On a whim tonight I decided to check Abbeville Institute's site for something historical to read. I hadn't visited in months, maybe not since last year. I discovered just the right thing to suit me: a speech by Jefferson Davis honoring Robert E. Lee. I didn't read the whole thing. The first two paragraphs were enough. I had a deep need to read about a truly good man. I had been reading Twitter. Enough said?
This was a double scoop of edification, because Jefferson Davis's own goodness shone brilliantly in his remarks about his friend. Such gentlemen. Shall we have the likes of them again when the rule by the insane predator class is over? ( I started to just say "predator" but felt it was critical for accuracy to go back and add the modifier "insane".)
I didn't read the whole thing because I have How to Resist Amazon and Why by Danny Caine on the chair beside me. I want to get started on it. And on the other chair I have a gorgeous edition of Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows, which I started re-reading with supreme delight a couple of nights ago.
Anyway, here are the two paragraphs I read about the admirable Robert E. Lee:
Robert E. Lee was my associate and friend in the military academy, and we were friends until the hour of his death. We were associates and friends when he was a soldier and I a congressman; and associates and friends when he led the armies of the Confederacy and I presided in its Cabinet. We passed through many sad scenes together, but I cannot remember that there was ever aught but perfect harmony between us. If ever there was difference of opinion it was dissipated by discussion, and harmony was the result. I repeat, we never disagreed, and I may add that I never in my life saw in him the slightest tendency to self-seeking. It was not his to make a record, it was not his to shift blame to other shoulders; but it was his with an eye fixed upon the welfare of his country, never faltering to follow the line of duty to the end. His was the heart that braved every difficulty; his was the mind that wrought victory out of defeat.
He has been charged with “want of dash”. I wish to say that I never knew Lee to falter to attempt anything ever man could dare. An attempt has also been made to throw a cloud upon his character because he left the army of the United States to join in the struggle for the liberty of his State. Without trenching at all upon politics, I deem it my duty to say one word in reference to this charge. Virginian born, descended from a family illustrious in Virginia’s annals, given by Virginia to the service of the United States, he represented her in the Military Academy at West Point. He was not educated by the Federal Government, but by Virginia; for she paid her full share for the support of that institution, and was entitled to demand in return the services of her sons. Entering the army of the United States, he represented Virginia there also, and nobly. On many a hard-fought field Lee was conspicuous, battling for his native State as much as for the Union. He came from Mexico crowned with honors, covered by brevets, and recognized, young as he was, as one of the ablest of his country’s soldiers. And to prove that he was estimated then as such, let me tell you that when Lee was a captain of engineers stationed in Baltimore the Cuban Junta in New York selected him to be their leader in the struggle for the independence of their native country. They were anxious to secure his services, and offered him every temptation that ambition could desire. He thought the matter over, and, I remember, came to Washington to consult me as to what he should do, and when I began to discuss the complications which might arise from his acceptance of the trust he gently rebuked me, saying that this was not the line upon which he wished my advice, the simple question was “Whether it was right or not”. He had been educated by the United States, and felt wrong to accept place in the army of a foreign power. Such was his extreme delicacy, such was the nice sense of honor of the gallant gentleman whose death we deplore. But when Virginia withdrew—the State to whom he owed his first and last allegiance-the same nice sense of honor led him to draw his sword and throw it in the scale for good or evil. Pardon me for this brief defence of my illustrious friend.
Grandma has been hankering for dumplings for several weeks now. We wanted to make her some but weren't sure what recipe to use. Grandma eats gluten-free.
Emma and I thought that the Urban Poser's tortilla recipe would give us a good starting place for strip dumpling experimentation. It uses Otto's Cassava Flour which is naturally gluten and grain free.
Grandma nixed this idea, favoring biscuit-type dumplings made from a gluten-free mix that she had on hand. It includes corn flour, which Emma is allergic to--thus the necessity of dual dumpling development. Emma made the strip dumplings while I made the biscuit ones.
With both of us working in close proximity to the stove and Emma's kitten, Elsie, underfoot and sometimes climbing our legs while our hands were doughy, it got pretty interesting at times.
Finally Emma stuck Elsie in her apron. We had a few moments of peace, for which we were grateful.
I cooked Grandma's dumplings in a separate pot of chicken broth to avoid cross-contamination. They turned out well, and she scarfed them up. Yay! It's great to be able to satisfy someone's craving, especially when that someone is in a wheelchair and can no longer cook for herself.
The cassava flour ones were definitely not like the traditional Southern (white-flour) strip dumplings that I grew up eating in Chicken and Dumplings. But they were still good, and we're looking forward to trying them again with the addition of some grain-free baking powder to make them a little fluffier. And I think Emma said she will roll them out a little thicker as well. The only thing we regretted with this first try was not having more homemade chicken bone broth on hand to make a bigger batch of soup.
One word of warning. If you grew up nibbling dumpling dough while you made the dumplings like I did, do not try this with cassava flour. It tastes gross. Bleh!
"The idea that a large and supreme central government in the United States can protect the rights and interests of all the people is mathematically absurd. When the original federal government under the constitution was established (1789) each member of the House of Representatives represented the interests of 60,000 citizens. Today each member of the House of Representatives is supposed to represent the interests of over 700,000 diverse people. If we had the same ratio today, there would be over 5,000 members of the House of Representatives! It is absurd to think that a supreme central government that rules over the lives of over 300 million people would be able to protect the interests of the political minority. Under the current system of supreme federalism, the lives of 300 million people are governed by a majority vote of 269 members of Congress and even less if acting by a mere quorum. With Trump’s victory, even liberals, who once controlled the federal government, are now beginning to see the logic of secession."
Update: I added a favorite Civil War song at the end of this post.
Panna Cotta forever! I don't care if I ever eat another dairy-based pudding. Emma's been making double batches of this delectable coconut milk pudding, using Deliciously Organic's recipe. Talk about good and good for you! It features grass-fed beef gelatin powder--we use Great Lakes brand--which is a wonderful source of amino acids. This panna cotta is really creamy and dense. I keep telling Emma we need to try it as a topping on this chocolate tart she makes. Considering how much time I have spent imagining how delicious this combination would be, it's probably best we don't do it.
The lovely color combination of the fruit on the creamy white pudding inspired me to use some of our recently re-discovered stash of awesome Confederate flag decorations. Emma and I were so excited when I pulled them out from behind some cookbooks! We started naming all the ways that we could make use of them, ending with Emma's suggestion of wedding cake. Oh, yes, she is a Southern girl! No, we don't believe in slavery, not even the wage slavery that was supported and spread by the North. We do love the agrarian lifestyle of the Old South and that was more in line with the Catholic ideal. Plus, we have ancestors who fought in that War of Northern Aggression, so it's wonderful to be able to honor them.
Here's a beautiful rendition of The Homespun Dress (O Yes, I am a Southern Girl)
With Holy Week and all, I kind of lost track of time, but somewhere in the last two weeks I told you about getting our furniture moved back in the house from the garage, where we had been keeping it while flood repairs were being done on our house. When we put it there, we thought it would be for a month. It's been, um, let me see...almost five months.
Anyway, so we got the furniture put back in by a wonderful crew of guys from Three Men, only they sent four men, which was great. That was the evening we went to see the Mary Poppins musical. I guess it was the next night, St. Patrick's Day, that I was walking down the hallway and heard Emma squeal in her bedroom and a drawer slam shut.
I rushed into her room and found her kneeling on the floor in front of her dresser. I asked her what happened.
"There's a baby possum in my drawer," she explained, grinning.
I did not feel any urge to join her in grinning.
"Oh, no." I said.
She slowly pulled open the drawer.
Amongst the clothes in the left rear corner, there was a ball of fur. At first I didn't think it was real. It reminded me of this cat toy we have. But then I saw its nose and eyes, and my heart sank.
"He's soooo cute! Can I keep him, Mama?" Emma implored.
"NO."
I hurried out and retrieved a cat carrier, and Emma scooped up the possum baby and cuddled him until I prompted her to cage him. She popped him inside. I latched the door with enormous relief.
"That was too easy," I thought to myself. "Have you checked the other drawers, Emma?"
"Yes," she replied. "I'll look again, though."
I fought the urge to succumb to deep despair when her search revealed two more baby possums. These two were not docile like their sibling. They scurried away.
One of them tried to squeeze itself under the back of the dresser, which afforded Emma the opportunity to gently poke its belly and giggle.
After a few minutes of attempting to catch them inside the dresser, one of them made a run for it, charging toward the opposite wall.
"Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!" I screamed.
The renegade possum sought shelter under Emma's bed. After much maneuvering, we managed to chase it into Emma's closet, where she nabbed the varmint with the help of a towel.
Possum number three was flat out perturbed with us by the time Emma got a hold of him. He grinned his horrifying grin while Emma cooed over him.
"May I keep him, Mama?"
"NO."
At last the three possums were caged, and I took the cat carrier to the back yard, placed it next to a big oak tree, and opened the door.
Returning to Emma's room, I found Emma emptying drawers. There were possum poops in there.
Gross.
She had hoped to spend the night in her room for the first time since we had moved to Grandma's. She decided tonight was not the night to do it, especially since we had begun to wonder...
"Where is Mama Possum?"
Emma left for Grandma's. When I went to crawl into bed, I noticed something on the floor next to my nightstand. Could it be...
Yes, it could.
It was a possum poop.
"Waaaaaa!" I cried, giving in to a few tears.
Poking around this large open box of stuff I still needed to unpack, I found one more poop. I feared there were possums lurking inside that box. I gingerly lifted a pair of my husband's folded jeans. A third possum poop rolled out and plopped on the carpet.
I jumped on my bed.
I spent a harrowing night in fear of waking to find a possum crawling across my face or dangling by the curtains over my head.
No such thing happened, though. I didn't hear any strange noises, nor see any more poops. I guess Emma's three baby possums had ventured to my room at some point looking for their mama.
For the sake of my sanity, I refuse to consider any other possumbilities.
This morning I was much perplexed to read an Abbeville Institute post supportively comparing "Pope" Francis' concerns for the environment and the excesses of capitalism, which he voiced to the US Congress, with the values of the traditional South. I was like, "Um, you know Francis praised Abraham Lincoln in that same talk, as quoted by the L. A. Times:
Francis on Lincoln: “This year marks the 150th anniversary of the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln, the guardian of liberty, who labored tirelessly that 'this nation, under God, [might] have a new birth of freedom.' Building a future of freedom requires love of the common good and cooperation in a spirit of subsidiarity and solidarity.”
Oh, yes, Lincoln, that guardian of liberty who suffered so much that Pope Pius IX wove him a crown of thorns. No, wait! He wove that crown of thorns for Jefferson Davis, not Lincoln! And didn't Lincoln winning the war give America a new birth of industrialism and pave the way for the military industrial complex?
Actually, the issue is not whether it is Catholic to be "green", it's what priority to give it in the face of much more pressing topics, such as abortion, gay "marriage", and Catholic "divorce".
Luckily a friend who is visiting Richmond texted me a photo this afternoon of Jeff and Varina Davis' headstone. Their daughter had it erected with this inscription: "Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder." "Lord, keep their memories green."
Dixie can be a lonesome place for Traditional Mass Catholics. I always assumed that was because the South was never a stronghold of Catholicism to begin with. Catholic Historian Charles Coulombe says that's not so. He will talk about Catholicism in the South tomorrow on Restoration Radio's series Catholic History with Charles Coulombe.
In the interest of full disclosure, I am working part-time for True Restoration as its Social Media Manager, but this is something I would have shared anyway. I am hoping that the radio program will get lots of callers, so that there can be a lively discussion. I want to learn a lot more about this important part of Catholic history. I will be paying particular attention to ideas and attitudes that may help us rebuild the South under the Social Reign of Christ the King.
This paragraph from the show description fills me with anticipation:
What does the antebellum period in the Southern United States tell us about Catholicism, and what happened to it during the War Between the States and in the "reconstruction" years? How is a Catholic to understand the successive chain of events that took the United States from the War of Nothern Aggression of 1861-1865 to the 1960s Civil Rights Movement which produced such figures as Dr. Martin Luther King?
The show starts at 9 pm, EDT/8 CDT. I'll be glued to my chair with a glass of wine in my left hand, a pen in my right, and a notebook in my lap. If you can't listen in for the live broadcast, don't panic, it will be available afterwards "on-demand".
The Confederate South has been criticized for too long for choosing to secede. It's wonderful and downright inspiring to see secession movements in other parts of the world:
Six days ago, the people of Spain’s most prosperous region, Catalonia, voted overwhelmingly for parties favouring the breaking away from Spanish rule. As a result, almost two out of three seats in the Catalan parliament are occupied by politicians who want an independence referendum.
Mr. Sandbrook seems to think this will end badly. I think it is exceedingly good news for the world, and I wish the Catalonians all success, not because I am a revolutionary but because it is the only answer I see to fighting the atheistic New World Order--the only hope for ever re-establishing Christendom.
While Texas has quite the reputation for being ready, willing, and able to function as a republic, I have read that Austin would secede from Texas if the state actually declared its independence. I am assuming this is because the city's inhabitants are more welcoming to the homosexual agenda than the rest of the state. Whatever the reason, Austin's secession would be fine as well. Let birds of a feather flock together. As for me, I pray that I may one day live in a Catholic confessional state. Then I wouldn't have to live the compartmentalized life that this strange separation of church and state requires. Besides, I have seen nothing to beat the fruit of Christendom, which was none other than Western civilization.
A 12-step program for restoring the culture via THE CATHOLIC KNIGHT:
"The ideas I present here are by no means original.
I have reproduced them, and modified them, as needed to fit this
cause. The United States of America is sinking. It is a ship that is
going down. Our problems far exceed those of national debt and economic
recession. If only these two were all that faced us, we could conquer
them in time. No, our problems are more deeply rooted." Read the rest HERE.
For a more in-depth treatment of restoring the culture, read The Restoration of Christian Culture by Dr. John Senior.
N.B. Emma and I drank raw milk for breakfast and lunch and ate a regular meal for supper for three days before we started the milk fast on March 1. We each lost two pounds during this trial run.
DAY 1, Thursday, March 1
I sailed through this day. I drank a quart in the morning and a quart in the afternoon. Any minor hunger pangs went away with just a little milk. I am weaning myself off coffee by adding a little bit more raw cream every day. Other than a cup of coffee, I had nothing but milk. I got sleepy earlier than usual and was in bed by 9:45. I slept well. I could easily drink more milk, but then I wouldn't feel like I was mortifying my body at all, so I am trying to keep my consumption at a level where I am just below satiated. Besides, this milk fast is easier for me than the traditional Lenten fast of one full meal, two snacks.
Emma was not feeling well all day because of the beginning of her cycle and only drank a half a quart of milk. She did have some kombucha also.
DAY 2, Friday, March 2
I felt great when I got up. I thought my face looked less blotchy but wasn't sure. Then later Emma commented that my skin tone looked more even. I drank a quart of milk during the morning and a half a quart during the afternoon. Then Emma and I left for church to go to stations of the cross and the First Friday holy hour of reparation and mass. We took our milk with us to finish after church. On the drive down there, which takes about an hour, I was talking to Emma and suddenly could not speak without mixing up my words. I can't remember exactly, but I think I was switching the first letters of the words in the sentence. I was very aware of it and could not stop it. It lasted a few minutes. I noticed Emma had dark circles under her eyes. I don't know if this is because she didn't get enough to eat the day before and slept poorly or if it is an allergic reaction. She felt better today but still had queasiness off and on. We got through all the kneeling and standing up again of the stations fine, but while I was kneeling during the holy hour of reparation, I started to feel queasy myself, and my head felt odd--I guess kind of light. It was hot in the church. I sat down on the pew for a while and felt better, but I decided not to stay for mass. When I went outside I had a strong craving for really cold water. I didn't have any, and I didn't feel like going to get any, so I went to the car and waited for Emma. I didn't want my now-warm milk, but I made myself drink it. I felt better.
Emma spent 20 minutes socializing after church and seemed to be feeling good. On the way home she told me that she is having a hard time drinking the milk without food. She can guzzle it down when she is eating. By the time we got home she was feeling queasy again.
I was in bed by 10 and slept well. I think Emma stayed up late and watched a movie.
DAY 3, Saturday, March 3
I woke up with a headache. I am still trying to get off the coffee, but my heart is not really in it. I love sipping hot coffee and having my quiet time in the mornings. I have cut back to one cup, and I have given up having the coffeemaker come on automatically in the morning before I wake. It is the enjoyment of it that is my addiction at this point, not the caffeine. I always look forward to getting out of bed in the morning because the coffee is waiting! "This is the day the Lord has made! Let us get up and have a cup of coffee." Ugh! I don't like that in myself. So for the last few days I have been making it when I get up, hoping that having to wait will help me strengthen my discipline and break my attachment. There are so many truly wonderful reasons to get up in the morning. Coffee seems ridiculous in comparison.
I made eggs and toast for my husband. I sipped milk while he ate. It didn't bother me at all. I had a headache all day but felt fine otherwise. I worked in three quarts of water to help get the toxins out of my body in case that was why I had the headache. I took a long, hot shower. Afterward, I noticed that the skin on my legs and feet did not have the mosaic look they usually have from being so dry. I was sitting next to Emma during the rosary, and she remarked that the blackheads on my nose had disappeared. I guess I need new glasses! I wasn't even aware that I had any. I fried a huge batch of grassed beef cutlets and cooked some corn and green beans for Nathaniel and Herb. I wasn't in the least tempted to try them. So I do think this milk fast is helping to break my attachment to food. I am hoping that by the end, my mind will be clearer and I will be able to practice contemplative prayer without getting distracted.
Emma slept late today and yesterday. She still has dark circles under her eyes, but she noticed that her blemishes are healing faster and that two dark, rough spots she has had on her knees are becoming lighter. Worried about the dark circles, I asked her if she wanted to switch to bone broth, but she said, "no".
Day 4, Sunday, March 4
Emma has lost 3 pounds.
I have lost 2.5.
I had a terrible night. That last quart of water I drank at about 9 p.m. the night before demanded to be released around 2 a.m. I still had the headache and was awake a lot during the night. I got up around 6 and made coffee. I decided to cut back some on the raw cream to see if caffeine withdrawal was why I had the headache. It must have been, because the headache began going away pretty quickly, and I have been headache-free since then. I guess I was weaning too fast. I am not going to worry about it. I have cut back on caffeine consumption pretty drastically since Ash Wednesday, Feb. 22, when I gave up iced tea. I was drinking it all day long and found it hard to drink water.
When I was getting ready for church, I noticed that hardly any hair came out in my wide-tooth comb. I have always lost a lot of hair and have to constantly pick it off my shoulders and back during the day. I asked Emma to look at my back and see if she saw hair. She saw one or two. If this keeps up, it will be a major breakthrough for me. I hate having to clean up hair in the bathroom and to always be worrying about shedding hair on my clothes.
I drank a half a quart of milk before we left for church.
Emma, Nathaniel, and I had a great discussion on the drive to church. It started when I suggested that maybe the reason the government makes it so hard to have access to raw milk is because it already knows what we are learning by this fast: a person can live on it alone and be healthy and happy. Healthy, happy citizens might rise up and rebel. The government does not like this. It's better to force the citizens to eat de-natured food that makes them sick and depressed and has the added benefit of enriching factory food corporations and Big Pharma, who in turn make giant donations/kickbacks to the politicians. Emma agreed, saying that all you need to be self sufficient is access to grass and a cow. Nathaniel suggested that the ideal would be to have that and live back in a swamp in Louisiana. He's been watching a lot of episodes of Swamp People, a show about Louisiana gator hunters, and just loving it. Not surprisingly, one of his all-time favorite songs is "Louisiana Saturday Night".
After mass, Nathaniel went home with Herb, and Emma and I stayed for a couple of hours visiting with friends. Fr. Zendejas has added a fountain to Queen of Angels' side "yard" and has installed long metal benches around it, so Emma and her friends gathered there. I noticed Fr. smiled really big when he drove by and saw them, chattering away on a bench. It was about 1:30 when we finally got in the car and drank some milk that I had brought along in a cooler. I was just starting to get hungry. I noticed that the milk made me feel a little queasy. I mentioned it to Emma, and she said it was happening to her too if she drank too much at once. When we got home, Emma took a long nap. I usually take one every Sunday afternoon, but this Sunday I lay on the couch and was wide awake, so I finally got up. I wasn't in the least bit hungry, though I had consumed less than a quart of milk by 4 p.m. Nathaniel set up a target in the yard and shot his bow. Later in the evening, he insisted that I watch "Swamp People", so I curled up on the couch with him and was thoroughly entertained. Emma joined us for the last twenty minutes or so. We tried to watch the The Pearl Fishers opera after that, but it was not a good version, and we switched to The Last Station, a movie about the fiery relationship between Leo Tolstoy and his wife near the end of his life. It was really good. We knew it had some sex/naked parts in it, so Emma had the remote ready to skip over them. Unfortunately, when the first problematic part began, Nathaniel and I squirmed for five seconds before we realized that Emma had been distracted by a text message. I got flustered, but Nathaniel had the presence of mind to call, "EM-MA!" to get her attention back to the screen and her censorship duties. It was pretty funny. I drank a quart of water during the movie. Nathaniel and I went to bed at ten, but Emma was hungry and stayed up to drink some more milk.
This is a fascinating interview from a Catholic perspective about the Civil War. I especially appreciated the discussion of the changing America. Before 1861 we were united states. By 1941 we were an empire.
The crown of thorns given to Jefferson Davis by Pope Pius IX is on display at the Confederate Hall Museum in New Orleans.
THE CATHOLIC KNIGHT: The emerging Dixie Independence Movement is now growing rapidly, and appears to be increasingly populated by Catholics, many of whom are taking leadership roles in the movement across the Southland. While it is impossible to calculate actual numbers at this time, reports are coming in to The Catholic Knight about many traditionalist Catholic groups, such as the FSSP and the SSPX, having a large crossover in membership with the League of the South and the Southern National Congress, especially in states that were part of the Old Confederacy (1860 - 1865). This of course is not limited to traditionalist Catholics, as many practical Catholics of all stripes are becoming partial to the movement.
My jaw dropped when I read the above passage. Then I finished reading the post and watched the video. As someone who sees no hope of improvement in the present political "game" of the Republicans vs. the Democrats, I have come to the conclusion that the country must somehow adopt the Social Reign of Christ the King to avoid total ruin. I couldn't imagine how such a Catholic alternative would come about. I certainly never dreamed that it might come through the influence of Catholics in The League of the South, although I realized years ago that the Catholic agrarian movement of Fr. Vincent McNabb seemed compatible with the League of the South ideals.
After a long morning away from home yesterday, Emma and I returned about 1 p.m., tired and hungry. Emma stayed in the car to finish something she was reading. I hurried in to start lunch but was first greeted by the flashing light on the answering machine. I pressed the "play" button.
"Hello, Wendy. This is your neighbor down the street, P____. Your Jersey cow came down the road this morning headed for the highway. . ."
It was one of three messages, the final one informing me that her attempts to capture the wily Fiona proved fruitless and that she had given up and called the sheriff.
O help!
I hot-footed it to the car and told Emma. The news shocked her so much that she denied at first that Fiona could be gone. Then she recovered herself and ran for the lead rope. I dashed back to the phone and called the sheriff's department to see if they had recovered the renegade Jersey. I could imagine that scene: Fiona surrounded by squad cars with flashing lights, craftily assessing her options, then slyly distracting and disgusting them by plopping piles of splattery poop on the road, at which point she would break and run. Ugh.
The sheriff's department dispatcher came on the line. "This is Wendy Haught," I said. "Did you catch my Jersey cow?"
"No, ma'am," the dispatcher replied emphatically without hesitation. Apparently Fiona was the only Jersey cow on the run that day. The dispatcher didn't need to ask me any questions.
"OK, thanks," I said, not the least surprised that Fiona had eluded them.
Emma came in to change shoes. We both grabbed some of these little date/almond butter/squash/coconut balls she had made and ran for the car. I had had one of these things for breakfast and nothing since. Somehow running to the Honda with a handful of vegan treats seemed horribly inadequate for the high drama to which we had been called. Surely this scene called for beans and bacon or jerky and biscuits and a pair of fleet-footed little Mustangs. Oh, well. As usual, Fiona was directing the show, not I.
We tore off down the driveway, praying fervently to St. Anthony, St. Francis, and St. Isidore. Thankfully, my neighbor, P____, with the help of a friendly motorist, had been able to divert Fiona away from the highway and down a side road. I planned to search there first. If we didn't find her, then I would let Emma implement her plan of searching off-road on the 4-wheeler.
Right away we noticed that there was continuous pasture fencing on both sides of the side road. Deo Gratias! She would have had to keep to the road where she would be easier to catch. We cruised slowly along, checking for any openings where she might get through. We passed a small pasture with three fat cream-colored beef cows and one bony brown and white Jersey who was determinedly impersonating a fat cream-colored beef cow.
"There she is!" Emma cried exuberantly.
We pulled in the driveway of the home that adjoined the pasture, hopped out and knocked on the front door. No answer. We waited a few minutes while I thought this over. Should we go fetch Fiona without the owner being present? This was indeed a dilemma. I mean, after all, this is Texas, y'all. You don't just go rushing pell-mell into other folks' fenced pastures. They might think you're a cattle rustler and take a shotgun to your hindmost parts. For all I knew they were in there right now, pressed against a wall, peering at us stealthily through a window.
Yikes!
Being the sensible, cautious person I am, I said, "Come on, Emma," and we headed for the pasture gate. We let ourselves in, and Emma quickly worked Fiona into a corner where she was able to grab her halter and secure it to the lead rope. The other three cows moved close and watched intently. It was a little nerve-wracking, especially since one of them had horns. They followed us, jogging, to the gate. Then they walked with us as far as they could inside their fence. They didn't want Fiona to go.
Boo-hoo. Or should I say Moo-hoo?
I followed behind Emma and Fiona in the Honda just to make sure no trouble overtook them. As I inched along, I counted our many blessings. How lucky we were! We are eternally grateful to P____ and whoever captured Fiona and locked her up in the pasture with the three beef cows. Our story could have had a much different ending.
Mr. Haught returned home from work and promptly fixed the fence. Fiona, just as promptly, hurried to the repaired area to inspect her options. Hope springs eternal. Even in bad cows.
My sister, Beverly, is an avid Harper Lee fan and always has the latest news on this famous recluse. Today Beverly has linked to an article by Alice Randall who, among other things, praises To Kill a Mockingbird as an etiquette book.
In honor of the Fourth and the freedom and independence it represents, I asked Herb to take the last meat rabbit we have and "throw it in the briar patch" next to the hangar. Of course I was thinking of the great Uncle Remus tale about Br'er Rabbit and the Tar Baby. Surprisingly, when I looked up the story, I found that the poem below introduces it, and it references celebrating the "Fo'th" in the South.
I declare, it's jes one mo' reason to love us good ole rebels--bless our cotton-pickin' hearts!
In Levemteen Hunder'd-an'-Full-er-Fleas, When dey raise sech a crap er goober peas, De creeturs wuz all des ez chummy ez you please: Dey raced an' dey rastled, dey jumped an' dey played, An' dey wa'n't nothin' 'tall fer ter make 'um 'fraid.
Dey had der parties, bofe dar an' here, Id May-pop puddin' an' 'simmon beer; An' de way dey keep der Fo'th-er-Julys Wuz in eatin' goobers an' fresh tater pies- An' dey wa'n't no dought, an' no perhaps, Dat dey holp one anudder out wid der craps. . .
Artwork: Top Left--Br'er Rabbit and Tar Baby by A. B. Burdett Right--Statue of Br'er Rabbit on Courthouse lawn at Eatonton, GA, via Answers.com
Last week the lock on our back door broke, and we couldn't lock it. Herb took it apart when he got home from work, because he can fix everything. Usually. But this time he couldn't. It distressed him terribly for two reasons: 1. It insulted his manly pride; 2. It was a security breach that he, as Grand Protector of the Family, could not bear.
I suggested that we just ignore it until the morning. "Unthinkable!" my husband assured me. I offered to sleep on the couch with a loaded sawed-off shotgun pointed at the door. He rolled his eyes, unimpressed.
So even though he had just gotten home from an hour-long commute, he left again on his white horse to go to the hardware store to procure another lock set and save the day. He purchased one and had six keys made for it. He checked each one. One didn't work, and he had the lady re-cut it.
Is he not incredibly capable, dependable, and wonderful in every way? Did I mention handsome and smells awfully good too? How any man so perfect got stuck with me, I'll never understand.
An hour and a half later he got home only to find that the new lock set wouldn't fit our door; the hole was too small. It turns out that our door is not standard. He wanted to drill the door to make the hole big enough, but it is a metal door. No can do.
Thoroughly miserable, around 10 p.m. he resigned himself to unlockableness. The next morning after he had gone to work, I texted him the names of two locksmiths for him to call, which he did. One came, announced that he had never seen a door knob hole like ours in his 30 years of locksmithing, and made the repair. He presented me with a bill. I wrote him a check, and he departed. Case closed. Door locked.
Monday, I got a call from the locksmith. I had made out his check to the other locksmith, even though the one who had done the work had handed me a clearly labeled receipt.
How embarrassing.
I made arrangements for him to come by and pick up a new check. He was to arrive a little before noon, and I told him that I would make sure to have the gate open. I drove down there mid-morning and opened the gate with the remote. I thought I might as well check the mail while I was down there. I pulled out of the driveway and over to the mailbox. With that done, I turned around and drove back to the house.
Shortly I received a phone call. It was the locksmith again.
"Mizzes Hawwwwt," he drawled, bigger than Texas. "This is the locksmith. I'm at your gate, and it's closed."
"No," I said without stopping to think. "I drove down there and opened it!"
Then I remembered checking the mail and going back through the gate to the house. I must have punched the remote and closed the gate behind me out of habit.
"I am soooo sorry!" I gasped. "I'll be right there."
Then I had to leap back in the car and take the new check down to the closed gate, where Mr. Locksmith stood waiting and smiling.
Intense mortification pulsed through my veins.
I tried to explain again--with my head down, shuffling my feet--about the check and the gate, but I sounded pitiful. "What a whiner I am!" I thought.
Mr. Locksmith was real sweet about it, and I hated him thoroughly for it. I think if he could have reached my head he would have patted it and said, "That's OK, Mizzes Hawwwwt."
"I bet he thinks I'm 'brain daid'," I thought to myself.
I couldn't wait for him to be gone. If he calls again, I'm not answering.
I give thanks for my Alabama ancestry and that connection that I feel with the land. I give thanks for my grandparents. How I miss them! They took me to "dinner on the ground", to pick messes o' peas on summer mornings, and to call on the sick in bare-walled houses with a single light bulb hanging down. I give thanks for all the time that we just sat together on the porch, sipping Dr. Peppers and rocking while we shelled butterbeans, snapped green beans, and shucked corn.
I give thanks for the rustic beauty of country living that I learned to love as a child.
And I give thanks for the profound luxury of getting to spend time as an adult with my Grandma Somerset: sleeping in the bed next to hers under half a foot of quilts, getting up in the morning and rushing to light the gas heater in the kitchen, then huddling together in front of it; cooking grits, eggs, and bacon while listening to the AM radio on the kitchen table; sitting on the piano bench together and singing from the old Broadman hymnal; listening to her tell me stories of growing up as a child bride under the loving care of her mother-in-law and fishing companion, Ma Set.
For all this and so much more, Father in heaven, I thank Thee!
Precious peace was restored to our homestead on Saturday with the butchering of thirteen roosters. Though they were mostly scrawny old bantams, Herb and Emma processed them for the freezer and the gumbo pot. It was a great family time, and we all missed Nathaniel terribly. He had gone to visit his friend Ross in Louisiana.
Nothing compares to the aroma of fresly-scalded chicken on a cold and rainy day!
Emma was a little troubled at first by the slaughter and made various and sundry pleas for saving some of them. She had raised the birds from egghood. Herb wanted to save Sir Roosterlot only, but I intervened on Emma's behalf, and he granted stays to two of her favorites.
Emma recovers her sense of humor.
The butcher at work.
"Can she make a feather bed, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?"
Emma takes a turn with the knife. By this time the temperature had turned so cold that I had to clamp a hat down on her wet head to keep her from freezing. Herb set up the shop heater under the table.
Gelatin, sweet gelatin! After I had washed and freezer bagged all the meat except for the birds that I was going to cook for the gumbo supper, I scrubbed the feet, and threw them in the freezer.
By this time Emma was walking in a dreamy cloud of idealistic happy homesteader satisfaction. She asked me earnestly, as if we had been arranging heirloom roses in a blue bowl all day, "Don't you feel domestic?"
"Oh, yes! Terribly!"
The first step in making the chicken and sausage gumbo is the roux. This picture absolutely does not portray its stunning beauty. I sat on a stool and stirred constantly for two hours to achieve its rich velvety brown-ness. I was so pleased I forgot to take a picture of it until after I had thrown in the onions. Oh, well. Take my word for it. It was the purtiest roux you've ever seen! And the roosters were so flavorful, they were something to crow about!
