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Challenges!

I challenge you to go through your house and count how many Bibles you have. Please post a comment with the number you find.

While in Malawi last fall I was impacted with a great need for Bibles. Everywhere we went people asked us to share the word. They would walk great distances to hear the word. They would wait a long time to hear the word. They would sit in the hot sun or under a tree on the ground while we shared the word. They also begged for Bibles. The Bibles that we did see in Malawi were well used.

I’ve been thinking a lot about prayer lately and praying a lot too. My daughter and I were talking about how it seems we are in a season of prayer. Sometimes we are in a season of activity or action. Making things right, fixing things. But not this time. It seems as if my world has slowed down and God says pray.

Are you in a season of prayer?

I have friends in deep need, struggling with life-threatening situations which I long to know how to pray for. So, struggle on in my praying for them. Unsure how to even pray, what to pray. Lord teach me to pray. A friend around the world is in need of immediate medical attention. I cannot fix the problem, get medical attention for him, or get the government to give him a Visa. So I pray. Such impotent prayers it seems. Such impossible situations.

I pray for my dear husband who has struggled the last few years with an autoimmune disease which steals his strength and energy. I can’t fix it. Watching my children struggle with life’s struggles that we all deal with. I want to make it easier for them but I know I cannot. They must walk this journey with God themselves. I pray.

I recently had surgery. I’m to sit and do nothing for 2-3 weeks. What am I to do? I made myself a little stash of things to read and little needlework crafts to do. Of course, I had hoped to do more writing and revamp my website and publish my little baking book on Kindle. But I feel unmotivated and lack the energy to pursue. I feel so unproductive.

Righting the wrongs in the world.

I want to repair and right the things in our world that seem so wrong. Yet I know it is impossible. I pray. Only God has the power. We do our little part to love and fix the things we can in our little corner of the world, as God would want us to and pray and ask God to make the difference.

Most of the time prayer seems so little when in reality it is probably the biggest and best thing we can do for those we love. This season of prayer is part of the faith journey. Trusting God to do what God does best. Trusting God to love even more than I can possibly imagine and to be at work in these situations even when I cannot see what he is doing.

My co-worker recently brought a huge batch of these rolls to work to share with our team. They were so wonderful that I just had to have the recipe.

The link  below is for the recipe. I used Jimmy Dean Italian breakfast sausage for the sausage. These are fast and easy to make.

https://www.thespruceeats.com/great-british-sausage-roll-recipe-435702

Washing dishes in the days before dishwashers or even before running water was a rather tedious job. The water had to be drawn from a well and brought into the house in buckets. If one were fortunate enough to have a built-in reservoir on the cookstove, it was filled with water which got hot while the food was being cooked. In the absence of a reservoir, a teakettle or large pot was filled with water and placed on top of the stove in order for the water be hot, ready when the meal was finished.

When the food was put away after a meal, two deep round pans were placed on the table and these were filled with hot water. One was used for washing the dishes, and the other was used for rinsing them. My mother liked to pile the washed dishes in an empty pan until it was full and then pour boiling hot water over them. This was supposed to do a better job of sanitizing the dishes, but it was hardly a job for a young person to try.

Usually, two people took care of the dishwashing job. One would wash and rinse the dishes while another would dry them and put them away. By the time the job was finished, the dishwater often had a thick scum of grease on top of it, the rinse water was cold and soapy and the drying cloths were so wet that the last dishes could hardly be called dry. It is incredible to think that we survived such unsanitary methods. Surely we must have become immunized against those germs as we lived with them day in and day out!

Once a first cousin and I were spending some time at our grandparents’ house, and after supper, we were drying the dishes as Granny washed them. One minute we were laughing and talking as we worked and I was enjoying the comradery when suddenly it all came crashing in around me.

Without warning, my grandmother informed me in a very disapproving manner that my cousin was drying two dishes to my one! No doubt she was literally correct, but the implied message that I was purposefully not doing my share was far from my intentions. I was shocked and hurt to have been so misunderstood. For the first time, I had been made aware that my natural pace of physical activity was very slow in comparison to others, but that reality has reared its head many times since, just as it did when I was picking cotton beside my younger brother.

When I tried to go to sleep that night, I confided the hurt feelings to my cousin, and her understanding helped ease the homesickness that had come over me.

I remember nothing else about that visit to Granny’s, but typically, whenever grandchildren stayed with her, she liked to keep them busy. When all the farm work or housework was done, she would bring out her journals full of stories and proverbs to have us make copies for ourselves. She had taught school in her home as a young woman, and her assortment of materials was an interesting one.

Most stories were used not only for teaching or practicing writing, but they were designed, also, to teach morals and manners for acceptable daily conduct. The kind of humor in many of them would be called “silly” by today’s standards, but they were useful tools for the times, if for no other reason than to give “idle hands” something to do.

Another of Granny’s favorite things for children to do was to learn to knit. It was fun to try, but holding two long slender needles and moving yarn off of one onto the other as more yarn was added each time was too awkward for me then, and I find it still so today. Granny, on the other hand, taught several others, and she, herself, knitted everything from yards of lace edging for curtains and pillowcases and doilies of all sizes to full-sized tablecloths and bedspreads.

Visits to my grandparents’ farm were usually very pleasant. Much time was spent preparing and enjoying the things that grew on the farm. Fruit trees gave us cherries, peaches, pears, apples and persimmons and grapevines yielded big bunches of sweet, juicy grapes. The garden held a bounty of good, healthful food, and the smell of bacon and hams curing in the smokehouse let us know we would not starve. Maybe that nutritious food is what gave us the power to fight off all those germs that slipped past our dishwashing attempts!

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Each child is born with special abilities that need to be discovered and developed. To compare and judge one with another is not appropriate and can only result in negative feelings or behaviors in those of the less favorable position.

Working in the cotton fields was very hot, dirty, hard labor, but one of its rewards was that of being close to nature. Little critters, such as grasshoppers, toads, lizards, June bugs, etc. were all there to be watched and studied. Even the “stinging worms,” which the cotton picker had to watch out for, could be interesting to inquiring young minds. Watching butterflies flitting about and bees buzzing in and out of flowers, wondering at busy ants carrying their heavy loads into their anthills, and observing the variety of flowering and nonflowering plants made the hard work less of a drudge. And birds were always around singing, waiting to be identified.

In Alabama, we had robins, blackbirds, Blue Jays, Orioles, various wrens, sparrows, and woodpeckers. We must have had cardinals, but having been taught a song about a redbird, I might have confused the title of the song for the name of the bird. Since my interest in birds has grown, I have become keenly aware of cardinals and I lure them to our feeders with sunflower seeds. My favorite of all birds to observe, however, is the eastern bluebird, which I don’t remember having seen as a child.

I enjoyed watching birds when I was in the cotton fields, but it was not until a few years ago, that bluebirds became so special to me. Due to a great fear that bluebirds were becoming extinct, a friend gave us plans for building a nesting box. We decided to join the efforts of bird lovers to help save the bluebird population. My husband has built many houses since that time, and we have been pleased to see several areas where landowners were influenced to install birdhouses on their fence posts along the highways. The joint effort has paid off with a decided increase in the number of eastern bluebirds. Now a great deal of my time in spring and summer is consumed with watching and helping my nests of bluebirds make it safely through to the fledgling stage and I have attempted to help even beyond that. Nature has a way of equipping bird parents with a strong instinct for protecting their young, however, and this has hindered my attempts to lure them into raising the babies near our home.

On one occasion when a nest was being vacated for a bigger and better home, I found a baby on the ground and realized that something had happened to it. As I picked it up, the parents angrily dove at me, but I took the baby into the house and worked with it for some time. My untrained eye could not determine how badly it was injured, but it was certain that it would not fly soon.

I had been placing grub worms in a special place for the parents to use for feeding the babies in the nest, so I placed the baby near the food source and retreated to a protected place to observe. To my delight, the parents used this opportunity to feed the ailing baby and continued to do so for a day or two. Eventually, the demand from the healthy birds called them away, or perhaps the natural instincts of the parents caused them to “abandon hope” for the bird’s survival. Whatever the reason for their abandonment, I was not ready to give up hope until I took it to a vet who told me that it could not possibly recover.

While the baby bird still had its strength, it would come two or three feet across the floor in response to my “bird talk”. I patted the floor with my hand as I talked to the baby bird, and it would come hopping toward me. This thrilled me greatly, but I would have been much more thrilled to have been able to see him fly into the woods to join his brothers and sisters.

My husband and I helped to launch our first family of bluebirds this year, and it was so exciting that I am digressing from my memories of the past to share our bluebirds with you.

First of all, there are three types of bluebirds, and they all exhibit many of the same characteristics. They are similar in body structure to a robin except they are much smaller, and their breast feathers vary in intensity of the same russet color as the robin.

The color of the mountain bluebird is a lighter, smoother blue than the other two. The western bluebird appears to be a more vivid blue color than the eastern bluebird, but they look very much alike. They feed on insects when available, but will also eat fruit from plants such as pokeweed, sumac, and dogwood.

Eastern bluebirds take readily to nesting boxes, and for this reason, people can get as acquainted with (and attached to) them as they wish. Excellent plans for boxes can be found in books at the library. It is important to pay strict attention to the features that protect them from predators and from nest stealers. One of the newest features is an extension placed around the opening which makes it harder for predators to reach the contents inside the box. A cylindrical baffle for snakes is also a new feature to us. ( I was particularly interested in this… I had once run barefoot from my back door to attack a big black snake that was climbing up to a nest full of baby birds!) The boxes don’t have to be fancy for the bird, but they don’t seem to mind if people want to paint them and pretty them up a little. Bill, my husband, has kept a journal for several years to record things of interest that occurred on specific dates. He has included our observations of the bluebirds, and it is amazing how nearly you can predict when you can expect of them with respect to time. In our home in West Virginia, we have seen them visiting nesting boxes as early as the middle of February, but the earliest that we have recorded actual nest building was March 27. Other recorded dates for building were March 28, 29, 30, and April first.

This year, we knew for sure that the couple was building on April first, after appearing to have chosen the blue box by the pear tree as early as March 19. The roof was hinged so that I was able to observe progress from the early stages of nest building through the flight of the babies from the nest. That nature has provided such a rapid, predictable progression of events is a testimony to me of a divine pattern that was laid out by our Creator at the beginning of time. I, for one, am grateful for the joys that I have been given by watching the eastern bluebird for many years!

Next time: a closer look at our 1998 bluebirds

When habitual liars are questioned as to the validity of their stories, they sometimes act surprised that they are not believed. Whether they are so caught up in their own fantasies that they don’t know what is real, or whether they do it in order to feign innocence, one may never be able to determine. Then there are other individuals who, when caught in infrequent lying, are so obvious that they don’t try to fake innocence. They can be so pricked in their consciences that they will avoid future lying at all costs.

These are not the only two scenarios, however, that involve lying. Some people may tell occasional lies to avoid hurting another’s feelings or to avoid telling hurtful facts about someone, and then there is the strong natural tendency to protect oneself. None of these may be morally correct behaviors, and if one would take time there might be an acceptable, yet satisfactory, way of avoiding telling a lie in each given circumstance.

The incident that I’m about to relate from my childhood does not fit into any of the above categories, nor does it attempt to suggest that all of my lying has been of this particular nature. (Ask me no questions about that, and I will tell you no lies).

When a child perceives what is happening, or what is being told to him, it may be very far from the truth, but to him it is reality. If that child then relates those perceptions to others, is he lying, or could we give it another more innocent name?

My sisters played a major role in this story, but they are more innocent than I gave them credit for until recently. As I related this story to them, just a year or so ago, I learned the whole truth (I think), and it put all the burden back on my shoulders!

We three girls were older than our two brothers, the youngest of which was a baby at the time of these memories. An older brother had died in infancy before I was born, so whenever this youngest son became ill, our parents’ emotions were so evident that the whole family felt the fear of losing another child. I can remember two incidences in which my childish emotions perceived that there was a danger of death. Once while toddling or crawling around outdoors, the baby ate a mushroom that was growing in the yard, and Mother was quite certain that it was not an edible variety. She was afraid that it contained a deadly poison! I remember walking quite a distance with a sister to a neighbor’s house to telephone the doctor. I don’t recall what happened or what was done for the baby, but it turned out not to be serious.

On another occasion, however, the baby became very sick with a respiratory condition. I seem to recall a croupy cough, but whatever the primary illness, it was a fearful time for my parents and for us children. So when a man came calling at our home with a big, black bag (I think), full of knives (I think), the time was right for suspicions and imaginations. We children were too “polite” to get into the middle of the scene, but we did our share of peeping around corners and listening. Dad treated his visitor as cordially as he could under the circumstances, but he was very concerned with his sick boy, so he sent the man on his way.

The air was filled with tension and knowing something was wrong, I questioned my sisters who (I think) told me that the man had come there to kill us all. According to them, Dad played on the man’s sympathy by telling him how sick our little brother was and suggested that he come back at a later time. So the man obliged by gathering up his tools of the trade and left.

A few years later when I related this story to my fourth-grade class, I became painfully aware of looks of disbelief on the faces of my teacher and classmates. It was not until then that I knew the story I had believed to be true was a big lie!

Now, my sisters declare that I misunderstood what they told me about the man who came hoping to make a little money by sharpening our knives and scissors!

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When dealing with “perceived” lying in young children, it would be wise to investigate before condemning them. Even adults can be caught up in misconceptions so that they believe what is actually false. Being slow to judge or condemn another, whether young or old, is always the better way.

Where there’s a will, there’s a way! Whether that is a universal truth or not, it appears to have a lot of credibility in view of numerous tasks that have been accomplished against all odds.

Dad needed a method of income during the weeks that school was not in session, and he always seemed to find something to supply that need. Well, when he became aware of the “new-fangled” washing machine, he saw not only something his wife needed, he saw something that all women needed. That meant there would be a wide-open market, once people knew that these machines were the marvel he saw them to be.

Advertising, through any of several types of media, is a good vehicle by which to sell products today, but in rural Alabama in the thirties, only a few, ineffective methods were available. Newspapers and seasonal catalogs, such as Sears and Roebuck and J. C. Penney, provided many people with their information about new products. It would take more motivation than some questionable promises and a pretty picture on paper to cause one to turn loose of enough hard-earned money to make such a major purchase as a washing machine.

Whether Dad initiated the following method of sales or whether the Maytag dealership initiated it, I never knew. Dad attached a homemade platform to the back of our Model A Ford car, and onto this platform he loaded a washing machine. It was in such a manner that he set out to educate the public about this wonderful machine method of washing clothes. He went about the countryside demonstrating this revolutionary way of doing laundry to anyone who would allow him to do so!

There was still the washpot for supplying hot water, and there were the rinse tubs in which the soap was removed from the washed clothes, but forever gone was the metal rub board, and forever gone was the awesome task of hand-wringing the water from the clothes! There was a wringer on the washer that consisted of two hard rubber rollers through which the clothes were put in order to squeeze the water out. I only have a vague memory of the wringers on those first machines, but I suspect that they were turned by hand. The later models, however, were automated and could be quite persistent in pulling fingers and hands through with the clothing, if one were not careful.

The wringers did a tremendous job of removing the excess water from the clothes, and the agitator in the tub of the machine “agitated” the dirt right out of those dirty clothes without scrubbing them on a washboard.

Recently, I was privileged to see an old gasoline powered engine with a pedal on a long metal arm, and I recalled that the washing machine also had such a pedal. When one was ready to start the engine, the pedal was given a hard, strong kick which caused the engine to fire and start its noisy, wonderful work.

Another part of doing laundry in those days was that of starching cotton dress clothes, especially men’s shirts. It caused the material to iron smoother and gave some stiffness to help collars and cuffs look better. In the absence of Faultless or Argo starch, Mother made her own. First, she made a paste of cold water and flour, then slowly, while stirring vigorously, she poured boiling water into it, making a clear thick liquid that worked quite well.

Starch made outer clothing look really great, but it could be irritating in clothes worn next to the skin. Once, when Mother was helping a neighbor lady wash, one of my sisters and the lady’s son thought it would be neat to starch a pair of his mother’s rather large, cotton undergarments. I understand that they made quite a sight as they dried very stiff and full-figured on the clothesline!

I don’t know how many washing machines Dad succeeded in selling, but our washdays were never the same after the summer we experienced the new Maytag washing machine!

The eighth in a series of a grandmother’s recollection of days when life in rural Alabama was full of hard, but satisfying work; a time of few material possessions, but also few wants; a time when families knew their neighbors and interacted with them in common concerns; and when the front porch offered peaceful relaxation at day’s end.

 

 

Washday was a very memorable event before washing machines took over the hard work. Private wells had brought the water supply closer to most families, and the method of bringing water out of the wells went through several improvements making the process easier and more efficient. The method of removing dirt from clothes, however, had advanced very little over that of the days when people washed on the banks of rivers and creeks.

The hand-over-hand method of pulling on a rope to draw water from a well was replaced by the pulley and, or, windlass. The vacuum hand pump was probably the greatest advancement before electricity, but most of our neighbors were still drawing water by hand when the first washing machines appeared. The only tools available for washing, up to that time, consisted of a big black washpot, some tin tubs (which doubled as bathtubs on Saturday nights), a washboard, some homemade lye soap and a lot of muscle power.

The entire family was often engaged in securing firewood to build a fire under the kettle, in drawing up the large quantity of water to fill the kettle and rinse tubs, in scrubbing dirty clothing with the help of the washboard, in wringing water from the clothes, in pinning the clothes on a clothesline or fence, in cleaning up the mess, and in retrieving the fresh, clean clothes after they had dried in the sun-drenched air. A lot of family togetherness made the job less burdensome on any one person and had a great potential for developing healthy work attitudes. As we worked, play and fun were not forgotten. We could get in some joking around as we worked, and there was always a lot of singing….besides, when the washing was done, there was all that warm, sudsy water that could be played in before it was “toted” off to the garden or flower beds.

Washing clothes by this method could be fun to children, but it was recognized as a backbreaking job and one that took adult skills and strength to do well. Fire around the washpot and boiling hot water inside it were fearful things that had to be supervised constantly. A washboard only “did its work” when soap was applied to dirty clothing which was then rubbed up and down over its metal ribs. This process could easily result in bleeding, scuffed up knuckles! Then there was the task of getting as much water from the clothes as possible. It was not so hard to wring water from a washcloth or a pair of socks, but wringing water from a pair of men’s trousers or a bed sheet was not a job for small, weak hands.

An older cousin was once visiting my sisters, and while there, she helped with some hand washing. I was amazed at how strongly she wrung the water from those clothes. My sister explained that Madeline had developed great strength in her hands from taking over many of the responsibilities that had belonged to her mother, who had died some years before. Madeline not only impressed me with her physical strength, but I remember her as having a happy countenance, despite her hardships. I believe that her example of survival made its impact for good in my developing perception of life.

One summer during school vacation, Dad made contact with someone that sold him on the usefulness of a new gasoline-powered Maytag washer. It was similar to the old wringer washers that were later powered by electricity, but this one had a long exhaust hose that took and released the fumes some several feet away from the machine. It made a popping noise so loud that neighbors far and near could hear it releasing its power to wash clothes in a way that would revolutionize family washday. This new gadget was something all housewives would surely demand once they knew what it could do. Our dad knew how much it would mean to his overworked wife, but how could he afford such a luxury??? The salary of a poorly paid school teacher was hardly the answer!

…….Next time: “Where there’s a will, there’s a way!”

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Explanation of a confusing statement last month: In the unedited form of that article, I related that the ice delivery man had performed at school functions by walking across the stage on his hands. My error was in not editing my memory along with my article! Oh, well, my grandchildren already knew I’m not perfect!

Reprinted with permission from Redding Magazine.