How to Get Free Gas

In my last post, I mentioned that I could have free gas and not have to deal with wood heat anymore. I've been asked, what did I mean by "free gas"? Here's what it is and how you can get it:

What it is: in this part of the country, there are many coal reserves below the mountains. In my area, the coal is too deep to mine profitably at this time (although who can tell what technology the future may bring?). Trapped within those geological layers is natural gas. Drilling for that gas is profitable, and it's been done for around 200 years. At first the wells were shallow, but now the driller companies have equipment that can drill over 5000 feet to hit gas. They sometimes also hit oil. Around 1900 many speculators bought the mineral rights under farmland. The practice continues to his day, and continues to cause problems for many landowners. Farmers didn't know what they were selling usually, and simply thought it was easy money. Little did they know that what they sold was far more valuable than the surface rights they retained.

How to get free gas:

Last winter a natural gas well was drilled on our land. The mineral rights were sold on that piece of property in the early 1900's and passed from owner to owner. A company quietly went about purchasing the rights from owners and heirs until they had a large continuous tract of mineral rights on our ridge. We're fortunate in one way--the 50 acres on which our home is situated still retains the mineral rights. But the 30 acre tract rights were purchased and there was nothing we could do to stop the well being drilled. We tried, to no avail.

But since we owned the surface, we were paid "surface disturbance" fees of $2500. We were also given the right to a tap on the well. While we won't collect royalties, we will get free gas if we run all the gas line and install the gas appliances in our home.

So to get your own free gas you can do one of two things: buy land with mineral rights and find a drilling company interested in drilling. In that case, you'd get free gas and royalties. You would need to be careful about the contract you signed, protect your water sources, and be knowledgeable about your rights as landowner and mineral owner. The other thing you can do is buy land without mineral rights and hope someone decides to drill.

For us, free gas comes with its own costs. The well is a half mile at least form our home. That's a lot of pipe. We'd need to replace all appliances. That's a lot of money. We'd need to run the gas lines in the house. That's time, money and know-how. Know-how we probably have, time and money are pretty scarce. We're set up for wood heat and our electric bill is fairly low. Would we actually save anything if we installed the gas? Probably, but it would have been a lot more valuable to us if we were 20 years younger. On the other hand, wood heat is hard work and we're not getting any younger.

You can read about the drilling here. It was messy, upsetting, and aggravating. It caused our big 4WD to wreck. It damaged my little green car because the road was ruined by the heavy trucks. It caused loss of sleep as the drilling got noisier and noisier--especially when they "fracced" the well with nitro. We had to pester to get our surface disturbance money, and still haven't been paid by Hard Rock Drilling for the right to cross our land with their gas line.

But it was fascinating too--the tall drilling tower, the men who worked 24/7 to get the well drilled, and who worked in sub-zero weather, the efficiency of their operation, and their seeming ignorance of the difficulty of drilling in this terrain in winter. I can't fault a man who is trying to make a living, and this is a hard way to do it. I can fault companies who have so little regard for the people whose lives they disturb and the conditions they expect their men to work under.

So that's how to get free gas. Buy land in the right area, get a drilling company interested in drilling a well, and tap on. Worth it? That's up to you to decide--I still haven't figured it out.

Woodstoves:The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly of Heating with Wood

I love my woodstove and fireplace--sort of. I love free heat and the beauty of the open fire. But it's a love tinged with resentment and sometimes downright fury.

Like tonight.

It's Thursday, and that's writing group night. The woodstove was loaded and the drafts carefully shut so the fire would hold and heat evenly until we returned home.

Writing group was great--several good stories and poems, and it was nice to reconnect after so many of us had to miss meetings the last two months due to kids' ball games and other commitments. The Chai tea was excellent, and it was one of those mellow evenings that leave you relaxed and smiling for no real reason. Larry and I even cruised down a street in town renowned for its holiday lights as we drove home.

The good mood evaporated when we opened the front door. What was that smell? There was no smoke, but the acrid smell of it filled the house. A quick check of the fireplace revealed no problems--the fire had burned itself out and everything seemed fine in that room.

Then we looked more closely at the wood stove. It's a Fisher and I've had it for 30 years (hard to believe). Every year it has provided so much heat that we often open doors in the dead of winter to cool things off. The temp is usually around 78 when we go to bed, and around 68 when we get up (this is a drafty house). It holds fire for hours, sometimes days, if properly filled.

But tonight we made two big mistakes. First mistake was that we put a pine log in the Fisher. We know better than that--pine is okay when the stove is burning wide open and is pretty hot. Second, we closed the drafts too tight. So the creosote from the pine and other wood leaked out the stovepipe joints and bubbled and smoked until it was completely charred. What a mess. And what a smell.

The stovepipe is as old as the stove. Because it runs directly up about 8 feet and then through the ceiling, it provides a lot of extra heat itself, and it's cool by the time it reaches the ceiling. So it's never burned out, and the only problems we've had with it is when we do something stupid like we did tonight. Thirty-year old stovepipe (ordered through the Sears catalog when it was still Sears Roebuck) is pretty amazing, come to think of it.

This weekend we'll have to find new pipe. It's past time. Stovepipe isn't as easy to find as it was in the past--even Lowe's doesn't carry it now. So it'll be a search, and probably we'll end up ordering it online. I got my money's worth (it was $7.00 a joint back in 1976 when we bought it) so I can't complain.

I love wood heat. I love the fireplace. I love being toasty warm in the evenings and knowing the fire will hold all night. I hate the smell of creosote, especially in my house. I don't like the dirt that seems to be an inevitable part of heating this way either. Or cleaning out the ashes. In the end it all balances out, I suppose. The heat is low-cost (we do have to consider the cost of gas and oil and the chainsaw and its upkeep, the tractor, wood splitter, etc) and it's WARM. No chilly house for us. The fireplace is beautiful; the open fire is a pleasure that I look forward to every wintry evening.

So it's a trade-off, and one we'll keep making until we decide when we want to hook up the free gas. After the cost of pipe and furnace, our heat will be truly free.

Then I'll probably reminisce fondly about the good ol' days when we heated with wood, and remember only the good things--and forget all melting creosote on a stovepipe stinking like 1000 pieces of burnt toast.

Three Purses of Gold: A St. Nicholas Story and Recipe

Once there were three beautiful girls who lived with their father. Their father was a poor man and could not afford to give dowries to his daughters. The girls could not marry without a dowry, and employment for young women in those times was difficult to find.

Although each daughter had a suitor, marriage was out of the question because a dowry was needed to start out in married life.

The family's situation grew worse day by day, until finally they became so poor that they had no money for food or clothes. St. Nicholas, who was a bishop in their town, heard about this family. He wanted to help, but he was a shy man.

So one night he went to their house after the family was in bed and asleep. Nicholas put a handful of gold into a little purse and dropped it through an open window, onto the bed of one of the sleeping girls.

The next morning when the father went to wake his daughter he found the little purse.

"How did this come to be here? Daughter, is this your purse?" he asked.

She was an honest girl, and she answered him, "Indeed no, Father. I have no idea who it could belong to."

When the father opened the purse and saw the gold coins, he fell to his knees and wept. He kept only enough of the coins to provide for his family, and gave most of them to the oldest daughter for a dowry. She married her young man that very day among great happiness.

Nicholas returned the next night, and again he dropped a purse of gold coins through the window. This time the purse fell on the bed of the middle daughter, but she was sleeping so soundly she did not wake. In the morning, the father once again found the coins. Again there was great rejoicing and the second daughter received her dowry and was married.

On the third night, the father decided he would learn who the family's benefactor was. He hid in his youngest daughter's bedroom after she went to sleep, and watched. When he saw Nicholas look in the window and drop the purse, he called out, “Thank you for your kindness. Tell me, why do you hide yourself?”

Nicholas pleaded with the father to not tell anyone about his good deeds. The father promised, saying only, "You have brought much happiness to my family. Thank you, good St. Nicholas." So the three girls were married, and lived long and happy lives with their husbands.

Various versions of this story can be found on many Internet sites. I like this one because of the details and the accompanying pictures it offers. not to mention that it also includes recipes, like this Black Forest "Good Works" Cake. This would be a good treat to make on December 6th, St. Nicholas' Day.

Black Forest 'Good Works' Cake

DIRECTIONS
To make: divide brownie dough in half.

Spread 1/2 in an 8" round cake pan (greased) and the other 1/2 in a second 8" round cake pan. (greased)
Bake as directed.
Cool both cakes.

Place one cake on decorated plate.
Pour 1/2 of the thick chocolate or fudge sauce over the bottom cake and then cover with 1/2 can of cherries.
Place other brownie cake on top.

Refrigerate.

Right before serving, pour remainder of Chocolate/fudge sauce over top. Cover with remainder of cherries and almonds. Serve with lots of whipped cream!

Recipe Source: St. Michael the Archangel Online

Gifts for St. Nicholas Day are a custom in many places in the world. It was something I looked forward to as a child. Although in some places the gifts are placed in shoes, ours were always laid by our places at the dinner table. The gifts were small and inexpensive, but it was exciting to see the little packages, and to us they were harbingers of the Christmas soon to come.

Grandparenting

My sons were shooting skeets (clay pigeons), and the grandkids were watching them. My daughter-in-law and I were cleaning up the kitchen when she mentioned that she wanted to see the new Wal-mart in town. Now, I don’t like this behemoth of a store, but shopping in a small town is limited, and where she lived had even less choices. I’d bought some Christmas lights that I didn’t like and wanted to return, so I said, “Hey, let’s go. You can shop and I can return these lights.”

We got in the car and started up the driveway. As we passed the skeet shooters we stopped to tell them where we were going. “Wal-Mart,” I said.

I was not prepared for the stampede that followed. “I want to go!” Ten grandchildren raced down the hill toward the car, waving their arms and shouting.

What did I do? I floored it! Gravel spit from the tires as we made our escape. Ten kids in Wal-Mart? Would you have tried that adventure? Maybe I’d have had an even better story to tell, but then again, I doubt I would have survived the trip. I’m pretty sure a few grandchildren would not have made it either.

Today I thought about grandparenting. I’m learning as I go. My husband is a wonderful grandfather, and I wondered where he learned this skill. I realized that our backgrounds provided different training for our present roles.

Poppa Larry and the grandkids return from a ride in the tractor wagon. if you think that left tire is totally flat, you'd be right! But the kids wanted to ride anyway. It was a rough trip, to judge by the squalling and laughter I heard.

My husband was raised in the coal camps of southern West Virginia. His grandparents, or at least those who were still living, were close by and he spent a lot of time with them. There were many other elders in the community—the old men who gathered around the stove at the company store to whittle and swap stories, the grannies who made sure the children went to church, aunts and uncles.

I was raised in a small town in northern Virginia. My mother’s mother lived in England and visited only rarely, although while she was with us she was an excellent role model for what a granny should be. My father’s mother was a stern German woman who visited occasionally and expected us to behave. I loved and feared her.

But my mother was the quintessential granny. She loved babies and grandchildren. She made tea and provided cookies. She listened, hugged, kissed, laughed, and was proud of every one of her 36 grandchildren. It was from her I learned my granny-ing skills.

Being a grandparent isn’t as easy as it sounds. Your home is invaded from time to time by hungry hordes that devour every easily edible thing in sight. Beds overtake each room—sleeping bags, air mattresses, hide-a-beds. Odd clothing and shampoos are left behind and no one ever claims them. The dogs assume that they can come on the porch, even though they have never been allowed to do that. You will cook mounds of food that disappear in minutes, and find odd websites left on your computer. Your jewelry, puppets, clothing and books will reappear in strange locations. The storytelling closet will be raided for puppets and gas masks.

Clayton tries to inhale pizza through his mask, with help from friends.

The hot water heater will work overtime, and there will be mounds of bedding to wash when the house is suddenly, sadly quiet once again. Your dogs will mourn for days when everyone leaves.

It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it. I’m glad I got elected for the position.

What is Weird about My House

James (he of the "chair hanging on the wall" post) has decided my house is weird. Here are his reasons:

1. the ceilings are wood, not white.

2. the ceilings are slanted, not flat.

3. there are plates on shelves, not in cabinets where they are supposed to be.

4. there are beds inside the couches.

5. the doors slide, and they're glass.

6. the door handles inside aren't round (they're latches).

7. there is a fan outside (ceiling fan on the porch).

8. one couch doesn't move (it's built in).

9. the floor is rocks (well, slate) in the log room.

10. there is a chair hanging on the wall--that is still weird!

I love James's perceptions of my house. He's measuring what he knows against what he sees, and trying to decide what "normal" is. I hope he decides that to not be normal is not just okay, but downright cool.

With his sister, playing Dragons

Come to think of it, James isn't too normal himself! And that's the coolest thing of all.

Wearing a crown and vest from Granny's storytelling closet.

Christmas Story: Baboushka

There are so many good Christmas legends! Here is one, a story from Russia. I love this story because of the simplicity of its message. For more about Russian Christmas traditions, go here.

An old woman sat is her cottage, thinking about the work she needed to do Her floors were never clean, no matter how much she swept.

Outside she heard voices, and then came a knock on her door. When she opened it, there stood three men, dressed in rich clothing. They looked as if they had been traveling a long distance.

"We have come a long way," one of the men said “We are seeking the Child who is to be the King of us all. Do you know where we can find him? We are bringing him gifts of great worth.”

“I do not know of this child,” Baboushka told them. “Come in and drink some tea. You look very cold. It is a terrible night to be out.”

“We must go on. Come with us, Baboushka! Come with us!”

“Indeed I cannot! The snow and wind would carry me away. And besides, I have so much work to do!” The three men left. Baboushka watched them leave, and as she sat down she wondered about what they had said.

A Child King? What was this they spoke of? But she thought, my little house always needs to be cleaned. I do not have time to make a journey!
Baboushka sat and rocked and thought about the three men and their gifts, and she began to wish she had gone with them. Housework could have waited. She should have gone with them to honor the Child.

At last she decided that she would leave first thing in the morning, and perhaps she would find the men who had stopped at her cottage and travel with them. She hurriedly looked around her cottage and found a few things she might give the Child as a gift.


She bundled up well in the morning, wrapping herself in scarves and shawls and a heavy coat. The snow blew around her but she traveled on. Everywhere she went she asked, “Have you seen three rich men traveling by here? Do you know where the Child is that they seek?” But no one could help her.


So she traveled on and on, but she never found the child. Some people say she is still traveling. She finds little children sleeping and looks to see if it might be the One she is seeking. But she is never sure, so she leaves the child a gift just in case.

On Christmas morning, children know that Baboushka has been to see them while they slept, and that she is still searching for the Child and the three men. They know that is Baboushka who has left the gift for them, just in case they might be the One she is seeking.

Christmas Traditions

I was raised in a large family---a lot of love but not much money. Extravagant gifts were not an option. We had to find other ways to make our holidays merry and bright. Now I find that many of the things we did are right in vogue as people look for ways to consume less, enjoy more, and live more gently on this earth.

My mother, a British WW II war bride, brought many holiday traditions to the US with her. She started the day after Thanksgiving--that was Fruitcake Day. When the batter was ready, everyone stirred three times each and made a wish. This was the signal that the holiday season had officially begun.

Saint Nicholas Day was the next holiday event. On December 6th Mom would wrap small gifts for each of us--a pencil, eraser, handkerchief--nothing expensive, but the gift beside our plates at dinner was always exciting. She usually re-used wrapping paper from the year before for these tiny gifts.

The Christmas Parade: We never missed it! The parade, held at night, passed the corner of our street. We'd bundle up and wave to the floats and to Santa at the end, then rush home for hot chocolate. Sometimes we'd go caroling in the neighborhood, stopping in at different houses to visit briefly and enjoy cookies and maybe some apple cider.

The Manger: Mom set up her nativity scene at the beginning of Advent, but the manger would remain empty until midnight on Christmas Eve. The Wise Men were also not present---they began their journey on the other side of the living room, moving a little each day until they finally arrived on January 5th, Epiphany.

The empty cradle was a challenge. In order for the baby Jesus to have a soft bed, we had to do good deeds, each one rewarded with a straw for the cradle. Some years I'm afraid His bed was a little hard! We stayed mindful of that cradle all month, and tried to do things that would earn a straw to add to the pile.

The Christmas Elf: this little fellow also moved about the house, watching children and reporting on behavior to Santa. We didn't want to be caught being naughty if the Elf was watching.

Cleaning: "You can't decorate dirt," Mom would say. So we'd polish the old house until everything shone--silver, wood, brass, mirrors. The house would be fragrant with the smell of floor wax and lemon oil. Then it was time to put up the tree and decorations.

The kissing ball: Mom re-decorated the ball each year with ribbons and greenery, and hung a sprig of mistletoe in the center. When we got older, we were allowed to help. She used scraps from sewing, ribbons from packages, any little bits and pieces she could find to make it glittering and pretty. It was usually hung in the dining room door and I can remember Dad catching her under it many times. We all loved to see them kiss.

The tree: Always a live one that we cut on a friend's farm, it was always lopsided and oddly shaped, and always decorated by Santa after midnight Mass. The tree would be put up a few days before Christmas, and the lights strung. The living room ceiling was twelve feet high, and the trees usually had to be trimmed to fit under them.

Decorations: lopped-off branches from the Christmas tree, holly, and a vine we called running pine were the main ingredients for our decorations. Greens were piled atop the mantles, around the front door, and twined down the stairs. Red ribbons and gold beads were added as we vied with each other for the best trimmings, re-used year after year and carefully stored away.

Yule log: made from a piece of the trunk of a former Christmas tree, Dad drilled small holes in it that we filled with greenery and Christmas bits of glittery stuff. Three larger holes held candles. The Yule log was always on the mantle in the living room, and the candles were lit on Christmas Eve to light in the Christ Child. A candle was placed in the window for the same purpose.

Christmas Day: On Christmas morning, we could see the tree through the crack between the big sliding wooden doors of the living room. It was shining and glimmering in the dusky light of dawn, and when the doors were finally opened--only after every single person in the house was present--it was a wondrous sight to behold. My parents collected Christmas balls, adding a few each year, making some, getting some for gifts. My last year at home, over 1000 balls hung on the green branches.

Gifts: with thirteen children to buy for, money didn't go far. We liked to buy for each other too but our money was practically non-existent. We learned to be happy with small gifts. Stockings were stuffed with apples, oranges, and nuts. We'd buy a pack of pencils and wrap one for each sibling, or penny candy, and wrap the gifts as carefully as if they had great value. They did--our hearts were in them. It didn't matter that the gifts under the tree were small--there were plenty of them and the joy when they were unwrapped was genuine. We’d have to hurry to get ready for early Mass at 7:30am.

Open House: Homemade eggnog, the fruitcake, and many other homemade goodies graced the table on Christmas night as friends and family came to visit. What happy times those were for a kid--lots of good things to eat, lots of noise, people singing carols, laughter. We baked for days before Christmas to prepare, always the same traditional fare--sausage rolls, mincemeat pies, wedding cookies, stollen (a sweet bread flavored with almond and laced with candied cherries), date bars, decorated sugar cookies, and so on.

Boxing day: this was the day after Christmas when we went visiting, usually wearing some of our gifts (mittens or toboggan hats knit by Mom, or new socks or a hanky from Granny).

New Year's Eve: even the littlest ones were allowed to stay up and see the New Year in, although they seldom stayed awake until midnight. Unspiked eggnog for the children and perhaps something a little stouter for the parents! Leftover goodies from Christmas, along with ham and rolls, were placed on the table once again for a repeat of the holiday feast.

Epiphany, January 5th: On this day our Wise Men finally made it to the crèche, and since they gave gifts to the Child, we also received small gifts at our places at dinner. This ended the 12 days of Christmas for us, although the tree remained decorated in all its glory until January 11th, my parents' anniversary and the occasion for more merrymaking.

And then the holidays were officially over, the decorations were regretfully taken down, and we looked ahead to the start of the next season--and by then it was only 10 and a half months away!

Snooze You Lose!

A lot of cooks in a small kitchen! The food all came out well, so the old adage was proved wrong. We were at Derek's house, because the WVU football game was going to be on at 3:30pm, and there's no TV at my house.

That's no lie when it comes to home cooking. Yesterday we celebrated Derek's return on leave from Iraq with our Thanksgiving dinner. I prepared some things the night before, green beans being one of them.

I know the current rage is those thin beans lightly sauteed with onions and peppers or something, the kind served at Chinese buffet restaurants. Those are okay (I think they're tough, to tell the truth), but not what I cook. I use our home-canned beans, cooked with a few pieces of bacon. Healthy? Probably not. Tasty? you bet!

After Clayton said grace, everyone started filling plates. We were hungry--dinner was at 3pm and we'd skipped lunch. By the time I got myself organized to get my dinner, the green beans were pretty much history, the mashed potatoes were seriously depleted and it was clear that leftover turkey wasn't going to be a problem. There was a lot of sweet potato-apple casserole left, however, and creanberry sauce, my favorite.

Happy guys watching the game. Easy to laugh with victory in the bag! Only youngest brother Tommy (still serving in the AF in Germany) was missing.

It's a joy to see everyone eating well, enjoying each other's company, and then watching our West Virginia Mountaineers storm to victory with a 66-21 win over UConn. I'm not a football fanatic, but it does every West Virginian's heart good to see this team doing so well, and looking at a run for the national championship.

As I said, snooze you lose. UConn snoozed and lost. I snoozed and almost missed out on dinner!

The Kissing Ball

One of my favorite books for this time of year is called The Winter Solstice, by John Matthews. It's a compilation of legend, lore and history about traditions. legends and lore of the solstice, and even includes a few recipes (my favorite is the one for Soul Cake).

The book also includes poems, and here's one I thought you might enjoy, by John Gay, written in 1713:

When rosemary and bays, the poet's crown,

are bawled in frequent cries thoughout the town,

then judge the festival of Christmas near--

Christmas the joyous period of the year.

Now with bright holly all the temples strow,

with laurel green and mistletoe.

Got your mistletoe ball up yet? The book gives directions on how to make one. My mother, who was from England, made a kissing ball every year, intertwining two circles and wrapping them with ribbons and greens before hanging the mistletoe in the center. The directions linked above to Martha Stewart's page are very different from the ball my mother made.

Mom took two or three circles of wire and put them together to make an open ball. She'd wrap the wires (or sometimes she used embroidery hoops) with ribbons and lace, occasionally adding small shiny ornaments or strings of beads for glimmer. Then she'd add a loop at the top for hanging and suspend a sprig of mistletoe in the "cage" created by the ribbon-covered wires.

I wonder if she knew just how ancient that tradition was. According to Funk and Wagnall's Standard Dictionary of Folklore, Mythology and Legend mistletoe has been believed to have mystical powers "since the earliest of times." The custom of kissing under the mistletoe is thought by some scholars to be linked to the festivities of Saturnalia, although others speculate that the tradition originated in Britain.

Sometimes referred to as "the golden bough" because of the color of the dried plant, it was believed by many cultures to be unlucky to cut the branches, or to let the harvested pieces touch the ground--rather it should be shot or shaken out of the oak or apple tree in which it grows, and caught or gathered on sheets held up to catch the falling pieces.

Wikipedia offers detailed information about folkloric beliefs and sources for stories and legends about mistletoe, and The Holiday Spot includes lore and a European myth about the origins of mistletoe's power.

I will wait a couple more weeks before venturing out to collect this plant for my kissing ball. Mythology aside, I just like being kissed!

Day is Done

She never sits out on her porch
Until her work is done
Dishes washed and put away
Floors swept and counters cleaned
Laundry hung on the line to dry
Beds made with plumped-up pillows
Phone calls made to her grown sons
And to her good friend down the road
To talk about who drove by this morning
And what they might be up to

Then, when everything is taken care of
She sits out on her front porch
In the metal glider filled with cushions
Wearing a clean cotton dress and apron
And waits to see who might pass byAnd what they might be up to

A Family that Understands Giving

Hillbreed has been playing music for longer than I've lived in West Virginia. I remember the first time I heard them--they were playing at the Ripley 4th of July celebration, and the kids were pretty young back then--I think the youngest son was less than 9 years old.

Today they're still playing, and they're still giving. Each year the family sponsors a program that collects toys and donations for needy children. The concert features other local musicians too, and it's a load of fun. Good music, lots of laughter, and best of all knowing the kids will benefit.

James Harrison, the patriarch of the family, has a great sense of humor that shines onstage, and even in print. Take this quote from today's Charleston Gazette article by Bill Lynch:

They’ve played everything from truck “hill climbs” to weddings and even one funeral.

“Just the one,” Harrison said. “We’d never do that again.”

Hillbreed was hired to play the funeral years ago. The deceased was a fan of the family’s music and wanted them at part of the services. Harrison said he wished they hadn’t agreed to do it and they’ve never wanted to do another.

“If you have to look across a casket while you’re playing,” he said, “and you have to look at a hardened criminal who has tears coming out his eyes, you know it’s pretty grim.” Now there's a story!

The Harrisons know the meaning of family, and understand the the giver often gains much more than they give. All that, and music too.

Thanksgiving Comes at Different Times for Some of Us

Today started early. I was up before 4:00am so that I could be at the airport by 5--Derek was supposed to arrive between 5 and 7am, on a flight from Iraq to Kuwait to somewhere to Atlanta to Charleston.

Parking was no problem that early! There were no cars there--and as it turned out, no flights either. Earliest arriving was 9:30am. Since I was only a few miles from work, I got an early start, arriving at the library by 5:30am--first one there, for the first time in the 16 years I've been there.

The morning was a waiting game. He was coming in at 9:30, then at 11, finally at 1:30. I left work and headed to the airport, and this time we had it right. What a wonderful sight to see him grabbing his kids.

Tonight I am supposed to be backing pies because our Thanksgiving dinner will be tomorrow. But lo and behold, no pie pans! How can this be? I'm sure I owned a dozen at least. We searched every cabinet but found only two fairly bent pans. Where did they all go? We sat on the floor and thought back. Took one to George's at Christmas one year, and maybe left one or two at Aaron's last Thanksgiving; at least two were left at Derek's last Christmas...

As we counted I realized that my pans had all gone astray, left with the leftover pie in various locations around the state. So Larry is gone to the store to buy more, and today will end much later than anticipated as the pies get baked.

Granddaughter Hannah came home with us to help cook, she said. She walked into the log room, laid down on the couch to watch the fire, and has been asleep ever since. Poor little thing was up early too and had a day of excitement waiting for Dad.

While I wait for pie pans, I'm cooking sweet potatoes and apple casserole, getting the green beans ready, and packing up all the stuff we'll need to take with us in the morning.

There are more days than one on which to be thankful. Yesterday I was thankful for the time with Aaron and his family, and the quiet, relaxed evening by the fire. Today I am thankful for a safe flight and the joy of seeing my son's face again. Tomorrow will be more blessings, and I will enjoy and remember each of them.

Last Roses

I was caught off-guard by the splash of pink in the garden. Roses, this late in November? Sure enough, a few hardy blooms were hanging on and there was even a few buds. Since temperatures will be in the low 20's tonight, I decided to cut them and bring them in to enjoy for as long as possible, adding a few springs of late-blooming lavender too.


But where to put them so we would see them most? I started in the bedroom, under the lamp we salvaged from the old log cabin we moved, next to the white china cats I got for my 11th birthday (still missing one leg, but I still have the piece--for over 30 years I've been meaning to glue it), and on the oak dresser that was mine when I was a girl.


But we don't spend a lot of time in the bedroom, so the roses moved to the kitchen table, on top of the silver chest that belonged to my grandparents and then to my parents,

but that didn't seem like the right place, either. So I picked up the roses and
wandered back to the bedroom, where I found the perfect place: on my other dresser, beside the picture of Mom and Dad. They loved roses, so they will get to enjoy these last roses of the year with me. Perfect.

Strange Thanksgiving

I don't think I've ever had one quite like it. With five sons, twelve siblings and a dozen grandchildren, you'd think we'd be surrounded by people today. Truth is, it's the old man, me and the dogs. And no turkey.

Here's what happened: we'd planned to cook, probably have Derek's children over (he's the one in Iraq). Then we got the happy news that he was coming home. Plan B: wait and have the dinner when he gets here, maybe go to someone else's house on T-Day.

Then more news: he's be home on Thanksgiving Day at 2pm! Mad flurry to figure out how to get dinner cooked and get to the airport. After several phone conversations with his girlfriend, we had Plan C. Everything was good to go. We'd take things to his house, girlfriend's mother would cook while we went to the airport. We figured out who would bring what, and we were set.

Then a call from son #4, Aaron: He, wife Jaime and their two children were at Derek's house, caulking the new bathtub and brush-hogging the pasture. They were spending the night at my house. George and Clayton had just left, grandson Jared was at his mother's--so the hide-a-beds were empty, come on down! They'd be here to greet Derek on Thanksgiving.

Another phone call: bad sandstorm, the plane was stuck in Iraq, and Derek had to get to Kuwait before he'd know when he would be arriving here. On to Plan D: wait until Saturday for Thanksgiving to be sure he got here, his brothers can be here, and Derek will be able to get a little rest. A codicil to Plan D: dinner can't interfere with the WVU football game!

So instead of a crowd, it's just us, no turkey and a quiet day. Which is actually a wonderful change from the busyness of the past few weeks. I cleaned a little, read a little, petted my dog a lot, and enjoyed the changeable weather of a November day.

Latest news is an early morning arrival time, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed that this time it's for real. We'll see!

Weekend Post 5: Smoke Hole

There is a place in West Virginia I'd always meant to visit. Each time we passed the road that said "Smoke Hole" I'd feel pulled to turn in and explore. But we were always on our way somewhere else and on a schedule. So Smoke Hole remained on my to-see list.

I'm not referring to Smoke Hole Caverns, the touristy stop on Rte 28 that offers tours of some interesting underground caves. I've been there several times with my sons and grandchildren. The real Smoke Hole is another cave, but this one is on top of a mountain. The cave is shaped like a beehive, with a hole in the top. Native Americans used to smoke their meat in the cave, hence the name.

On our return trip last Sunday, we had to pass the road to Smoke Hole. "Turn up there," I told my husband. He sighed; he knows my whims and my urge to "just look" at places along our travels. And that I'll probably ask him to stop many times so I can take photos. The man deserves a badge for patience.

Soon after we started up Smoke Hole Road, this sight greeted our eyes...



And it just got better from there. Tumbles of rocks, small caves, sharp turns with breathtaking views were everywhere. After what seemed like 10 miles, but probably was more like 5, we came to a small settlement. Fishing camps were everywhere, because the road came out on a back stretch of the South Branch of the Potomac. An old store and this log church were on the bank above the river. The church was built about 1850 and was known as the Episcopal Meeting House.

We turned right to head back to a highway and home, realizing that we'd taken a good long detour with this trip. We did not try to hike up to the Smoke Hole--that will have to wait for a trip dedicated to that purpose. But as we drove along the side of the river, a historical marker caught our eye.

It turned out to be the site of the grave of a Revolutionary War soldier named William Eagle. He joined the army in 1776, fought with several companies, was at Valley Forge and Yorktown, then returned to the mountains. He lived until 1848, a grand old man of 87.

A nearby rock outcropping, called Eagle Rocks, was named in his honor. I tried to imagine what this place was like back when Mr. Eagle was living--it is remote enough today, accessible by a twisting one-lane road, bound by high mountains, and enjoying fairly rugged weather in winter. Back then, the natives probably weren't too welcoming either, and there would have been plenty of bear and panthers about. But peaceful too, quiet and incredibly beautiful.

Even today the water in the South Branch is crystal clear. A few trout fisherman were casting lines as we passed, and one told us he'd caught a four-pound trout the day before.

Not a bad place to spend eternity, is it?

We finally got out to Rte 220, and came out at last back on Rte 33 after completing a long, large circle through the mountains. Seneca Rocks was a beautiful as ever in the late autumn sunlight.


When we got home, we were greeted by our visitors, oldest son George and his son Clayton. They came home for a few days of deer-hunting. Luck was with them, because they both went home yesterday with a deer for the freezer.

I do believe this is the last of the posts from last weekend's journey. Family, storytelling, sightseeing, old graves, fruitcakes, and home. It just doesn't get any better than that.

Weekend Post 4: Finally Fruitcake

Saturday everyone --of the female persuasion anyway--gathered at Theresa's to make the cakes. It is a tradition--we've somehow created and kept going by ourselves, without the driving force of our English mother who didn't think there could be Christmas if there was no fruitcake made.

As the cooking gets going, the cooks get silly. The women here were unaware of Christopher lurking in the back of them when I took the picture.

So what were they laughing at?

Mary (in red) didn't make the cakes--she baked cookies to mail to soldiers.

Judy was sure her cake needed more flour, but how much? "Add a cup," Maggie said. "How do you know it needs that much? Judy asked, kind of sassy. She picked up the bag of flour and tipped it up--and out fell a measuring cup! Obviously, her batter needed a cup of flour!

My granddaughter Katie(top right) enjoys seeing Aunt Julie getting down as she stirs Judy's batter and makes her wishes. Each of us stirred the others' batter, so we got to wish three times. Kate is stirring my batter. The three bowls were different in color even though we used the same ingredients. Maggie's was the darkest, mine medium and Judy's was lightest.

The finished product, wrapped in cheesecloth and soaked with brandy, will be ready to eat by Christmas. I prefer making the small loaves because they bake faster. We seemed to have problems with the oven being too hot and browning the cakes too much this year.

One loaf, unwrapped and I admit it, sampled just a little bit. Definitely not ready to eat yet--it still had a raw flavor.

No Music Day: November 21

Why would anyone want to do this? I can't imagine a day without music--it'd be like a day without water.

But tomorrow, for better or worse is No Music Day. I don't plan to participate.

One Minute Story: Nasruddin and the Two Beggars

As I dropped some coins into the kettle of the Salvation Army bell-ringer today, I was reminded me of this story about that logically illogical fellow, Nasruddin, and the time he gave coins to two beggars.

If you're not familiar with the Nasruddin stories, you've missed some funny and strange tales. These old stories have layers of meaning, while often provoking out-loud laughter by their incongruity.

Nasruddin is usually referred to as a "wise fool." I suppose that's an apt description, although he usually seems more wise in his stories than foolish. Nasruddin is a Persian storytelling character who appears in stories as far back as the 13th century. He is also referred to as the Hodja, or Mullah Nasruddin, and his name has several variant spellings.

Coming from the Middle East, these stories are a reminder of other aspects of a culture that we sometimes forget is more than what we hear on the news.

Here is the story:

Nasruddin and the Two Beggars (Middle East)

Nasruddin was walking down the street when he saw a beggar asking for money. Nasruddin asked him:

Are you extravagant? Oh yes, said the beggar.

Do you like to sit around and drink coffee? Yes, said the beggar.

Do you like to go to the baths every day? Oh yes, said the beggar.

And do you like to amuse yourself by going out with your friends, perhaps to dinner?

Yes, I like to do all those things, said the beggar.

Well, said Nasruddin, and gave the beggar a gold piece.

He met another beggar and asked the same questions. The second beggar answered no to all of them. Nasruddin gave him a small copper coin.

The second beggar asked, why do you give me so little when you gave that other fellow so much?

Ah my friend, replied Nasruddin, his needs are greater than yours.

Read more about the Hodja at http://www.nasruddin.org/ and on Wikipedia. Some very short stories are available here, and more information and stories have been put online by the University of Pittsburgh on this site.

Weekend Post 3: Bealeton Library

I don't know what I was telling, but it seemed to be working for Hope and a girl whose name I did not learn, but...

...she liked her part as the bear in "Sody Sallyratus."

Garrett and Cade were enchanted by Raccoon. Raccoon liked them too!

Big Blue Eyes--Nathan is distracted by the camera, but my sister Theresa and her grandchildren Hope and Garrett were all ears.

What a funny gig this was! It was a beautiful sunny day as I entered the library, and I'd noticed the parking lot was empty. My first clue.

The librarian was welcoming and told me her mother had been a professional storyteller in the Northern Virginia area some years ago. Jane Cardeen, perhaps? I wish I could remember the name.

As it turned out, the "crowd" was almost all family members! Many of my siblings and their children have not heard me tell, and this was a good opportunity since I was in their stomping grounds.

A few others trickled in, but this was basically a family storytelling session in every sense of the word. We had a great time. I chucked out my original plan to tell Jack stories because the majority of the children were under 4 years old, and went instead with highly participatory tales and the story bag (always a godsend to have on hand).

I missed my opportunity to arrange the space to better suit my needs so it was an awkward arrangement, but even so, the stories went well, and I think everyone enjoyed it.

And when it was over? Off to Theresa's in a caravan to make fruitcake! But that's another story.

Public Telephone

Pay phones are even more public now than in the past. At least people were enclosed in a booth before, so we didn't have to hear everything they said. I'm not talking about cell phones--we certainly hear enough of people's lives when they're talking on those.

Today on the street I passed a public phone--just a phone in a little box on the street, no way to keep a conversation private.

Here's what I heard on the first pass:

"Did you file harassment charges against me? Did you? If you did I'll..." I didn't want to hear what he'd do so I hurried on.

On the way back up the street with my coffee, a man in his twenties was on the phone. Beside him was his girlfriend, who looked all of fourteen. I hope she was older than that, but she was very, very young. His conversation:

"Come on man, you gotta have it."

And the girl beside him, tugging at his arm, asking:

"Is he gonna bring it? Does he have it? Does he? When's he gonna bring it?"

I felt sad and somehow disillusioned. The day was warm for the time of year, and it felt like Spring outside. I had expected to enjoy my walk, but instead I felt like I'd been an acccomplice to possible crimes, that there were too many desperate people doing desperate things out there.

As I passed another corner, green bills slipped from one hand to another. Drug deal? I don't know. I don't think I want to know. I returned to work, wishing I'd never left the building.

Could have gone all day without reading this

I suppose it's inevitable that the trouble spots in Iraq shift from one place to another, but this is too close to home (or at least to where my son's unit is..or at least where I think it is...)

From Yahoo News:

By PAULINE JELINEK, Associated Press Writer Tue Nov 20, 4:46 AM ET

WASHINGTON - Despite a decline in violence in Iraq, northern Iraq has become more violent than other regions as al-Qaida and other militants move there to avoid coalition operations elsewhere, the region's top U.S. commander said.


Army Maj. Gen. Mark P. Hertling on Monday said al-Qaida cells still operate in all the key cities in the north.


"What you're seeing is the enemy shifting," Hertling told Pentagon reporters in a video conference from outside Tikrit in northern Iraq.

Iraq Homecoming

Before deployment last summer

He's coming home! Derek will be home on leave! He will be here at 2pm on Thanksgiving Day.

Today I shopped for Thanksgiving dinner and the weekend to follow. The cart was full and as I pushed the grocery cart to my car, another woman shopper stopped at the car next to mine.


She surveyed my full cart, then her own. "I sometimes wonder if Thanksgiving is worth all the trouble," she said.


"I've felt the same way sometimes," I told her. "But this year one of my sons is coming home on leave from Iraq, so it is well worth very bit of trouble to me."


She stared a moment, then nodded. "You're right. It's worth every minute."
My Thanksgiving will be the gift of a son returning at 2pm on Thanksgiving Day.

It will be the faces of his four children as they run to greet him. It will be his face as he gathers them in. It will be the joy of sitting down to dinner with his face in our circle. It will be the circle of 4 sons (one will not be there, he is still serving in the Air Force in Germany) who will come together to celebrate. It will be the gift of a family that loves each other, every day, no matter the distance that separates us.


Yes, it's worth the trouble.

Readers

One of the most intriguing things about blogging is not knowing exactly who might be reading what I write. I use Google Analytics, so I know a little about my readers, but not much.

To all of you who read faithfully, thank you. I hope what I write has some use and meaning to you. To any new readers, I hope you come back. To all of you, thank you for letting me share my life and thoughts with you.

Weekend Post 2: Storytelling at Warrenton Library

What a welcome! Becca of the library staff greeted me warmly, helped me set up, and then I learn that she is a fellow West Virginian. No wonder we hit it off so quickly.

It is funny how this program came about. I traveled to Warrenton every month in 2006 to care for my father until he passed away in October. During that time, I'd go to the library to check my email and got to know one of the librarians. I offered to do a program because my father had never seen me perform and I very much wanted to do that before he left us.

It didn't work out that way, but the library contacted me to do 3 programs for them this past summer. I did two of them, but missed the one at Warrenton due to car troubles, so this weekend was a make-up date. I also offered to do a free program at Bealeton since I'd be in the area. So that's how I came to be in Warrenton this weekend.

The turnout was small but respectable for early Saturday morning, when the outside temps were barely above freezing. We had a grand time. It was made even more wonderful for me because my oldest brother and his wife attended. Bill took photos for me and we were able to visit a little after the performance. The others there, children and adults, were great listeners and I found myself wanting to know each of them better. I will hope for an invite back sometime to share more stories with this lovely community.

Weekend Post 1: Snow in the Mountains

It was a wild weekend, and it started on the way across West Virginia to Virginia. As usual we took our favorite route--Rte 33 to Rte 28 to Rte 55. Since we would be crossing close to some of the highest points in the state, I wondered if we'd see snow.

So we weren't surprised to run into it jst outside of Elkins. They'd gotten about 4-8 inches, depending on the location, according to a gas station worker.

At the turnoff road to Spruce Knob, the highest point in West Virginia.

...and coming down the other side.

Off to Virginia

I'm off to Virginia this weekend to tell stories at Warrenton and Bealeton libraries in Fauquier County. And to make fruitcake with my sisters. And visit with son Jon and family.


What stories will I tell? At Warrenton, I'll be doing my Appalachian sampler--a taste of the many kinds of stories told in the mountains: ghost stories, ballads, folktales, family stories, tall tales. At Bealeton, the set will be different since I did the sampler there this summer. I'll be focusing on Jack tales at Bealeton, probably telling Jack and Strong Man, Jack and Old Fire Dragaman, Jack's Hunting Trip, and maybe Jack and the Three Sillies, if there's time.

Answer to BlogHer's Question of the Week" Quirky Holiday Traditions

I've added a tradition to all my mother's British ones (more about that in a future post) that has become an annual tradition for my family.

Each year I ask people to send me their troubles. Most arrive by email, and I send my invitation to many listserves and discussion lists I'm on. This year my blog readers will be invited to send theirs too.

We have a bonfire on New Year's Eve and the troubles are printed on sheets of paper and thrown into the fire. This has become so popular that I often get emails from as far away as Australia and Taiwan. People don't have to tell me their troubles unless they want to; all they need to say is "Burn This!" and I'll print and burn it. Each piece of paper goes into the fire with prayers and loving thoughts for the sender.

We've been doing this for about 8 years, and it's a tradition that has come to have a lot of meaning for me. There are some people who only get in touch each year to send their troubles, and that's fine with me. I just like knowing they're out there. Others send updates, telling me how things have gone for them in the past year, and I love hearing about it. Some have told me they've started the tradition in their own homes, and that's the best of all.

Making Fruitcake with the Sisters

The coming weekend is the day: the girls are getting together to

make fruitcake!

In my family, it's been a tradition for as long as I can remember--and our cakes are good.

Mom used to be the one who planned it all, so last year was our first time to do it without her guiding hand. We missed her, but enough of my sisters remembered her tricks, and although "the" recipe was never found, we managed to come up with something that made a cake just about as good and moist as those we remember from past years.

What’s in the cakes? Well, some of this, some of that. Candied fruits, nuts, two kinds of raisins, currants, spices, molasses, eggs, two kinds of sugar, butter, port, sherry, brandy, flour, lemon juice and lemon zest—I’m sure I’m missing something!

Here are a few photos from last year’s great bake-off. While we were still sad from the loss of our father two months earlier, and still missing our mother who’d only been gone a year, the ritual of making the cakes ended up being a happy occasion full of memories that have carried us through for another year.

What were we talking about? I promise that no one even nipped at the sherry in the photo!

Uh-oh, it was getting serious! Were we hearing Mom's voice at this point? I would not be surprised, because she would have loved to be there with us. Perhaps she was, after all.

Theresa is obviously trying to remember something here, amidst the stacks of ingredients and utensils. And yes, we used almost all those eggs, all the fruit, a lot of flour, sugar, spices and nuts, along with judicious amounts of sherry, port, and brandy!


Crunch time as the day wanes and the batter is still in the bowl.

Stirring and making my wish. Three stirs, one wish, and don't tell your wish to anyone or it won't come true.

Finished! A couple of the finished product can be seen in the lower right of the photo. Seven of eight sisters were there--Maggie, whose husband was still in the burn unit at Johns Hopkins, could not be with us, but Theresa or Julie doctored this picture later so that Maggie was in in after all! Wish I had a copy of that picture. But from top left and going clockwise:

Mary, me, Theresa (the chief cook of the crowd and the one who remembered "the recipe" better than any of the rest of us), Cathy, Judy (we were at her house in the mountains of Hardy County, WV, the house she and her husband designed and built), Julie, and Elizabeth.