a href="http://theruralhood.blogspot.com/2016/05/laura-ingalls-wilder-love.html">museum</a> was built in 2016, a short distance from the farmhouse, but I still have fond memories of the old and tiny museum.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The farmhouse is wonderful. Almanzo Wilder built the kitchen countertops to accommodate Laura's short stature even though he wasn't that tall either. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh_sjcg2o8MAgV2KF7_RCWANVzRKmzEHU6uzPJaZFQ-x8oTdnpMouViNwzkgf5tnpxkHFUS30k785pPpJpnFNXHPBu-lawgXzdujDgtve3zYyFdc9ZsFpsxrfvnVisDtA1Lt_uzArCwUo/s1600/appliquepillow2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" data-original-height="189" data-original-width="202" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh_sjcg2o8MAgV2KF7_RCWANVzRKmzEHU6uzPJaZFQ-x8oTdnpMouViNwzkgf5tnpxkHFUS30k785pPpJpnFNXHPBu-lawgXzdujDgtve3zYyFdc9ZsFpsxrfvnVisDtA1Lt_uzArCwUo/s320/appliquepillow2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">I made this pillow from an applique pattern purchased </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">at </span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">the bookstore. The pillow</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;"> is about 12x12 inches.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;"></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">The lace you see </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">is another pillow behind it. </span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">For </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">the appliqué, I used </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">the zig zag stitch on </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">my sewing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">machine. The stem and </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">leaf detail </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">I hand embroidered.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In the Little House books, Laura talks about not liking to sew when she had to make clothing, sheets for the beds, underwear, quilts and just about anything they needed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new";">I've sewn "stuff" since my junior high school years. Laura's creations have always interested me. (Some are shown in the Mansfield Museum.)Of course, I've used sewing machines to sew, but back then Laura sewed by hand. Later her pa gave her ma a sewing machine, but they were experts in sewing things by hand. Each time I leave the Wilder farm, </span><span style="font-family: "courier new";">I leave inspired to create. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Through the years, I decided to buy a couple of Laura's quilt block patterns from the bookstore. I continue to dream of producing quilts on a regular basis because they are useful and it's a useful skill. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUO6UDZP4pN3yvFgomt2H4t7iXVbRVZvqbL0IDSoMzerY9he3g5uwbaP2QEQEogs4MrSZQYaGZgkSjcqJdt5fNE-_C0mjYqSPUxl8NTIcApxxPRsYUkBFgKBOiVXzeuOa2teat4sKZhgE/s1600/Laura%2527s+Old+Bear%2527s+Claw+.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="935" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUO6UDZP4pN3yvFgomt2H4t7iXVbRVZvqbL0IDSoMzerY9he3g5uwbaP2QEQEogs4MrSZQYaGZgkSjcqJdt5fNE-_C0mjYqSPUxl8NTIcApxxPRsYUkBFgKBOiVXzeuOa2teat4sKZhgE/s320/Laura%2527s+Old+Bear%2527s+Claw+.jpeg" width="186" /></a><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The first pattern I purchased was the bear's paw pattern either in the late 1990s or early 2000s for $1.00 from the bookstore. I must confess that I have not made anything from this one. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Another time, I purchased a flower appliqué pattern that I've made a couple of pillows from (pictured above). One I gave to my sister and the other to my daughter.</span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">It’s a simple design and not much work,
but I still think it’s pretty. I still have that pattern, just not sure where it is.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Last weekend, I visited the Laura Ingalls Wilder homes and gravesite again in Mansfield, MO. I bought another quilt block pattern, this time a nine patch for $2.50. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">If you're interested in Laura Ingalls Wilder, I will be posting more on that trip in the weeks to come. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">~Teresa</span></div>
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T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-51364894689021865792018-06-09T00:30:00.000-05:002018-06-09T00:30:05.529-05:00Indian Creek<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: xx-small;">March 2018</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Creeks and rivers were (and are) a source of entertainment, in the Ruralhood. Actually, “city folk” borrow our waterways all the time for swimming, fishing, skiing, boating and canoeing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Both sets of my grandparents lived near creeks. The Powell farm was located near Douisenberry Creek. </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The Dugan farm was near Indian Creek. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The only time that I ever swam, for real, was in a deeper part (maybe 3-4 foot depth) of Indian Creek and most of my so-called swimming was underwater.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">One memory I have of Indian Creek was a summer when I had been given a (hand-me-down) one piece swimsuit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I would have been around ten or eleven and if so we might have been living in Illinois and visiting.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Xd0d60tygywBOTN5ApTbBvanB23tIRRV5bkgK-UfiCb093FH8nOpPLquGoUFJb1mUEDwZo0_0ikyppv6Vob2uPVSgh2yJLX1_FmftnolDyvLZPNRuIVkaUs0dXSJ8A0eQGKvLeC9Gk2-/s1600/Indian+Creek+West+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><strong><img border="0" data-original-height="970" data-original-width="1600" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Xd0d60tygywBOTN5ApTbBvanB23tIRRV5bkgK-UfiCb093FH8nOpPLquGoUFJb1mUEDwZo0_0ikyppv6Vob2uPVSgh2yJLX1_FmftnolDyvLZPNRuIVkaUs0dXSJ8A0eQGKvLeC9Gk2-/s320/Indian+Creek+West+2.JPG" width="320" /></strong></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><strong><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The creek on the side where we usually </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">played.</span></strong></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><strong><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> </span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">That day, my brother, my cousins (that lived with my Grandma Sadie) and me walked from my Grandma’s house down the gravel road to the creek.</span> <span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">My sister was there, too, but toddlerish. </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The adults</span> <span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">going along</span> </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">were my mom and my aunt (married to my mom’s brother) who lived with my grandma. In the back of my mind, I</span> <span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">also see my Grandma, but that one I’m not sure about because I don’t remember her saying anything. I may have mentioned before that on any given weekend there were always cousins, from out of town, to play or hang out with so there could have been additional aunts and cousins, at the creek, on this day. I do remember a creek full of kids.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">That day, we splashed and play, laughed and swam. At one point my Aunt Glenda did her whistle thing that (trust me) always got our attention. She told us to get out of the water, that there was a snake swimming towards us. I remember looking at my mom who was standing on the bridge with my aunt, but said nothing. There was no panic or squeals, but an orderly (splashing) exit from the water. Then we stood on the gravel bar to watch and giggle as the <a href="https://nature.mdc.mo.gov/discover-nature/field-guide/northern-cottonmouth">water moccasin</a> swam with the current under the bridge. Once the snake had passed our area, with no sign of returning, my aunt gave the all clear to jump back in, and we did.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I had seen many snakes in my young life but this was the first time seeing a cool but venomous snake swimming in the water. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">In the creek and river alike there were critters to see and some to dodge. <a href="https://nature.mdc.mo.gov/discover-nature/general-species-information/amphibian-and-reptile-facts/toad-and-frog-facts">Frogs and toads</a> were always jumping in the water around us, sometimes with no provocation and sometimes because we scared them. </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">There were <a href="https://nature.mdc.mo.gov/discover-nature/general-species-information/aquatic-invertebrate-facts/crayfish-facts">crawdads</a> doing their own thing under the water where our bare feet touched the bottom and navigated the rock. If we taunted them, they’d charge out from under a rock and try to pinch our bare feet. </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Although Missouri houses some 35 species of the crayfish (Missouri Department of Conservation), my family never cooked a crayfish or offered it to me to eat that I can recall. Frog legs, yes, crawdads, no. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">In the streams and rivers, there were also <a href="https://nature.mdc.mo.gov/discover-nature/field-guide/creek-chub">minnows</a> that nibbled on our legs and <a href="https://nature.mdc.mhttps//nature.mdc.mo.gov/discover-nature/field-guide/water-striderso.gov/discover-nature/field-guide/water-striders">water striders</a> (looks like spiders) that skimmed the water doing their thing, too. Being spider phobic, I felt threatened by the spidery water striders, but those creepy creatures eat mosquito larvae and are not spiders at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Recently, my mom and I visited the burial site of my dad and on the way back to her house traveled the road past her ‘old home place’ and over Indian Creek Bridge. After I crossed it, I stopped my car and told Mom that I was going to snap a picture of the creek. The bridge has been replaced, but the creek is primarily still in the same place. That day was misty with rain. I heard the flow of the water and its splashing over rocks, but except for a bit of nature noise, it was eerily quiet. At one point, I looked out over the shallow water. It was then I heard the voices of children laughing and people talking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">There was no one in sight. I got a little creeped out. Then </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I hurried back to my SUV and told my mom what I’d heard. She had heard nothing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I do have a vivid imagination, but just in case it was voices from the past, I left Indian Creek behind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New;">Teresa</span></div>
T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-32054220215172402572018-05-19T00:30:00.000-05:002018-05-19T00:30:16.247-05:00Bubblegum, a Store and Tar<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This post appeared on my other blog in
2009, but belongs at The Ruralhood. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There
was not a nicer man than Ernie the storekeeper. Growing up in a rural area, his
store was located diagonally from my childhood home, across the highway. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When my brother was old enough, we
would sit together on the slope of our yard and watch people buy gas and
groceries at the store. There were days when Ernie would step outside the store, walk to
the edge of the sticky tarred highway and toss Bazooka™ bubblegum to us. He
would announce that he was going to throw it our way and that we needed to
catch the wrapped gum. We would race to our yard’s boundary limit and proceed to
catch the gum. I can’t remember ever catching the gum in the air. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ve
always been a people watcher and loved spying on the patrons when they visited
the store. I also loved visiting the small country store filled with counters
of candy and shelves with other food items. Oh and let’s not forget the pop
cooler. RC Cola™ was my favorite. Outside the men would sit on a bench visiting.
Inside the store, the women would shop and the men could also sit near the
woodstove, hot or cold, at the back of the store where the post office was
located. Everyone seemed to know your name and
your family. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As
I grew older, I was thrilled to be chosen to cross the highway to get our mail.
I was told to hold the mail tightly, so not to lose it. When spring turned to
summer, I would shake my shoes and go barefoot all summer long. (My feet still
cry when cold weather arrives in MO and I have to stuff my feet in regular shoes.) Not
only was I instructed to be careful with the mail, I was also told to look both
ways for traffic and then run fast over the highway. And I did. I would run like heck over
the bubbly hot and sticky tarred surface that paved the highway. My feet did suffer some minor burns, but I was always up for the exciting challenge. By the time I returned to
our side of the highway, the bottom of my feet were coated with hot tar, gravel (from
the road that ran in front of the store) and grass (from our yard). I didn't share with Mom that the road burned my feet because she might have made
me wear shoes. I would meet mom at the front door, deliver the mail, then find
a shady place in the grass to pick the offenders from my (not so
tender) soles. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This picture of the store was taken six
to seven years ago when I was photographing my grandchildren. Today, most of
the front half has caved in. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Even
though the store is a mess and Ernie is long gone, he is not forgotten by me.
As long as we tell the stories of the places and people that filled our childhood, they
will be remembered. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Childhood
is only a whisper in time. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Spread
the memories! </span></div>
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T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-32754848342789443032018-05-12T00:30:00.000-05:002018-05-12T00:30:03.753-05:00The Mary Tyler Moore in MeDuring my high school years, a friend and I were looking through some of my childhood photos. He told me that he thought some of those pictures looked like the actress Mary Tyler Moore.<br />
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Like this one.<br />
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I argued, but I saw it, too.</div>
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And this one.</div>
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This one, too.</div>
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But I didn't see it in this picture, still don't. All I see is an awkward girl morphing, lips growing fuller ( thanks, Mom!) and hair getting its red tint (thanks, Dad!). </div>
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Mary Tyler Moore! One of my favorite actresses. No relation, no MTM talent, but perhaps a slight resemblance to a wonderful actress.</div>
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T.T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-64297033126520655252018-05-06T07:39:00.000-05:002018-05-06T07:39:10.968-05:00Young Marrieds<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I should post this now while the memory is still clear. The snowy part of the lingering 2018 winter reminded me of my first bad weather related experience while driving. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">As young married people, eighteen years old, we were hardly a step away from childhood and most definitely not old enough to navigate or cope with life issues without more instruction or experience. Right decisions were iffy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The year before I married, I traded in my light green 1965 Ford
Mustang for an orange </span><a href="https://www.allpar.com/amc/gremlin.html"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">AMC Gremlin</span></a><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">. Neither car traveled well on Missouri snow covered
roads. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">A week or so before we married, in February, a snow storm visited our area. Soon after that, we had another. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1-S-h4BaaNcnvfheat22__wDa-Db0sbpUZU95WPjVl7Kud5Pr0gdEAIE2UQjBctGDnkr0Wx1wSSnvPDa_9heKnz8Lvh2uNiVjVG0rBWqWs2mjRnKgU-63s6XPKFg0jU3pO_n2iYXKmw/s1600/Me+and+King.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><img border="0" data-original-height="692" data-original-width="876" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1-S-h4BaaNcnvfheat22__wDa-Db0sbpUZU95WPjVl7Kud5Pr0gdEAIE2UQjBctGDnkr0Wx1wSSnvPDa_9heKnz8Lvh2uNiVjVG0rBWqWs2mjRnKgU-63s6XPKFg0jU3pO_n2iYXKmw/s320/Me+and+King.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;">This is clearly not a snowstorm, but shows you</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;">how young we were. Picture taken the summer after </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;">we married. In case you were wondering these </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;">were the longest shorts that we owned. <span style="font-family: "courier new";">😏 </span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The snow fell fast through the early morning hours. </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">My new husband had left our
home, located near a cool truck stop, with his carpool buddies and headed to his
welding job forty miles away. I worked at a garment factory in a small town
five miles from home. I</span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">n spite of dangerous road conditions, I knew that my attendance was
required in order to keep my job.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The first road I pulled out on was the main highway, in front of our house and
snow covered. I traveled slow speeds to the small town where I worked and used the more traveled streets to get to the final street, leading
to my workplace.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">That particular street was the worst. No plowing had been done. </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">As my orange car struggled through the snow, the back end slid right and left. I tried correcting, but didn't know what I was doing. When I reached the sharp corner that led up the small hill to the factory, I accelerated, not because I thought it would help, but because I was scared that I wouldn't make it. Once I reached the nearly empty parking lot, I saw that the lot had been plowed, but was still a mess from packed and falling snow covering everything again. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I drive my Gremlin as close to the door as I can and stop against
a mound of plowed snow. </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Feeling weak, sick to my stomach and the need to cry, I rested my forehead on the steering wheel. In those moments, I considered just leaving without saying anything to my supervisor, but I'd gotten that far so I trekked through the snow to the building. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Inside, I found Carol at her desk. I told her that I was going back home, that I barely made it there, and the roads were horrible to travel. Her face showed surprise and I thought that I would be fired for my word vomiting. Instead, she told me to go back home and that I shouldn't have tried coming in. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Back in the car, I turn around and headed down the snowy hill without much trouble. </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The next corner was another story. To clear the corner, I needed to find a compromise between slowing down and speeding up. All went well until I cleared the corner and needed to accelerate again. The tires spun some and I gassed it. The car made it a couple more feet before stalling in the middle of the street. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Out of nowhere, a man showed up at my window and knocked, and I cranked down the window. Sn</span></span>ow blew inside the window hitting me and the man in the face. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">“You got it stuck!</span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> We'll push you out, but once we get it free, you've gotta gun it." </span>He motioned to another man standing behind my car. Both were bundled up in coats, gloves and hat. "Keep it rolling until
you get wherever you’re going.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I thanked him, rolled the
window up and waited until the back of my car rocked. When it moved forward a bit, one of the men pounded on the car and I gassed it. The car moved forward, and I drove on down the street, the lightweight backend still swaying side to side. When I saw the stop sign at the end of the street, I gassed it more, prayed and glanced in the rearview mirror for the men, but they had disappeared. I kept the car going, drove through the stop sign at the end of the street without stopping and up on the next better plowed street. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Five miles later, I passed the truck stop where several
semi-trucks idled in the parking lot, perhaps waiting on drivers eating breakfast or waiting out the storm. Ahead of me, I see the prize: my little house and
its driveway! I remember saying out loud, “When I get home, I will never
leave again.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: 'courier new', courier, monospace;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'courier new', courier, monospace;">In the distance, I also see a big rig barreling down the highway coming in my
direction. Believing at that moment that I should not wait on the truck to pass or I would get stuck again in the middle of the highway, my feeble mindset influenced the heaviness of my foot and I accelerate the car to get in the driveway. It was at that moment that my car bucks and slides
sideways, in the road. I don't look again at the massive vehicle coming towards me. Instead, I take my hands off the steering wheel in surrender. In that odd moment, a calm filled me. I pressed the gas petal and the car jets into the snow packed driveway and stops. The semi-truck blows its horn at me as it passes which did not make me feel any better.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">For a few minutes, I sat in my car, head on the steering wheel and sobbed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Not knowing me, you might think I vowed to
never drive on snow covered roads again. In spite of a desperate declaration
of never leaving home again, I did leave, and I became more determined to conquer
inclement weather driving. Don't get me wrong, I don’t like driving in the pouring rain, icy or on snow covered roads, but over the years I've made myself drive it as needed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I don't like feeling a hostage to anything.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I learned my share of lessons that day. God took care of me the entire way in spite of myself and still does. I learned about angels in human form coming to the rescue, my first experience, but not my last. </span>At eighteen, I
learned about the fighter in me who surfaced that day. I will need that fighter spirit again and again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">T.</span></div>
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T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-70797706297695460342018-04-20T21:53:00.000-05:002018-04-20T21:53:18.053-05:00Slides to DVD Experience <div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgny9TI5jOZdgpNAl5K2hzK9t9bkjao8mTXUGxTBIT5A87OdbEBAYMo70PcfK35tO7C__uJFAyumq6YT5rwKAMfUyvvdHPTsMnuIqNA_ysQjvVdxJJfn620Rlx7KVGOLXhDIuQTQhj_aVw/s1600/slides+.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1320" data-original-width="1600" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgny9TI5jOZdgpNAl5K2hzK9t9bkjao8mTXUGxTBIT5A87OdbEBAYMo70PcfK35tO7C__uJFAyumq6YT5rwKAMfUyvvdHPTsMnuIqNA_ysQjvVdxJJfn620Rlx7KVGOLXhDIuQTQhj_aVw/s320/slides+.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In a spare bedroom closet on a shelf, in my bedroom under my bed and in the attic, I found approximately a hundred and twenty some slides. All were taken with my 35mm camera purchased in 1978. Since I needed prints from them before I could finish my photo albums, I researched online and felt like Walmart could do the job, but it wasn't as easy as it sounds. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Store 1: The first Walmart store photo area that I stopped by told me to come back later when another person would be there who could give me the information that I needed. Since I don't live in that town I couldn't come back later that day. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Store 2: The next WM store, in another town, said they couldn't do it there, that I would need to go to a bigger store. I left, but was pretty darn sure they could do it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Store 3: The next and final store that I tried, the photo clerk frowned at me and said, "I'm not sure we do that." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I said, "Yes, you do. The website says so." Then right before my eyes a brochure appeared (like Harry Potter magic) in a rack on the counter. I pulled it out, scanned it and found the area that informed on transferring slides to a DVD. "This is what I need." I sounded more confident than I felt. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">She too read the brochure, told me to bundle them in bunches of 40 when I brought them back. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The next time I traveled to that town, I took my bundled slides hoping for no more resistance. The associate helped me through using the slooooow kiosk and the packaging. It took about three weeks to transfer from one media to the other. At some point, I received an email to look at them online. Then someone from the store called me to say my order was in! When I picked them up, the same associate remembered me. She somberly told me some of the photographs were faded. I grinned and said, "That's okay because some of the slides are nearly forty years old." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">The DVD, full of images, is a gift. There are pictures I don't remember taking and others forgotten until I saw them again.</span> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3vcXD8iGIekwSQLphRK75JS6tlHPjLudSWSrKzwdaOCwC4KWjxVQHD9e4iiVrtdqzAAssxqWRMcb-_BFQNqbwziSATWPBwldoJcn71Jywem5U5Iv3gDsyDO5cbOMSvzptuAJcnRWVwzw/s1600/Bran+and+Tess+Eastercopyright.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="682" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3vcXD8iGIekwSQLphRK75JS6tlHPjLudSWSrKzwdaOCwC4KWjxVQHD9e4iiVrtdqzAAssxqWRMcb-_BFQNqbwziSATWPBwldoJcn71Jywem5U5Iv3gDsyDO5cbOMSvzptuAJcnRWVwzw/s400/Bran+and+Tess+Eastercopyright.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">This cute picture of my son and daughter was taken at Easter one year. A Chuck Norris, action figure, was in my son's basket. Little sis needed baby doll supplies. Both received those multi-ink pens. I love my kids, but my eyes are drawn to my wallpaper and paneling. My cabinets are now white and there is no wallpaper or paneling. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiCy9GIzD0hPuD0gOrcJNuXLStXjY-p26sE9Zz97zOc59VQJOupgX0F84nUm101p2618CAsMq14WQuzrfYiFLVHa0Ezwkbxw5VbJ1mbVYGAWZ1qGzi8GyGd1kmMoVkLt-ehIHZfwO10mc/s1600/parakeets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="682" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiCy9GIzD0hPuD0gOrcJNuXLStXjY-p26sE9Zz97zOc59VQJOupgX0F84nUm101p2618CAsMq14WQuzrfYiFLVHa0Ezwkbxw5VbJ1mbVYGAWZ1qGzi8GyGd1kmMoVkLt-ehIHZfwO10mc/s400/parakeets.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I could tell you a story about Mr. and Mrs. Parakeet, if I could remember them. I don't know if I took a picture of my neighbor's birds (which I highly doubt) or if I zeroed out the memory of owning these beauties.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXqBX6URHliQ3Ea50c-9lOQfxdsG02kTA0iFFmmRzTw2hJt_2g1HL5ojTt8LpGHov9ZBauE_sChxP66E8kV8lvlt76kz6nXNtl17-L9XRkhEA3HHcg88IEMWB4k4q_Xbiv6DKMd4ec-IM/s1600/Tessa+with+sucker+copyright.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="682" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXqBX6URHliQ3Ea50c-9lOQfxdsG02kTA0iFFmmRzTw2hJt_2g1HL5ojTt8LpGHov9ZBauE_sChxP66E8kV8lvlt76kz6nXNtl17-L9XRkhEA3HHcg88IEMWB4k4q_Xbiv6DKMd4ec-IM/s320/Tessa+with+sucker+copyright.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I call this photo: The tootsie roll caper. My daughter is hiding her sucker behind her back. She's got some good hair going on there.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3V1o_8ke2eg9FD8KsQrcQ2yz1ZfgJkG1WQg9xEW9em0Axm-YUl1PaWlD1LajxPKawT-BaV6aQLQ8zlTniDzGlOfvJLjv5Y07pRGSnsLYzTiSQHtZR-Rxk36CkPj5MuwYXkFtKz2Vzgp4/s1600/Bran+with+trike+1+with+copyright.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1537" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3V1o_8ke2eg9FD8KsQrcQ2yz1ZfgJkG1WQg9xEW9em0Axm-YUl1PaWlD1LajxPKawT-BaV6aQLQ8zlTniDzGlOfvJLjv5Y07pRGSnsLYzTiSQHtZR-Rxk36CkPj5MuwYXkFtKz2Vzgp4/s320/Bran+with+trike+1+with+copyright.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">My son on his trike.</span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Several of the slides are of my dad. Seeing new pictures of him is super meaningful.</span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Here's one of my daughter and I in matching dresses, sort of. I wasn't much into matchy stuff, but made them to make her happy. I love how I am sandwiching her tiny hand between mine.</span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Lastly is of my oldest niece of whom I love so much. She's nearly forty herself (like the slides) and physically an absolute beauty. We are no longer in contact.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">And that is my Slides to DVD Experience.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">T. </span></div>
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<br />T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-62168169209914012842018-04-11T09:35:00.000-05:002018-04-11T09:35:08.662-05:00A Year in Passing and St. Patrick's Day<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><em>(I put off posting this until now, hence the reference to St. Patrick's Day)</em></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ronnie Powell</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">St. Patrick's Day has a different meaning for me now. My dad's funeral was held on March 17, 2017, a day before my March birthday, and fitting (in my opinion) since Dad was partly Irish and redheaded. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">It’s been a year since his passing and still weird to
be at family functions without seeing his cowboy hat and hearing the click of his boots.</span> </span></span></div>
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</span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Dad's fast departure from this life was
difficult for us, but I'm glad he didn't have to suffer a long time with illness. He didn't want it that way. Dad's illnesses seemed to come fast and hard, but in reality had been percolating in the background. We were surprised by the diagnoses:
COPD (he didn’t know), lung cancer (he didn’t know that one
either until the hospital stay), pneumonia and a stroke at some point that (evidently) didn't slow him down because he never knew about the stroke. Doctors and nurses alike shook their heads regarding his
shredded lungs and how he breathed without being connected to an
oxygen tank, in his everyday life. He didn’t need the hospital oxygen either, they said, but
they had to keep it attached to him. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">He did seem superhuman at times.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">
</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">His viewing and the funeral were the best as those kind of services go. He'd joked with Mom that they would have to pay people to come to their funerals, since over the years they'd lost a lot of family and friends, but that was far from the truth. Many people attended. Each person who waited in line told us the history of their relationship with
Dad. Most we knew, but some came as new information (at least to me). And many wanted to share a story about him. The funeral part was led by a pastor that we once knew. Dad was not a church goer, but he really liked this young fella. Evidently the feeling was mutual because they spent time together camping and hiking. Ben presented a
message that touched the hearts of most who attended the service, from our community of friends and family, the religious and nonreligious
alike.</span> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Dad didn't compliment me much, but once said that I was a
good driver. Told me he liked how I kept my house and property tidy. He loved
my children an incredible amount, told me so and showed it. On our trips together and car rides to writing classes, Dad told me stories of his youth, probably some I didn't need to hear. 😉 </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">People who have been in our lives and then die often leave their voice in our heads and claim a portion of our hearts. You'll still hear them at times influencing your actions and decisions. My dad influenced me in many ways. We both:</span> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">love writing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">like mowing our yards. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">walk fast.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">are hard workers.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">entertain a bit of the no nonsense attitude. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">love singing. He loved to sing and felt that I got my (so called) talent from him. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">have a love affair with bacon and over easy eggs. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">love buzzards. We even talked about buzzards. I do like a pretty buzzard!</span> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">When you lose someone that you love, your life has to change; there's no way around it.</span> </span>After all these years, I have no answers for overcoming grief or living without the people that we still want in our lives.</span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I suspect there is no easy answer.</span></div>
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T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-13144959593171165582018-04-01T08:28:00.000-05:002018-04-01T08:28:20.440-05:00One Sunday Morning<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My brother and I - 1961- Easter </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">As a youngster, after Sunday school in our beautiful country church, my mom, two siblings, me, my maternal grandma, cousins and aunt that lived with Grandma all sat in the same pews (one or two) for the worship service. Since my grandma (and grandpa) had eight children, the extended family was large. Added to the "family" pew each weekend were visiting family members who sometimes attended church with Grandma Sadie. Needless to say, the family pew(s) overflowed. I would like to add that these were not assigned pews, but squatted, claimed emotionally by families.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">My involvement with the family pew thing changed as I became a teenager and wandered around the church with friends, until I married.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">But this isn't a story about family pews. No. This story is about the pew that helped trap me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">We weren't the only ones that sat in the same place each Sunday. In front of us, sat three of the elder women of the church and community who often sat together. They all had fluffy white sometimes blued tinted hair which I fought to not touch because their hair 'looked' soft. (I read somewhere that women blued their hair because they didn't want their gray hair to look yellow.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">One particular Sunday, the congregation sang its hymns, stood and sat as directed. (I can still hear my grandma’s sweet singing voice.) I liked two of the ladies who sat in front of us, but the third I did not care for since she was surly to me. I witnessed her snippiness to others, too. All three of the ladies were close neighbors to us and each other. That day, a couple of things were flitting through my mind and it wasn't church related: obsessing on their soft hair and thinking on what I would do after church. I don't recall if I was singing, but I do remember running my hand over the wood of the back of the pew in front of me. That is where I left my arm, dangling over the back of the next pew when the singing stopped. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">After that last song, the song leader told us to be seated. Before I could collect both arms, the lady that wasn't so nice, fell back into her seat, slamming her body against my arm. There I stood with my
skinny little arm pinned by her back to the pew. The moment was so brief, but felt lengthy as I pondered how to free myself without talking to the surly woman. I knew she would say I shouldn't have put it there in the first place. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The woman didn't seem to notice that MY arm was the lump between her back and the seat. Maybe she thought the lump was her sweater or something because she shifted her shoulders side to side then pressed back even more against me. Suddenly, she moved again, this time forward, giving me the opportunity to pull my arm out and sit down. I looked at my mom who hadn't noticed my dilemma. She'd been in a whispering conversation with my grandma, as they sat down. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I want to point out that others thought this woman was not surly but instead likable. Somehow, she left that impression on me. </span></div>
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T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-13375006844197501302018-01-12T20:23:00.000-06:002018-01-12T20:23:16.615-06:00To Grandmother's House We Go<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">This week on FB, I posted a photo that I have hanging on a wall in my house of a road that once led to my paternal grandparents farm near Long Lane, Missouri. The road is still there. My grandparents are not and their farmhouse has since burned down.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The photo evoked emotions from some who had lived off of and traveled the road. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Those people shared their memories. One said that the trees in the photo were no longer there. A couple of people wrote about riding the school bus and playing in the creek that the road runs over and picnics. I talked about my own memories and a cabin that my dad had built overlooking the creek when he grew up there. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaqOuz_IkgkmJi2pqTX_gjigCVIqBtec8LCZZqJ97LMX5UVJKaul8pNSsbWeBUe7wfvzNwHB7m_H9wzH5yi3ifGJ4-wHMj2q28CT82Q3se-aAWvEEXEgLSijlMGZ4-gAyEPIFqG8tgLC0/s1600/Liberty+Methodist+Church.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="968" data-original-width="1342" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaqOuz_IkgkmJi2pqTX_gjigCVIqBtec8LCZZqJ97LMX5UVJKaul8pNSsbWeBUe7wfvzNwHB7m_H9wzH5yi3ifGJ4-wHMj2q28CT82Q3se-aAWvEEXEgLSijlMGZ4-gAyEPIFqG8tgLC0/s320/Liberty+Methodist+Church.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">For me, the road begins at a highway just before the small town of Long Lane and eventually passes a church with a cemetery where some of my relatives have graves. There were other ways to get to this road that turned onto the road where they lived, but we normally didn't go those routes.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSi_laALDlLcPOrnPzvJ4TQaoKqKfq9nIanj8kp4auao5uMFmChSxCoJHX9M5EVkquL4jL_HfLzWDjTxc319QW3a9ne7sF5LfkBOfaSFFd669vwcg8Bc0X8P5Otu5vKAQHKCHSOLLn4NI/s1600/No+grave+to+be+opened+with+copyright.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1002" data-original-width="1349" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSi_laALDlLcPOrnPzvJ4TQaoKqKfq9nIanj8kp4auao5uMFmChSxCoJHX9M5EVkquL4jL_HfLzWDjTxc319QW3a9ne7sF5LfkBOfaSFFd669vwcg8Bc0X8P5Otu5vKAQHKCHSOLLn4NI/s320/No+grave+to+be+opened+with+copyright.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sign on the chain link fence around the cemetery.<br />
This sign message...is good to know. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Memories are what we use when we cannot revisit something or someone. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Memories are unique for each person, personalized by experience. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427255405351747883.post-4866362251726204982018-01-06T07:02:00.001-06:002018-01-06T07:02:17.148-06:00When rewriting a story should not be done...<div style="text-align: left;">
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When I was a kid there was a game we played. We called it Gossip, but I
think the real name might be the Telephone Game. The first person whispered a
sentence or two in another person’s ear. That person whispered what they'd heard in the next ear
until the last person repeated out loud what they had heard. At that time the first person would read or repeat the actual message that had been gossiped. Usually,
what came out at the end was not the original story.<br />
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If nothing else, Gossip made us laugh. </div>
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Sometimes family stories are rewritten on purpose (to save
face) and sometimes because people cannot remember them correctly. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnR7lgv394GgqhNoI11uDyCMUVxNgk4PHJTlGp8hHbUBuewZSU9pn2grCOE7GMu5UKRNeb_HmooqfNye0CFUDfmL7txRIiNpqASQwzTFme3pu0rg13P99NpZyhEdz4HE6vtnFkXM2UhMY/s1600/mejuniorhighcropped.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="435" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnR7lgv394GgqhNoI11uDyCMUVxNgk4PHJTlGp8hHbUBuewZSU9pn2grCOE7GMu5UKRNeb_HmooqfNye0CFUDfmL7txRIiNpqASQwzTFme3pu0rg13P99NpZyhEdz4HE6vtnFkXM2UhMY/s320/mejuniorhighcropped.jpeg" width="260" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Easter outfit that year. I wore this<br />
to the graduation</td></tr>
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For years, I had told a story about staying with my grandmother
Minnie one night so that I could attend my aunt’s college graduation with her.
At the time, we didn’t have many college graduates in
the family. I knew it was a great accomplishment and wanted to go. The plan was that I would stay the night with my grandmother and the next day drive down to School of the Ozarks (now called <a href="https://www.cofo.edu/">College of the Ozarks</a>).<br />
<br />
That evening, (distant) relatives that I did not know, and had never met, out of the
blue stopped by my grandmother’s tiny two bedroom house in town. They asked if they could
stay the night. I remember four adults: the older couple, their adult son and daughter and a younger kid (although the kid could be gossip). My
grandmother cooked them dinner, fixed up the living room couch as a bed and put bedding on the carpeted floor. She didn’t want them to invite themselves along to the graduation the next day and asked me to not mention our plans.<br />
<br />
In her bedroom, Grandma told me they "mooched" off other people. She said that the younger male, probably in his early twenties, hadn't ever worked a job. And by the way, she didn't trust him, and thereby, I would be sleeping with her and give the spare bedroom to the older couple of the family. I was fine with that. She told me to bring my purse in the bedroom, too, because things went missing after their visits. To me they were odd acting people. I did what she asked. She put her poodle Trixie in it's bed between us and shut her bedroom door. The next morning Grandma fixed a monster sized breakfast with no help from anyone but me and did the dishes, then encouraged them on their way.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcO2rZ0cJSVTwANuZ2HAlmlbxG0T6d1zCV01wEhBD3i7BkUGk4iJ1Dj2TIPSxuiBvURmYvQTDxzsLtChrps10zj3uH4iZEwqfdyfWwboP2boYUicGB4YBysWhcHcNj8KmMq0MZFwKcbwc/s1600/trixie.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="509" data-original-width="281" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcO2rZ0cJSVTwANuZ2HAlmlbxG0T6d1zCV01wEhBD3i7BkUGk4iJ1Dj2TIPSxuiBvURmYvQTDxzsLtChrps10zj3uH4iZEwqfdyfWwboP2boYUicGB4YBysWhcHcNj8KmMq0MZFwKcbwc/s320/trixie.jpeg" width="176" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trixie in 1983 or 84</td></tr>
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Here’s where
I sort of rewrote the story. I've told this story many times in depth, how I slept
in my grandmother’s bed with Trixie the poodle between us in a little pet bed
made by Grandma. One day my daughter said, <em>“How could that have been Trixie?"</em><br />
<br />
Originally, Trixie was my aunt’s dog but did not have her when she graduated college. After she finished her
masters degree, she worked her way across the U.S. with a friend of hers for the experience. I believe that is when she left
Trixie with Grandma and well Trixie never went back to live with my aunt. My aunt graduated college in 1969 or 1970.
Trixie was born after that. As I think back, one of grandma’s cats was probably
in the pet bed between us, but who knows? I could be rewriting that, too.<br />
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<span style="color: blue;">Are family stories ever rewritten in your family? If so why? Bad memory? Embarrassing incident?</span> </div>
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T. Powell Coltrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02160774009926623671noreply@blogger.com4