Anniversary

Once upon a summer Sunday, way back in '85,

in a little log church 200 years strong,

Nancy married Robin.

Twenty-seven years, seasoned with the strain of toil and the fret of care,

but sweetened with love, plain and simple.

Happy Anniversary, Robin!

Wedding Day photos by Virginia C. Campbell, 1985

Summer Is...

Summer is a lot of things: hot weather, wet swimsuits, beach vacations. Summer means no school, late evenings, and yards to mow. Summer means different things to different people, but for me, among other things, summer is...


laundry on the line,

windows open to the breeze,

hummingbirds at the feeder,

making hay while the sun shines,

petunias blooming on the porch,

pots of brilliant color in the yard,

fresh veggies on the table,

rain humming on the roof,

thunderstorms rolling through...

all of which, in one way or another, show me again and again that God is in control, and He is good!

Here's wishing you a sweet summer!

Everyone Knows What an Angel Looks Like

There's a children's picture book called Everyone Knows What a Dragon Looks Like. It's the story of a city in ancient China that, when threatened by barbarians from the north, prays for a dragon to protect it. When the dragon arrives, only the poorest orphan boy treats him with kindness and respect. You see, the dragon didn't look like what the city leaders expected. Each of them, including the Mandarin, was sure that a dragon would look a lot like themselves, in all their presumed greatness. When a short, fat, bald old man arrived at the city gates and announced to Han, a poor but happy orphan, that he was a dragon, the boy didn't doubt his word. He admitted he didn't know what a dragon looked like, and kindly shared his one bowl of rice with the weary traveler. In the end, after the dragon saved the city, Han was the only inhabitant who got to see the dragon in all his glory.

Most everyone can recognize an angel when they see one, and we all see them everywhere: in art, figurines, magazines, books, and of course, churches. The angels we see all have some common characteristics such as flowing robes, halos, and serene faces. And of course, they all have wings of one sort or another. But this week, we've had an angel at our house and he doesn't have any of those things.

Last Friday, on June 29, we were among the millions of people who weathered the terrible storm that ravaged the eastern United States. Thankfully, we suffered no real damage, just a lot of downed trees and power lines, and debris everywhere. We were not at all surprised when the electricity went out. The next morning, when Robin ventured out to survey the damage, he could tell that the power wouldn't be back on for a while. He immediately began locating generators to maintain freezers and refrigerators for ourselves and the neighbors. As the weekend wore on, it was becoming more than he could manage by himself. I helped as much as I could, but not having the strength to start the generators, I could only do so much. Just when we were about to be overwhelmed, our own personal angel arrived. His name is Phil. He's an old friend who hunts frequently in this area and lives in South Carolina. When he heard of our troubles, he rounded up four generators, drove seven hours, and rescued us from despair. His calm and reassuring presence was just what we needed. All week, he has worked along with Robin to tend the generators in sweltering heat.

Our electricity was restored just a couple of hours ago, after seven long, hot days. Phil is headed home early in the morning. Robin and I will spend tomorrow catching up, but we'll also be counting our blessings. Besides the protection the good Lord provided for us and our belongings, we'll also be thanking Him for sending us an angel. Like Han in the story,  I now know what at least one angel looks like. He doesn't have wings or a halo, but instead has short, graying hair, an easy smile, and a heart as big as all outdoors. He's a sweet reminder that there are still some really good people in this crazy world. Thank you, Phil.

And the Paint Goes On...

I think the neighbors and those who drive by on a regular basis are confused. They're probably thinking we are I am having a hard time making up my mind again. But not to worry; I have a plan! And I'm sticking to this one.

The farmhouse has always been white. My 94-year-old father-in-law and his seven siblings grew up there. Their father and grandfather built the house in 1885. And it's always been white.

Until last fall, that is. Along came the in-law (that would be me), who painted it a dusky yellow. I'm sure there were those who wondered, "What in the world is she thinking??" I can tell you what I was thinking: FREE! When people asked me what color the house was, I told them free. It's a wonderful color!!

There were several reasons to choose this wonderful color, the most important one being its cost: $0.00. My brother-in-law John has his own construction business, specializing in tin roofs, log cabins, and guess what: exterior painting!! Several years ago, he took on a job and purchased gallons of quality paint in the client's chosen color. That client must have been a little like me, because she changed her mind on colors. I'm glad she did because she let John keep the wrong color and he offered it to us for his cost, which was nothing. Our farmhouse hadn't been painted in decades, which meant it required a lot of scraping, Since the first coat of paint would need to soak in well to provide a good base, it would not be a true color. Therefore, it didn't really matter what color it was. It could have been hot pink for all I cared. It would eventually be covered up anyway. So John went to work, adding linseed oil to the paint and slathering it on. Then we let it sit and soak in all winter.

Folks were scratching their heads, wondering if we were going to leave the house this color. Some liked it; some did not. I have to admit, the color grew on me. With some dark green or dark brown shutters and trim, and a dark roof, it would look pretty spiffy. But in the end, I decided to put it back to its original white. Consequently, folks were scratching their heads again this last month as the paint went on:

Now it's all white again and gleaming in the summer sun. Besides the free base coat, there was another advantage to painting it yellow. Around the front door there are sidelights, small panes of original glass. When John put the yellow paint on the house he used a sprayer, and much to my dismay, he didn't shield the glass in these sidelights. They were covered in yellow paint and I wondered if it would all scrape off. Thankfully it did, and in the process it revealed something special. Robin's great-grandfather, William H. Vance, who was born in 1842, fought in the Civil War, and died in 1935, had etched his name in the glass.

What a find that was! I think we'll be leaving the yellow paint and the treasure it revealed on this pane of glass for a long time. It's a sweet whisper from the past to inspire us in our quest to make this house a home once again. 

Two Old Soldiers

Two old soldiers met today, to sit a spell and visit. They shook hands and greeted one another warmly, glad to have one more opportunity to be together.

Both were young farm boys when they went half way around the world to fight a war. One was headed for the Army's infantry and the other for the medical corps.

Bill was a first sergeant in the 34th Red Bull division, and fought his way from Salerno to Cassino, in Italy, going without a bed, a hot bath, or a hot meal for three months in the fall of 1943.

Bruce was a medic with the 42nd Rainbow division, bandaging up and transporting his wounded buddies across Austria and Germany, and making life or death judgement calls as to whom he could save and whom he could not.

But today, they were just two old widowers in their nineties, sitting on the porch and talking. It puzzled me as to how, when they are both deaf as a post, they could hear each other easily.

They talked about a lot of things: the weather, gardens, family, the War, the President, and the how young people have a lot to learn. They talked about being old, and the challenges they face in simple things, like walking and negotiating stairs, picking up a glass or cup without a spill, and eating spaghetti gracefully with a spoon.

And they talked about how, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, they believe there's no place like home, and nothing better than sleeping in your own bed. When they came home from the War, both men married and raised families, Bill with a career in the Postal Service and Bruce farming land that has been in his family for generations. They didn't know each other until one's youngest son and the other's youngest daughter married each other, but they soon found out that comrades in war make easy friends.

When their visit came to an end and my father and my father-in-law parted company, it was with another firm handshake and the usual pleasantries of taking leave. But the unspoken words hung thick in the air:

"Life is hard for us old soldiers. Hold on. I hope I see you again."

News From Sweet Run

It's been crazy busy around here, and none of several posts swimming around in my head have made it into the computer. Consequently, I thought I'd give you a quick run-down of recent happenings here on Sweet Run Farm.

We built (or rather, had someone build) a new garden fence in hopes of keeping the deer from devouring most of our vegetables. We added the black mesh on top of the regular wire fence to a height of about 8 feet. Think that'll do it???

I admit, the skinny black posts on top of the regular salt-treated ones looked goofy at first, but we're used to them now. The mesh is invisible most of the time, but you can see it when it rains.

Once the fence was complete, Robin started plowing and tilling.

I've been snapping photos of wildflowers whenever I get the chance.

Trillium, both pink and white:

Lady Slippers:

Wild Geranium:

And more... I'll show you sometime.

Two weeks ago tomorrow, we got 11 baby chicks. A friend put some eggs from our chickens in his incubator and 21 days later, we had babies! When I took the first photos, I didn't think to try the flash on the camera, so they are red from the heat lamp.

I spent Mother's Day with Dad, and we took peonies from his yard to the cemetery for my mom.

This evening I started planting flowers in our yard. Pink geraniums go along the front porch. I have a long way to go to get the yard in decent shape.

When Robin dug into the last of our stockpiled mulch, he found a surprise! He moved it to the grass with the shovel so I could get some good shots, from a safe distance with the zoom lens, of course!

Other things keeping me hopping lately include going to Roanoke with my sister to see Riverdance. I'm an avid fan of Irish dancing, so this was a real treat, even if it was the third time I've seen it! I got sick again (click here to read about last May's crud) and missed the 150th Reenactment of the Battle of McDowell, right here in our own hometown. Raven, our big black Tennessee Walking horse, foundered, much to our dismay. He's such a nice horse, and it happened so fast. We sure hope he's going to recover, but I've learned that founder is an awful thing. I haven't been to work at the farmhouse for several weeks now...it may just have to wait until the school year is over. Speaking of school, we are in the depths of state testing, which is putting all us teachers just about over the edge.

Hopefully, when school is over in June, life will slow down a little. Until then, don't be surprised if posts are few and far between.

Shearing Day

Yesterday was shearing day. Not for us - we don't have sheep. It was shearing day for Robin's Aunt Beany. Her real name is Lavenia, but when her little sister started to talk she couldn't pronounce Lavenia clearly. It came out "Veny" and somehow morphed into Beany. It's been Beany ever since, just a mere 96 years or so. Yep, Aunt Beany is 98, 98 and a half to be exact. She's an independent woman, if there ever was one. She's still living in her home, the one she moved into as a young bride in the 1930s. She and Uncle Frank raised sheep and cattle throughout their marriage and Aunt Beany kept on with the livestock after her husband died in 1981. A widow now for over 30 years, she no longer has cattle (she sold the last of those just a year or two ago), but she still has 14 sheep, plus the buck. She still drives her pickup truck around our small town for necessities. She's like the Energizer Bunny: she just keeps going and going.

Aunt Beany is one of several women I know who keep sheep. I guess shepherdess is the correct term. They love the woolly creatures that are so idyllic in stories and art, yet a little on the dim side in real life. From what I can tell, being a shepherdess is nothing like the Little Bo Beep persona. These ladies wear coveralls and boots, get just as dirty as any male counterpart, and don't hesitate to recount their flock's lack of common sense. In fact, words like dumb and stupid are sprinkled liberally throughout their conversations about sheep. Still, they love their sheep. And they'll do just about anything to protect them from the weather, worms, sickness, coyotes, and anything else that threatens their flocks.

Lambing season is just about over for most farmers in these parts. It's a pretty intense month or two when babies are popping out all over the place. Many ewes give birth to twins, triplets are not uncommon, and once in a while quadruplets show up. Robin had to give Aunt Beany a hand a few weeks ago with a ewe that was having trouble. When he saw hind feet showing he knew the lamb was coming backwards. In the process of turning it around, he felt what he thought was an awful lot of legs. In the end, there were 16 legs, belonging to four lambs.  With some help, all four were born alive. That's just one scenario among dozens when my shepherdess friends get together this time of year. You'll hear tales of baby monitors to listen for trouble, trips to the barn in the wee hours of the night, lambs that don't know who their mama is, mamas that don't seem to want to be mamas, lambs that won't nurse, mamas that don't have enough milk.

You'd think all that would be more trouble than it's worth, that these ladies would give up their sheep in favor of calmer days and nights with just the normal stuff like jobs, housework, kids, and such. But no, these women are firm in their commitment to their flocks, fierce in their protection of them, and tender with them at all the right times. Along with all the hardships of keeping sheep, you'll also hear about how cute and funny the lambs are and how attached they get to ewes that have been good mamas for years. You'll also detect a note of satisfaction in their voices as they describe bringing a sickly lamb through to health. Many of the sheep in a shepherdess's flock are named and recognized on sight. Mixing up milk replacer for lambs that need an extra boost goes right along with fixing supper for the family. Many a lamb has spent a few hours or days in the warmth of their kitchens or laundry rooms when they weren't strong enough for the outdoor weather. And although I haven't witnessed it, I know there are more than a few tears when lambs don't make it for one reason or another, when coyotes kill mercilessly, when a favorite old ewe finally dies.

Yesterday, Robin asked Aunt Beany if she was going to keep sheep another year. She hesitated a moment before answering. Standing in the pen with her ewes, she reached out her hand toward them and said, "I don't know. Seems like I ought to get rid of them, but you've just got to have something around. I don't know." I think what she meant was that her sheep need her. But the truth is Aunt Beany needs the sheep more than the sheep need her. Being needed is something all creatures crave at one level or another. Being needed makes us get up and go when we'd rather not. When you're 98, going on 99, I imagine being needed is a pretty sweet feeling.