Just got our power back at 5 p.m. after losing it Tuesday morning during our ice storm...thank you, Lord, for all the crews from out of state who have been here helping us. The devastation from the ice is unbelievable...so many beautiful trees broken. I will post photos soon. We're so thankful to have power - we were tired of being cold and dark all week!
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"The one resolution, which was in my mind long before it took the form of a resolution, is the key-note of my life. It is this, always to regard as mere impertinences of fate the handicaps which were placed upon my life almost at the beginning. I resolved that they should not crush or dwarf my soul, but rather be made to blossom, like Aaron's rod, with flowers."
-- Helen Keller (1880-1968) American WriterIf Helen Keller, completely deaf and blind, could have this attitude - and if her life could be such a lovely example of blossoms coming forth - what could we do with our strong, healthy bodies and unimpaired faculties, if we resolve that our own problems, handicaps, shortages, will not crush or dwarf our souls? If we resolve to live out the truth of Romans 8:28 - that ALL things work together for good, for those who love God?
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Sometimes instead of a useless old object being thrown away, it can be
used to create something pretty, something that will make people smile
when they see it.
Something like a bottle tree.
When
I was a little girl visiting in Mississippi, every once in a while I’d
see an unusual sight in front of an unpainted shack out in the country.
Near the sagging front porch of the house, a dead tree would bloom with
empty glass bottles, usually cobalt blue ones, stuck onto its leafless
limbs.
I’ve read that bottle trees originated in the Congo, where
bottles were sometimes hung from trees in the hope of protecting the
occupants of the nearby dwelling from evil spirits.
The custom of
creating a bottle tree near a home was brought to the American South by
African slaves, who passed it down to their children and grandchildren.
These folks would sometimes slip empty bottles onto the trimmed
branches of a dead tree — often a crape myrtle — in their yards.
Because
the color blue supposedly attracted spirits, blue bottles were favored.
Milk of magnesia bottles were the most popular, but the little brown
bottles that snuff used to come in were also often seen.
Sometimes
instead of being stuck onto branches, two bottles were tied together,
and the rope thrown over a branch, like a pair of shoes with shoelaces
tied together thrown over a power line.
It was believed the evil
spirits would fly into the colorful bottles and be trapped there. I
hear that sometimes the owners of the home would cork the bottles after
they believed the spirits had been caught, then throw the occupied
bottles into the river.
Eudora Welty, one of my home state’s most
beloved and revered writers, used bottle trees as important symbols in
one of her stories, “ Livvie.” And during the Depression, when she did
a Southern photo series for the Works Progress Administration, Welty
included several shots of bottle trees in country yards.
During my
childhood, bottle trees were only found in the bare-dirt yards of poor
sharecroppers, but these icons of Southern culture have crossed social
and economic boundaries and can now be found gracing the landscaped
yards of large, stately homes across the South.
My closest personal
encounter with a bottle tree came several years ago, when we stopped to
visit in my little Mississippi hometown on our way to Harrison from
Florida. My dear friends Marion and Gene have a beautiful home, and one
of the prettiest yards in town. On this trip, I spotted, right next to
their driveway, among the flowerbeds and flowering shrubs, something
new since my last visit — a bright bottle tree.
It wasn’t actually
a tree, but was made of rebar welded together in the rough shape of a
tree, and each branch was tipped with a colorful bottle — reds,
oranges, blues, greens, ambers, glowing in the sunshine. Marion was
absolutely enchanted with it, and couldn’t wait to tell me all about
it. She said some of the prettiest homes in Jackson have bottle trees
in their yards, and that the inmates at Parchman Penitentiary in the
Delta make the iron bottle trees and sell them. She had bought her own
tree from Parchman.
My friend was having the best time going to flea
markets and antique stores hunting for old colored bottles to recycle
into bottle-tree ornaments. One of the first things I did when we got
to Harrison was shop for pretty bottles for Marion, and I found several
bright red and orange ones in our downtown flea markets.
For the
very first story I covered for the Daily Times, I went out to the
daffodil labyrinth at the Chamber, where well-known Mississippi
horticulturist and garden writer Felder Rushing was giving the Master
Gardeners pointers and helping them plant annuals in among the
daffodils in the labyrinth he had helped design for them. I told Felder
about Marion’s bottle tree, and he grinned and proudly said, “I’m the
one who’s gotten that bottle-tree fad started!”
Well, ever since I
first saw Marion’s tree, and realized how pretty it looked with the sun
hitting it in the morning, shining through those colored bottles out
there in her beautiful yard, I’ve wanted a bottle tree of my own.
Doyle
agrees with me (oh, what a gift it is to have an agreeable husband!)
that Squirrels’ Leap deserves a bottle tree of its very own, and has
said he’ll make me one. I’m fixing to start keeping my eyes open for
colorful old bottles. I’ve already got a few that I’ve found here and
there over the years.
So be watching ... the next time you ride by
our house, we’re liable to have an iron tree covered with a bunch of
blue Milk of Magnesia bottles, glowing cobalt in the early spring
sunshine.
My proper, ladylike Mississippi grandmother might turn
over in her grave if she knew I was thinking about planting a bottle
tree in my yard, but I’m really excited about it.
To me, a bottle
tree is a beautiful example of taking something ugly and transforming
it into something wonderful. Of taking something bound for the trash
can or the dump, coated in dirt, full of spiderwebs, and cleaning it up
and placing it where the light shines through it, so it glows like a
jewel.
Isn’t that what our creative and loving Father does with our lives, if we give Him the chance?
By Celia DeWoody
Published Jan. 21, 2009 Harrison (Ark.) Daily Times
Copyright 2009 CPI, Inc.
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I've been spending any spare minutes I've had working out in our yard at Squirrels' Leap. Working outside in the fresh (COLD!) air and sunshine, I'm falling more and more in love with our beautiful Ozarks and with our new home.
At the end of our driveway was an ugly, mostly dead juniper shrub, hiding some old iris bulbs...
With a loan of brute strength from my big strong husband for a few minutes, I managed to grub out the juniper and salvage the iris, hopefully to soon be transplanted to a new comfy bed...
Iris bulbs ...
Bare brown winter bushes now, but a hedge of white spirea once early spring arrives!
I raked pinestraw and piled it on the front beds, where I hope to get some azaleas established one day...
Random shots around Squirrels' Leap:
Do you enjoy working in your yard or garden? Are you able to do any outside work this winter?
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Hey, friends,
We didn't make any adventurous treks this weekend, mainly because it was my turn to edit the Sunday paper, so I had to work Saturday. But I got through early, in time for us to go to Saturday evening Mass, then go out to dinner, which was nice.
Sunday I worked around the house and then got out in the yard, which I just LOVE! This new yard is two-and-a-half lots big, a corner lot, and has all kinds of old beds and rock retaining walls and beds that have been framed off and then neglected for years. We'll spend the rest of our lives (I hope!) transforming it into our dream yard - but I already love it. It has one old dogwood tree, and two big maples, and a HUGE, ancient elm tree. And a row of four black walnuts along one side, and a little grove of pine trees ... and I've identified a forsythia bus and a row of spirea, I think, along the driveway (hard to tell in the dead of winter!) I can't wait to see what bulbs come up on this property that has been a yard since the house was built, we think, in 1894.
What did y'all do over the weekend? -
Hey, friends,
I am reading an amazing book, and I urge you all to get it and read it. It's profound, and I can tell it's going to be one that I go back to over and over. It's a life-changing book:
Mother Teresa's Secret Fire by Joseph Langford.Here's a taste:
(The author is speaking of Mother Teresa's struggles with her own personal dark night of the soul:)
"Darkness need not be the opposite, the enemy of light. When seeded with God's grace, darkness becomes its catalyst. Night becomes the womb to the day. It is the power of love, of God's own nature as love, that performs this alchemy. When embraced for others, when transformed by love, darkness indeed becomes light ...Divine love wraps itself in our pain and darkness, as Mother Teresa would say, 'without counting the cost.' God's very nature as love plunges him headlong into our neediness and , unbelievably, even into our sin. In St. Paul's bold words, 'For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin.' (2 Cor. 5:21)
Mother Teresa would follow Jesus' lead. She, who from childhood knew no darkness, would accept to 'become darkness' for the sake of the poor. She gathered into her soul and flooded with love the very blackness that denied God's existence, drowning the darkness in light.
The importance of Mother Teresa's example, even for those who bear much milder Calcuttas, is in showing how far faith and love can reach in this life - even in the night, even buffeted by pain, with every wind against it. Her victory in the night is proof that the exercise of faith and love is ultimately our free choice, never beholden to circumstance, a decision accessible at all times. God makes it always possible to move beyond preoccupation with our own pain, and to reach out to assuage the pain of others. Rather than isolating us, we can choose to make of life's burdens a sacred bridge into the pain of others."
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Doyle and I went on one of the best hikes we've made since moving to the Ozarks today. We drove about an hour south of Harrison to the King's Bluff Loop Trail in the Ozark National Forest, between Pelsor and Ben Hur, Arkansas. It was a sunny blue day, 45 degrees, just perfect hiking weather. We love winter hiking in the Ozarks (no ticks and chiggers!) because you can see so far when the leaves are off the trees and it's just the bare bones of the landscape.
This hike had it all ... two waterfalls ... great rock formations ... gurgling creeks ... great views of the hills ... not a power line or housetop in sight, just wild old hills. Wonderful.
If you're interested in coming along on our hike with us, I'm going to post the slideshow above right.
Here's a preview:
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Hey, friends,
How was your Christmas?
Ours was lively, with plenty of food and conversation.
Doyle's daughter Erika and her fiance' Mike drove all the way up from South Florida to spend Christmas with Doyle, Ruby and me, bringing along their six-month-old boxer puppy, Indie. Our Great Dane, Hagrid, was terrified of little Indie at first, because he's never really been around another dog much, but they were soon fast friends and spent as much time as possible playing together.
I only had Christmas Day off from work, so it's been kind of busy for me around here, but it's been a nice week. We enjoyed having the kids here, and loved being in our new/old house for our first Christmas. I went to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, which I love. I missed my boys - I think this is only the second Christmas since Alex was born that I haven't had one of them with me.
We've got the downstairs pretty straight and square-away, and it does look pretty, at least to us. The upstairs, where D and I hang out a lot, still has lots of boxes to be put away, but we'll get there.
Tomorrow's my birthday - I'll be 53. Yikes! How did that happen???
Tell me about your Christmases, friends! -
Christmastime
once again is here, my friends, and my heart is full, as hearts tend to
be during this holy, stressful, joy-filled, busy, bittersweet season.
I
have a feeling your hearts are as full as mine is, with all of the
emotions that well up so strongly during these sunshine-shy days,
during the long winter nights spangled with the glow of Advent candles
and Christmas lights and the twinkle of starshine.
My heart is full — of longing.
Longing
for my dear ones who are far away — both for those who are in different
places on the map of this country, and those who are far away in that
joy-filled land where there are no more tears. I’m especially missing
my older son Alex, who’s out in the faraway Rockies, spending his
second Christmas in Boulder. He has the day off from the Mediterranean
Restaurant, where he’s a grill chef, and will probably get together for
a meal with friends. We went out there to see him in August, and I
probably won’t see him again until next summer. A few days once a year
is just not nearly often enough for this Mama to see her firstborn
child. I’m longing to sit next to him and listen to his stories and
laugh, and think about how much he reminds me both of my Daddy and of
his Mississippi grandfather, both big storytellers who had the gift of
holding their audience in the palm of their hands.
I’m missing my
dear sisters, my lifelong best friends, and their children, and my
sweet little brother, and faraway friends in Mississippi and Florida.
I'm missing my cousin Beau in Louisiana, who’s always been more like a
brother to me. I’m especially missing my little nephew Ben, who
confided to Santa Claus he wanted a MOOSE for Christmas this year. I’m
missing Mama and Daddy, and my grandparents, and my dear aunt Mimi, who
have all flown away.
My heart is full — of memories.
Memories of
long-ago Christmases. The Christmas when I was a little girl living
with my family in Whidbey Island, Washington, when Daddy gave me and
Cissy both our very own pair of little red wooden skis. Alex’s second
Christmas, when, after he had torn open two or three gifts at his
grandmother’s house, he looked at me and said, “No more pwesents, Mommy
— dat's enough.” Jamie’s first Christmas, when his favorite object
among all the toys and ornaments was a bright red apple, which he bit
into, then crawled all over the house with it poking out of his mouth.
My Daddy’s last Christmas in 2004, when Doyle and I went to his house
in Sarasota on Christmas morning, and my husband fixed his special Eggs
Benedict, which Daddy adored, and we all had such a happy visit.
My
heart is full — of anticipation. I’m looking forward to so many things.
To our first Christmas in our new home, which will be shared by Doyle’s
daughter Erika and her friend Mike. To the arrival of our first little
grandson in February in faraway South Florida, where Doyle’s son Robert
and his wife Christine and their three daughters are expecting little
Robert Parker DeWoody. To our first springtime in our new house, when
Doyle and Ruby and I’ll get to see what bulbs pop up in our yard, and
delight for the first time in the blossoming of our very own dogwood
tree. To another year of making new friends and growing deeper roots
into the soil of our beloved Ozarks. To further opportunities to try to
use the gifts our good Father has given me. To seeing what the Lord has
around the next corner for us. To new lessons in His school of love.
My heart is full — of gratitude.
Gratitude
for so many answered prayers, for blessings of “good measure, pressed
down, and shaken together and running over,” as dear old Saint Luke
said. For answered prayers for our families, for our children, for our
friends, for ourselves. For our wonderful old Harrison house, where we
all love living already, and for our warm and welcoming new neighbors.
For my fun, challenging, interesting job here at the Daily Times, where
I get paid to write, which I love to do, and for getting to meet all
kinds of fascinating people and tell their stories. For my bright,
funny, creative, supportive colleagues. For our church, and for our
dear pastor, Father Greg Hart, who means so much to both of us. For my
husband, who never fails to show me every day that he loves me, no
matter what. For my sons, who are both such blessings to their Mama.
For all of my kinfolks and friends, including my sweet mother-in-law
Ruby, who love me and encourage me and pray for me and laugh with me
and cry with me, and show me what love is.
My heart is full — of joy.
Our Beloved has come. Love has won. Let Heaven and Nature sing!
Merry Christmas, dear friends. God bless us, every one.By Celia DeWoody
Copyright 2008 CPI, Inc.
Published December 24, 2008, Harrison (Ark.) Daily Times
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