Our
Chamber of Commerce sponsors the annual Crawdad Days Festival on the
banks of Lake Harrison each May. Here are some photos from Saturday....

"I used to visit and revisit it a dozen times a day, and stand in deep
contemplation over my vegetable progeny with a love that nobody could
share or conceive of who had never taken part in the process of
creation.  It was one of the most bewitching sights in the world to
observe a hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a rose of early
peas just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate
green."

  ~Nathaniel Hawthorne
 Mosses from an Old Manse

The oil of gladness.......
Yesterday, my sister and I were talking on the phone about the old-fashioned Mother's Day custom of white and red roses. I don't know if they do it many places anymore, but I can vividly remember my mother's mother, my Poppy, making us little corsages of red roses from her yard to wear to church on Mother's Day. You wore a red rose if your mother was alive, and a white rose if your mother had died. Our Poppy always wore a white rose in tribute to her mother, and it always made me sad for her, to imagine her life without her Mama!
I was telling my sister I was thinking about white roses this year, our first year with our Mama in Heaven on Mother's Day. I was toying with an idea for a column that I thought I might call "The White Rose."
I had not told anybody else about this.
When I walked into work today, there was a bud vase on my desk with a pretty  bit of fern, white baby's breath, and a single white rosebud.
A small envelope was propped next to it, with a precious note from a friend and colleague who lost her only child last fall.
It read in part:
"Celia, I guess Mother's Day will be different and difficult for us this year. But we each can take comfort in the promise that your mother and my daughter rejoice daily with our Lord....be blessed this Mother's Day."
What an example of the deep love that can only come from our good Jesus, that in the midst of thinking about her own first Mother's Day without her only child, she stopped to think about her friend who had lost her mother.
And what an shining proof that our good Father really does give us a garland instead of ashes.

"The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me,
because the Lord has anointed me to bring good news to the afflicted;
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to
captives and freedom to prisoners;  To proclaim the favorable year of
the Lord and the day of vengeance of our God; To comfort all who mourn,  To grant those who mourn in Zion, Giving them a garland instead of
ashes, The oil of gladness instead of mourning, the mantle of praise
instead of a spirit of fainting. So they will be called oaks of
righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified."
Isaiah 61:1-3

May He pour out His oil of gladness into each one of your lives, my friends.

"It's an ill wind that blows no good," the old saying goes.
Meaning, I think, that even harsh, painful experiences can bring some good trailing along behind them.
In
the book of Romans, the wise Apostle Paul said it another way: "All
things work together for good, for those who love God...."
When I
was interviewing former Harrison mayor Bob Reynolds last week about his
experiences during the 1961 flood, I asked him what he felt the
long-term effects of the flood were on our town.
He said, "I believe in the long-run, it was good for the downtown.”
A
disaster that took four lives, caused more than $5 million dollars
worth of property damage, and destroyed 80 percent of Harrison's
business district? Could something that bad bring anything good in its
train?
“It was probably a real upper to improve the city’s looks and
improve the traffic conditions," Reynolds said. "I think it improved
the city’s looks 100 percent."
He's not the only person I've heard say something like this — that the flood ultimately made the town better.
"It's an ill wind that blows no good."
If you think about it, I know you can find many examples of the truth of this old saying in your own life.
Here's
one that immediately occurs to me: Eight years ago, I had to have major
emergency surgery that kept me in the hospital for a solid week. It was
painful; it was expensive; it was a long time before I felt good again.
But — it's an ill wind that blows no good. And this wind blew a very
great good indeed.
At the time I got sick, I was a smoker. I was
hooked so hopelessly I just couldn't imagine ever being strong enough
to shake off that addiction.
While I was really, really sick in the
hospital, I had very little desire to smoke. As I began to recuperate
and my addiction raised its ugly head, I asked my doctor if there was a
place in that hospital I could smoke. That impossibly young surgeon
looked at me sharply and said: "Yes, there's one balcony on the fourth
floor where patients can smoke....IF they have permission from their
doctor. And you don't."
So — when I was released, after going seven
whole days without a cigarette, I took advantage of that great head
start, stayed away from cigarettes after I got home, and have now been
a non-smoker for eight years. Thanks to a nightmarish physical
experience, I was free from that heavy ball and chain that had weighed
me down.
It's an ill wind that blows no good.
My dear cousin
Barbara was shocked and heartbroken, along with all of us who love her,
when she was diagnosed with a very deadly type of cancer in 2001.
Against all odds, she has survived — she's not cured, but in a steady
remission brought about by the strong chemo she’s taken almost
constantly over the past five years. A pretty woman who’s always taken
pride in her appearance, she's had to cope with being totally bald for
years. She's had lots of days when she just felt awful, and she's had
to look her mortality in the face every day. She knows her remission
could end at any time, and she could be facing a swift and painful
death.
But Barbara would tell you that having cancer has been a
blessing in her life. And she's not just trying to impress you with how
holy she is. She really means it. She's used her illness as an
opportunity to reach out to people — with her optimism, with her
courage, and especially with her glowing Christian faith — both to
people she already knew, and to new friends, many of them fellow cancer
patients, she would never otherwise have had an opportunity to meet.
It
seems like an upside-down statement, but having cancer really has been
a blessing in her life, and in turn, has been a blessing to many, many
people whose lives she's touched through her visits, emails,
hand-written notes, phone calls, speaking engagements and online
journal.
But here's the trick: I think you have to look for the
seeds of something good in the midst of the bad, and help it along.
Most important — you have to hand the sorrow, the problem, the tragedy,
the loss — over to our good God, who specializes in divine alchemy, and
ask Him to transform it into a blessing.
"It's an ill wind that blows no good" has a lot of truth in it.
But I prefer Paul's version, God's promise: that for those who love God, all things work together for good.

By Celia DeWoody
Published May 7, 2007, Harrison Daily Times
Copyright CPI, Inc. 2007

  
                                                                     
                                                              

I need to be working on tomorrow's column.
I just got through ironing for two hours in a house where the temperature is close to 80 because our AC is on the blink.
I am missing my mama a lot today.
I'd like to go jump in the cold Buffalo River for a little while.
Good things that happened today: I got to go to Mass this morning.
Our dear friends the Greens dropped in on their way from Fayetteville to their farm about 20 minutes from here, and ended up staying for lunch, which was....
homemade egg rolls made from scratch by my husband! They were delicious.
Our garden is growing (well, the okra ain't doing so swell...but we have a tiny baby green tomato!). Pictures soon.
Now I'm going to see if I can think of some other reason not to work on my column. I think I'll read the paper.
Hope y'all are having a fun and relaxing Sunday afternoon.

On a long afternoon drive out into our
hills yesterday, Doyle and I collected several new mental snapshots to
glue into our Ozarks Memory Book.
The first snapshot is labeled: "A Horse Meeting."
After
Doyle spotted this equine gathering, we had to turn around on the road
and go back so I could see it. Four beautiful sorrel horses with white
socks, who looked like brothers and sisters, were standing with their
heads close together in the middle of a big, healthy pasture, looking
for all the world like they were just having a leisurely chat.
 It
reminded me of how I'd often see two policemen back home in
Mississippi, pulled up in a parking lot, driver's window to driver's
window, having a long talk during a boring patrol.
 The horses' tails were lazily swishing. We could just imagine their conversation:
"Hey, could you brush that horsefly off my left flank for me? Thanks."
 "Have
y'all discovered that good patch of fresh clover under the cedar tree
over in the north corner of the pasture? It's a dandy."
 "Well, now
that those noisy grandchildren have gone home to Oklahoma, it looks
like we'll be safe from the saddles for a while now."
 "Yup."
The four horses looked like they were enjoying a sunny springtime afternoon as much as any creature could.
We call the second snapshot "The Tea Party."
Driving
down a dirt road we hadn't been down in a year or so, we were delighted
to round a corner and discover a narrow two-story rock house that we'd
fallen in love with in 2005, before we ever moved to Harrison. Like a
house in a fairy tale, it sits under some big trees, looking just
exactly right, like it just sprang up by magic out of the rocky hills
to be somebody's perfect little home. Pink and white flowers were
merrily blooming on its tiny front porch.
"There's that little stone house we found the first time we ever came up here!"
"I had no idea it was down this road, did you?"
We
were even more charmed by it when we rode by and saw, on one side of
the house, five or six dressed-up people chatting happily on a patio
around a round table, under an umbrella, having what looked like an
English tea party. The adults were thoroughly relaxed and seemed to be
having a nice chat in the side yard, while three or four nice-looking
children were playing on the front steps.
Several cars were parked
under the trees in the front yard, so we imagined it was the children
and grandchildren home for a Sunday afternoon visit to the "old folks."
We were smiling as we drove past.
"Up the Ladder to Pretend" is what I'm calling the next mental picture.
A
few miles down the road, in a patch of pretty woods, we saw a
medium-sized tree whose trunk had somehow been bent by Nature and was
growing parallel to the ground, just about four feet high. A
rough-hewn, sturdy ladder of weathered gray boards - just three rungs -
was leaning against the trunk, obviously placed there so little
children could climb up onto the unusual tree.
I could picture
little ones riding the trunk like it was a horse, or walking carefully
along its length, pretending they were competing on the balance beam in
the Olympics. Or maybe cruel Captain Hook would have them blindfolded
and walking the plank, with the ticking crocodile waiting hungrily in
the sea below.
"I bet Papaw went down in the woods and built that ladder so the kids could get up onto their tree, don't you?"
"What a sweet grandpa."
Our last Sunday snapshot immortalized "Curly the Donkey."
Driving down yet another road, my sharp-eyed husband said, as he often does, "Did you see that, Honey?"
"What?"
"I've got to turn around and go back and show you. It was a curly-haired donkey. I've never seen one before."
Driving
past the small home of an elderly man who was sitting on front porch
with his large, bare feet propped up on the railing in the sunshine, we
turned around in a nearby lane.
"He looks like he's sun-tanning his feet," I said.
We
drove back about half a mile so Doyle could show me the donkey. Sure
enough, back a little ways from the road in a greening pasture, there
were two palomino donkeys, a mother and a cream-colored half-grown
foal. The mother's hair was as curly as a sheep's, springing into tight
little circles all over her back and sides. Neither one of us had ever
seen anything like it.
When we drove back by little house, the old
man gave us a friendly wave. He was still sunning his white feet in the
April sunshine.

By Celia DeWoody
Published April 30, 2007
Harrison Daily Times
Copyright CPI, Inc. 2007

Dear friends,
Thanks so much for praying for my brother. I know God is working in his life.

My job as a newspaper reporter at a small daily (10,000 circulation) in the Ozarks is the most interesting and fun job I've ever had. Sometimes it's very challenging.
Yesterday I had the assignment of driving down to a rural area about 20  miles south of here to go to the home of the Bushnell family, whose only son, 24-year-old Billy, was killed in Iraq last Saturday. I sat out on their deck and visited with Billy's three older sisters, and two of his aunts, and several friends, and his mama and daddy. They are precious people, full of faith in the midst of their heartbreak. They'd talk, then laugh about some memory of Billy, then cry. I was wiping tears away before I left. I really hope the story I write about their son, and their family, will be one that will honor his memory, and his family's sacrifice.
Today, I drove up into the northern part of the county to shoot some photos of a beekeeper to go with a story I'm writing about Colony Collapse Disorder, a mysterious syndrome that's affecting bees in spots from coast to coast. The worker bees just never return to the hive, and a thriving, busy colony of bees turns to an empty hive with just a queen and the babies left behind. Scientists are studying it frantically, but nobody has yet figured out what's causing it. It hasn't struck Arkansas yet, but has been reported in I think 26 states.
Here's some photos of an Ozarks beekeeper...a lady named Sandra who's also a high school biology teacher:

Beehives on the hilltop....

Beekeeper Sandra smoking her bees to get them drowsy before putting their new queen into the lonely hive....

Inside this little box are two new queens,
 along with a few worker attendants.

Inside the little cage is the queen...outside is one of her attendants, trying to make sure she's okay.

See the white box in the center?
It's formed of sugar,
 and inside is the new queen.
 The bees will eat the sugar and let the queen out into her new kingdom.

Here are some of the worker bees. They are drowsy and sluggish because it was only in the 50s today....and also because of the smoke.

This worker found her way into the house with us and died. We put her on the glass-topped table so I could shoot a close-up.

Although
both of us come from long lines of small-town Southern folks, some of
them even farmers, Doyle and I have never been vegetable gardeners.
I
loved to work in my yard in Mississippi, and got where I could grow
some beautiful impatiens and caladiums and wild fern in my shady beds
under the pecan trees, but my few half-hearted attempts at a tomato
patch never turned out very well. The poor little leaves would start
turning yellow one by one, or the blossoms would fall off without
forming fruit, or if tiny tomatoes did form, they'd get blossom end-rot
or something and never turn out right. My dreams of bacon-and-homegrown
tomato sandwiches could only come true with the help of donations from
my kind friends' gardens.

Doyle tells me he used to have a
greenhouse at his North Little Rock home, where he'd grow bromeliads
and orchids, but he says he's never been a vegetable gardener. His
daddy, who died about four years ago, was the family gardener. Ruby and
Doyle tell me Papaw always had a wonderful garden back home in Camden.
Doyle still has the heavy Scovil hoe he inherited from his daddy, who
had in turn gotten it from his father.
Well, in spite of our lack of
gardening knowledge, springtime got ahold of us this year, and we both
decided that we just had to try our hands at a little vegetable patch.
Earlier this spring, we picked out a spot just behind the carport that
gets sun most of the day, and started talking about what we should
plant. The main thing we both wanted was tomatoes. And yellow squash,
and some zucchini. And maybe some okra. And we heard peppers were easy
to grow, so we added them to our mental list. And some green onions.
And maybe some potatoes.
Well, we did it.  And without any kind of
tiller or plow....just with old hand-tools and middle-aged muscles, and a
lot of determination.
Saturday morning, Doyle started chopping the
grass out of a 8 x 16-foot patch, using his daddy's hoe, and sometimes
resorting to a pick.  While he went to town to get his hair cut, I
chopped for a while. Then while I went over to the church, he chopped
some more.
By the end of the afternoon, we were both sweaty and so
sore we could hardly move. We'd carried heavy buckets full of rocks
we'd grubbed out of the ground down to our new rockpile. We'd ferried a
mountain of grass and weeds we'd chopped out by the roots down to the
site of our future compost heap.  My Scots-Irish husband's face and
neck were sunburned, and my cheeks were pink. I had dirt under my
fingernails, and we both had blisters on our hands.
But it was all worth it. When we stood back to admire our handiwork at sunset, we were grinning from ear to ear.
Instead
of a rocky weed patch, it looked like a real garden. We had a whole row
of tomato plants of several varieties. A handful of carefully formed
hills crowned with tiny squash, zucchini and cucumber plants. A row
with a few okra seedlings, and lots of peppers - green, red, and
several types of jalapenos, Doyle's favorites. We have another row all
ready to plant with potatoes, but we ran out of steam before we got to
them. Maybe this evening.
We carefully watered our little plants,
and had a serious discussion about whether we should mulch our garden
with newspapers to keep the weeds down.
We don't know whether our
baby plants will grow and produce or not. But we do know having our own
little garden makes us feel close to Doyle's gardener daddy, and to my
mama, Cile, who was famous among the Navy wives for growing lush tomato
plants in the backyards of every military house she ever lived in
around the country.
And in spite of our blisters, our sunburn and
our sore muscles, both of us felt satisfied and happy after our day of
hard labor in the sunshine. There's something joyful about getting your
fingers in the dirt. It's the kind of work that just feels right. It
makes you feel like you're in tune with Nature, with God and with all
the generations of good folks who came before you.

By Celia DeWoody

Published April 23, 2007, Harrison Daily Times, Harrison, Ark.

Copyright CPI, Inc., 2007