Where Buzzards Roosted in Trees

A buzzard painting by my dad.

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.

 

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.

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 Nature’s Biohazard Carrion Cleaner-Uppers. They ate decaying animals! 

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.

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.  

Bookends carved by Dad.

We went back to my parents’ house with that promise to do it again, but we never did.

I’ll insert those pictures with this post… when I find them. 

 

Laura Ingalls Wilder: The Masters Hotel - Burr Oak, Iowa

I 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.

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 website. Because most tourist places are currently closed due to the Coronavirus pandemic, I thought I would share!

Traveling through Iowa  

It has been a few years since I dragged my adult daughter along on a trip to Iowa and the town of Burr Oak. 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.

When there were breaks in the cornfields, we were allowed glimpses of beautiful farms with houses.

Now back to the trip.

On the Road

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 Mapquest printout pages to assist me in traveling.

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!

Burr Oak

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.

There was a visitor center with items you could purchase for souvenirs.

The Masters Hotel

The Masters Hotel 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 here. 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.

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!

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. 

Have you read any of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books? Have you visited any of the historic home sites? 

Little House on the Prairie Museum - Kansas

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. 

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.

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.

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 Little House on the Prairie Museum. 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.

Before we saw the Little House on the Prairie site, we saw Independence, Kansas. 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.

Then there was this road to the Kansas homestead and museum. 

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.

A schoolhouse and another building. To the right of them is a cabin built in late 1970's.  

Here's the cabin a little closer. 

A sign!

Inside the little cabin.

Inside the school on the property. 

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.

 

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.

Visit their website for more information here. 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.

If you're interested and haven't read them here are posts regarding the Mansfield site: Laura Ingalls Wilder Gravesite, Laura Ingalls Wilder and more Pictures and Laura Ingalls Wilder Quilt Block Patterns.

Slides to DVD Experience

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. 

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. 

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.

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." 

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.

She too read the brochure, told me to bundle them in bunches of 40 when I brought them back.

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."

The DVD, full of images, is a gift. There are pictures I don't remember taking and others forgotten until I saw them again.

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.

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.

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.

My son on his trike.

Several of the slides are of my dad. Seeing new pictures of him is super meaningful.

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.

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.

And that is my Slides to DVD Experience.

T.  

A Year in Passing and St. Patrick's Day

(I put off posting this until now, hence the reference to St. Patrick's Day)

Ronnie Powell

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. 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.

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. 

He did seem superhuman at times.

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.

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. 😉

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: 

• love writing.
• like mowing our yards.
• walk fast.
• are hard workers.

• entertain a bit of the no nonsense attitude.

• love singing. He loved to sing and felt that I got my (so called) talent from him.
• have a love affair with bacon and over easy eggs.
• love buzzards. We even talked about buzzards. I do like a pretty buzzard!

When you lose someone that you love, your life has to change; there's no way around it. After all these years, I have no answers for overcoming grief or living without the people that we still want in our lives.

I suspect there is no easy answer.

T.

To Grandmother's House We Go

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.

The photo evoked emotions from some who had lived off of and traveled the road. 

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.   

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.

A sign on the chain link fence around the cemetery.
This sign message...is good to know. 

Memories are what we use when we cannot revisit something or someone. 

Memories are unique for each person, personalized by experience. 

When rewriting a story should not be done...

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.

If nothing else, Gossip made us laugh. 

Sometimes family stories are rewritten on purpose (to save face) and sometimes because people cannot remember them correctly.

My Easter outfit that year. I wore this
to the graduation

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 College of the Ozarks).

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.

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.

Trixie in 1983 or 84

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, “How could that have been Trixie?"

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.


Are family stories ever rewritten in your family? If so why? Bad memory? Embarrassing incident?

When One Moment in Time Becomes Another

I can’t remember why I was there without my other family members. Perhaps I wasn’t. Maybe, I’d ridden along with my dad, while he did something on the farm. Perhaps he’d told me my purpose for that day and I don’t remember. Maybe that purpose was for me to sit with my grandfather, his father, Hurschel Powell, while my grandmother Minnie did things around the house.

The life she’d agreed to, as a bride, was difficult. They lived miles from the nearest town, in the country, on a working farm. No telephone. That was hard enough, but now she faced an impossible thing; her husband was dying. He had Parkinson’s disease, and she had become his nurse.


At 11 or 12 years old, I did not begin that moment in time by sitting next to my grandfather’s bed. I could have, but it was too uncomfortable to look into his face. No one had told me, but I knew that my robust, congenial grandfather was in the clutches of death, from a terrible disease. So I sat nearer their regular bed, my side to his bed, donning curlers in my hair, and intent on painting my fingernails.

“What are you doing?” he said, in whispers.

I was forced to turn and look at my grandfather whose devout love for me showed in his face. He grinned and a familiar twinkle appeared in his eyes, reminding me of my dad.

“Painting my nails.”

“Can you come here and show me?”

It was like I was finally given permission to do something that I didn’t know how to do. I wasted no (more) time in pulling my chair closer to his bed. My grandfather said that he thought the polish color was pretty. He asked me if I had a date. I laughed and blushed as I always did back then. His face grew serious after that. I'm not certain why, could have been the disease, fatigue, but I think now it was because my grandfather knew he would not see me in my dating years. He would die soon after that, in his mid fifties (I think). One last thing I remember about that day was when he lifted his trembling hands to move one closer to me, but finally surrendering it to his sheeted mattress. These were the same hands that had played with his grandchildren. The same gentle hands that lifted me to sit on the tractor and picked me up to soothe my wounded finger after a turkey bit it, then calmly used the moment to teach me the importance of obedience.


Recently, I was reminded of that day when I sat by my dad’s hospital bed. I noticed how his hands reminded me of my grandfather's hands. Not long after that day, my dad, Ronnie Powell, 81 years old, passed away, and...we are sad.

Trading Lives

In the early morning hours, we leave our farmhouse, the outhouse, the best well water you’ve ever tasted, a large extended family and my best friend behind. My parents are trading a Missouri rural life for an Illinois city life, a new job for my dad at Caterpillar, a new school and a house on Hamilton Street. I feel excited for the adventure, but dread whispers a sad goodbye. 

Mom’s brother is tall, with black hair and tanned skin like her. He’s leaving his farm work behind (for someone else to do) to help us move. His wife has come along to help him haul some of our worldly possessions, in the bed of their pickup.

Along the highways, I switch from looking out of the side window of our car to the front windshield, between my dad’s red curly hair and my mom's head, to watch the pickup traveling in front of our car. Normally, my aunt and uncle fuss at each other, but on this trip, they are newlyweds again, laughing and using names like “honey” and “punkin”. At least temporarily, they trade their old relationship for a pre-marriage one. This new side, of my aunt and uncle, causes me to stare at them, much like people do when passing a car accident. 

After hours of traveling, we arrive on Hamilton Street where darkness has smothered the day and evenly spaced street lamps shed dim light. When we pull into the driveway of a dark house, my dad is the first to exit the car and enter our new home. From the car, I watch the house until blocks of light pop on inside the windows, from the back to the front. My dad appears again in the driveway, and we get out of the car to go inside. He and my uncle begin hauling our things to the house. 

Inside, I explore the unfamiliar two-story with basement, but leave both the upstairs and its basement for another day. I end up back in the kitchen where everyone has gathered. My mom’s tired eyes sparkle when she turns on the kitchen faucet and allows her fingers to dance under the flowing water, a convenience we did not leave behind. She giggles, but my dad says to turn off the water because we have to pay for it now. I’m saddened by his command and wonder how anyone can be made to pay for water.

Two men who seem to know my dad stop by our house. Even though they are old and in their twenties, like my parents, I immediately fall in love with the one called Anthony. He makes me forget my third grade boyfriend back home.

Before long, I follow my uncle and dad back outside, but when they return inside, I stay behind and walk to the edge of the driveway. Each house along the street is close to another and lit up. My eyes scan each one finally resting on the house across the street. Through sheer curtains, I see shadowy shapes of various body sizes darting around the room. My mind pushes past the weariness of travel, the heartache of leaving our Missouri place and a growling stomach to suggest that this is the adventure I’d been waiting for all my life.

My eyes focus on the ghost dance of my new neighbors, through their filmy curtains. “I hope kids my age live there." My voice sounds small on my new street and as it mingles with city noises that I am not accustom to, yet.

(The picture is of the house and me on Hamilton Street.  I thought I was alone in the picture. If you click on the photo, you might be startled by something or someone in the bottom left corner. I was.) 

Did you move as a child? Was it a good or bad experience? 

Now when I was a kid...

Soon we’ll be looking at another summer in the rearview mirror, waving goodbye either with gladness or tears. When I was a kid, the older adults said, “Now when I was a kid, things were different.” 

I'm now, not so suddenly, that person.

When I was a kid in the sixties, summers were different than what kids experience today. As a child, I played outdoors, my brother and I pretending we had a ranch, using tree branches for our horses. Our cattle were illusions of our minds. Leafy grasses became our currency. Often barefoot, we stayed outside all day, except for meals. When we moved to the city, for three years, we still played outside all day, but we had other kids to play with and bicycles to ride.

In the country, our bathroom was an outhouse, our bathtub--a washtub or a pan of warm water. I didn't know that air-conditioning existed. We slept most hot summer nights, upstairs. After church, summer Sundays were spent at my grandmother's house eating good food, making ice cream, swimming in the creek or river, and playing with cousins. 

My summers as a teenager were different than younger childhood. My brother and I no longer played together. We fought as siblings do. I thought about boys a lot. I read many books. One summer, I discovered the wonderful world of mythology through the traveling library from town.  I also discovered the classics written by authors like Jane Austin, John Steinbeck, and Kurt Vonnegut. I willingly disappeared into fantasy worlds. 

I taught myself to play the guitar. I played John Denver and Eagles songs. 

One summer, I discovered soap operas. They became my family and friends. I cried with the characters, fretted, fell in love and looked forward to seeing the characters each day. And "so were the days of our lives". 

I discovered talking on the telephone with friends, while being careful of what I shared, since we were on a party line and had neighbors who gossiped. Our phone was attached to a wall in the kitchen--a rotary dial. I didn't know about cell phones, but did fantasize about "what if" we had a car phone, and I could talk to my friends on the way to town. By that time, we had added a full bath for five people, to our house.

In the summer, rural teenagers(in my area)dated or hung out in groups of friends and drove continuously around our "square" in town on Saturday nights. We ate hamburgers and drank cokes from Mr. Swiss or the Snack Shack. We watched movies at the town movie theater, but preferred the drive-in movie at the edge of town. Some kids sat on river banks drinking beer or wine, bought by older peers, while some kids smoke their cigarettes and other things.


Entertainment.

All summers, for most kids, were spent in church activities, ice cream socials and Vacation Bible School.

I enjoyed my summers, but always longed for school to begin again, since I craved the social life with my friends. 

Kids in my day were imaginative, read books and played hard physically, but that was my childhood. Kids are still imaginative and read. Every new generation forges their own childhood summer memories according to what is available to them and what they choose to do. Their memories will mean no less to them, than mine do to me. They will inevitably say to a younger generation,"Now when I was a kid...." 

Looking back on summer. 

I blame the turkeys.

I'm the little girl, far right, in the photo.
No fence separating us in this photo!
(Sorry for the grainy picture.)

When I was a young child, my paternal grandparents (see header photo, bottom far right) were raising turkeys, probably for.you.know.what. I was familiar with chickens because my maternal grandmother (see header, bottom left photo) would take me with her to gather eggs, showed me how make them leave their nests and even tied up a hen or two so that I could have a pet chicken, while I visited. (No hating on me, okay? I was a child.)

Turkeys were a different matter.

One day we were visiting my grandparents and ended up outside the turkey pen, looking in through the wire.

“Stand back from the fence,” Grandpa said, “They could bite.”

The turkeys seemed as curious about us as we were about them. While the adults talked, I watched them. They strutted about, sometimes in circles, puffing out their chests, fluffing out their feathers and all the while screaming turkey words at us, in gobbler sounds.

Bold, but not so beautiful, the turkeys moved closer to the wire fence.

I moved closer to the fence.

Something told me to stick my finger through the wire and wiggle it. Know what happened next? Yes, one rude turkey rushed to bite it.

At first I was in shock, then I burst out crying while holding my finger. My grandpa raced to me, lifted me to his arms, and studied my (non)injury.

“A turkey bit me,” I blubbered.

“The turkey thought your finger was a worm and wanted to eat it," he said, rubbing the pain from my finger. "Now don’t do that again.”

I remember I stopped crying to look at my finger. A worm? Eat it?

I also remember the turkeys and I never became friends.

Frank Dugan Loved to Sing

"Songs of Inspiration"

My grandfather Frank Dugan loved to sing.

I sang in a band during my high school years, later--solo at church functions. Once I sang for 200 plus people at a church revival, other smaller revivals, a women’s (church) conference and a wedding.  

I love singing, too.

One Sunday after I had sang for my church, a man who grew up with my mom, told me that my voice reminded him of my Grandpa Frank’s singing voice. I knew that my grandpa loved singing, but no one had ever compared my voice to his. 

 

I have a songbook of his. This well worn songbook has his name written inside, in my grandmother's handwriting. 

Frank Dugan.

The first song in the book: There Shall be Showers of Blessings

I can imagine that he sang with zest and perhaps sang to me once during the six months we lived with him.  Someday I'll hear Grandpa Frank sing again--in heaven. Perhaps we'll sing together.



The last page.

Here's my post on and photos of Frank Dugan's family.

And.that's.a.wrap! My third A-Z Blogging Challenge has been completed. In the process, I've brought out of hiding family treasures to share with you. I hope you enjoyed my posts.

Yesteryear and Sibs

My blog posts wouldn't be complete without a mention of my own siblings and a couple of photos.

A long time ago, my dad and mother gifted me with…a little brother and sister, but not at the same time. (You thought I was going to say a puppy or pet chicken, didn't you?) They were thoughtful folks. And I didn’t even have ask for their gift.

First there was just me.

 (I can't believe I found the picture of me and my rocking chair after I posted about the rocking chair.)

 

After that, there was just me and my little brother.  He was okay until he learned how to talk and told me my clothes didn't match and other things.

 

 

Then it was just me, my little brother and a brand new baby sister. The day she came home from the hospital with all of her cuteness, my little brother told the parents to take her back. Although cowboys always know best, they decided to keep her anyway.

 

In time she grew on us, well she grew on me. Our brother liked gourds better.

 

About the time the brother accepted her, I was having second thoughts because she had better hair than me.

 

Joking aside, they're pretty great for siblings as long as they remember who remains number one.