Has anybody else been hearing John Denver singing in their head lately?

Just me? Well that doesn't surprise me.

Especially since the song I'm hearing him sing is Rocky Mountain Pies, which you probably don't recognize but is very similar to his classic hit, Rocky Mountain High.

Same tune, one tiny little word change.

That word change is directly related to the simple fact that my life over the past several days seemed to revolve around pies, pies, and more pies...and also the Colorado Rocky Mountains. 

It was quite a change from my normal life, but sometimes life isn't normal and you end up trekking from the Ozarks to the Rockies with your vehicle crammed with ice chests full of 200 frozen homemade mini pies, a collection of vintage decorations, several flats of succulent plants, plus your family and all your luggage--strapped on top of the vehicle, because there was no more room inside.

For the luggage, I mean.  My family all fit inside the car, thank goodness. I'd have hated to have had to strap somebody on top.

They probably would've hated that too...especially when that western Kansas thunderstorm hit us as we were cruising down I-70 about midnight that night.

I probably should explain what brought this crazy adventure on, but it's easier just to show you...

That's right, folks! That's my dearly beloved brother, who recently married his dearly beloved bride in a beautiful ceremony at a picturesque flower farm in the foothills of the Colorado Rocky Mountains.

And my dearly beloved brother and his dearly beloved bride opted for mini pies in lieu of a big wedding cake...which is where I came in. Me and my 200 from-scratch, vintage-recipe blackberry, cherry, peach, and pecan mini pies.

That's not even all of them.

​Plus, I also made a full-sized cherry pie for the newly married couple to enjoy after the ceremony...
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And a small double-layered, marshmallow-frosted, Chocolate Cherry Coke Cake for the cake-cutting event...
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AND a special toddler-sized bundt cake for my sweet-as-pie little niece, Ariel, to do her own little cake cutting ceremony after momma and daddy had their moment...
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She loves fruit.

​And cake...
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She basically ate the whole thing...obviously she's related to me.

There was no holding her back after she spied that tiny little fruit-topped cake, and there was no holding back the crowd when they spied my pies.

Or maybe I'm exaggerating.  But they did seem to go over well...
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Well, at least cousin David approved...or maybe he was exaggerating.

We must be related.  But I'm not exaggerating a bit when I say that David did an amazing job officiating the wedding ceremony which, by the way, was absolutely perfect.

Well, sort of.  After all, it was probably to much to expect for it all to go off without a hitch--especially when somebody important is getting hitched and I'm in charge of catering the dessert.

Let's just say there were a few tiny little figurative snags in my figurative non-existent pantyhose...like when the pie boxes decided to go for a spin and flip upside down in the back of my vehicle when I was only ten minutes away from the wedding venue.

After hauling them all the way from the Ozarks to the Rockies without a single issue.

Yep. That's my life.

And like when I realized the full-sized cherry pie had leaked most of its filling out into the box it was traveling in and then trickled down onto the seat of my new car (within inches of the fancy dress I was to change into right before the wedding) as a result of that unfortunate avalanche of pie boxes that occurred ten minutes before arriving at the wedding venue.

After I hauled them all the way from the Ozarks to the Rockies without a single issue.

(I may still be upset about that. Just saying.)

Or also, like when I discovered the marshmallow frosted cakes were too soft to hold their shape while being transported and would therefore require last minute primping and decorating at the venue...to which I was late arriving to due to that unfortunate pie box avalanche which occurred in my car ten minutes before arriving at the wedding venue.

After I had hauled them--oh well, you get the point.

​But despite all the obstacles, I salvaged all but one mini pie and managed to pull the job off superbly, if I do say so myself...

Please, Louise...life ain’t gonna pass me by.

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I spent Friday night singing along with The Oak Ridge Boys, and no, I wasn't listening to them on Pandora while cleaning my kitchen this time.

This time they were live and in person and in town for their annual show. So, after a day spent scouring yard sales and then cleaning up the garden, I got cleaned up myself and headed toward town and the hand-clappin', toe-tappin' show that was about to kick off.

This time I brought my son along with me...along with my husband and my occasional double chin.

Ahem. You know you noticed it...but thanks for pretending not to.

Despite how I look in this picture, I really did clean myself up before the show. And since The Oak Ridge Boys put on such high-energy, kick-up-your-heels kind of show, you can only imagine what I looked like after the show.

I took no pictures of myself then...better to not have evidence laying around.

But just know that I kicked up my heels enough to cause my son to exclaim, "Gosh Mom, I've never seen you act this way before!".

I'll admit, I did go a little crazy when they did "Leavin' Louisiana" and "Ya'll Come Back Saloon", and I think I even heard myself let loose a rebel yell when they kicked into "Elvira" and then "Bobby Sue".

​I didn't even know I could do that!

Wonders never cease.
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And I hope these boys never cease either, because boy, they are the best at putting on a good, clean, fun, family show...one that you can take your family to and then on the way home still have your eleven-year old son exclaim, "Wow! That was a wild night!".

I need a wild night every now and then, and so does he. It's good for us...and it was good for my skeptical husband, who even thanked me afterward for including him in our wild night with the Oak Ridge Boys.

And because I'd hate for you to miss out on all the "wildness", here's just a snippet of one of the greatest sing-a-long songs in the history of songs that you sing along with...

As you just saw, as soon as Joe Bonsall sang that first line, the crowd got to their feet and then I got a little sideways.

Sorry about that. But I did mention I had a wild night!

A night that keeps replaying in my mind, while a smile keeps playing on my lips. So if you happen to overhear me humming this song in the next few days, just let me be. It's kinda stuck in my head, and I like it that way.

P.S. "High 'o Silver, a-way-a-aay!"

Like the goodies in this photo. You couldn't have resisted this stuff either, I don't care who you are...but I do care where you are (especially on Sunday morning. Ahem.).

Thank goodness you weren't out there this morning or we'd have had a fight on our hands...on a Sunday morning right before church, no less.

But because (thank the Lord) you spent the early morning hours still snuggled in bed, I practically had the place to myself and in no time at all I had the car stashed full. But by that time, time was ticking down for that church bell to ring, so as I left the swap I swapped my mud boots for my high heels and hightailed it to church...and I left a carload of treasures parked in the car as I parked myself in the back row pew.

Thank goodness for back row pews. They're just perfect for us backsliders. Ahem again.

Although really I'm not sure I qualify as a backslider, since I did actually make it to church (although a tiny bit tardy and a slight bit muddy). But I know I do qualify as a repeat offender, since this isn't the first time this has happened.

Last year I spent too much time scratching around the swap on Sunday morning and had to dash off to church with a carload of chickens.

I sang the hymns really loudly that morning to cover up all the clucking coming from outside the church.

​I really should've parked farther away that day.

Hindsight.

And the year before, Will and I headed out there early Sunday morning to take a gander and ended up buying a gander at the last minute. We brought him to church too, but just like the chickens, he also had to worship in the car.

At least this year I made it to church without any live animals with me.

I bet you never heard anybody say that before, have you?

Well, there's a first time for everything...and if I'm any example, there's also a second and third time too. Especially if we're talking about Sunday mornings at the swap meet!

The monarch butterflies have arrived, and I'm in love with lavender lattes.

These two statements are totally unrelated, except that they did originate from the same brain. The very same espresso-fueled brain that has switched gears so many times this week, I'm afraid it will grind to a halt if I ever stop grinding the espresso that fuels it.

Which brings us back to the lavender lattes. I've had two already this morning, which brings my total for the week up to five...and I only just came up with the recipe yesterday.

I may be headed for a binge.

But whirlwind weeks have that effect on me, which is why I'm firing up the espresso maker again as we speak. Third cup's a charm, right?

Maybe I should explain how I got to this point...

In the past eight days I have made appearances at three farmer's markets and our hometown Turkey Festival, raced through two city-wide yard sales, mingled at one high school reunion and the following alumni afterparty, dashed in and out of a dear friend's birthday lunch, and sipped and nibbled my way through my very first three-course high tea party while pretending (in my head) to be the Queen of England.

And the roof of my house is missing.

But we knew that last part was going to happen, which is why on my only unscheduled day of the week, I was scheduled to help move the upstairs of our house into the downstairs of our house.

And we got it done just in time for this truck to pull up...

Out rolled a bunch of construction guys loaded down with tools, lumber, and ladders; and into my house and up the stairs they filed one-by-one carrying two-by fours, tarps, and measuring tapes.

We're having a little work done...

This is my bedroom.
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And this is my bedroom without the roof.

And that was just the beginning. But the great guys from SPI Enterprise have got it covered...literally.
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They covered the gaping hole with a gorgeous blue tarp for the weekend...bless their hearts. I do like blue, but I would prefer dormer windows, cedar siding, and a galvinized metal roof.

It will happen. And at the rate these guys are going, it will happen quickly.

Thank goodness. Patience is a virtue, but I'm not always the most patient virtuous woman. Excuse me while I take a sip of my latte and then clear my throat...all the construction dust has me a little choked up.

And that's actually why I ended up out in the garden a few days ago, breathing in the fresh air and picking the ripe tomatoes, and watching the first majestic monarch butterflies of the season fluttering gracefully around the zinnias...

Aahhh....such a calming, relaxing sight. Just as calming and relaxing as those lavender lattes I keep whipping up and slurping down.

Clearly all is well in the garden, and soon all will be well inside my house too. Then eventually, when the dust settles in and around my world and the hectic pace of life slows to a crawl, I'll be able to lounge leisurely in my lovely new bedroom while looking out the shiny new windows onto the gardens--and the life--that I love.

Lavender latte in hand, of course.

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Wondering what I've been up to? Besides taking "no make-up" selfies with fun filters while wearing my hair in Ellie Mae Clampett-inspired pigtails?

Me too.

Life (and summer) has been moving so fast, lately I've had a hard time keeping up with anything...and with everything.​ Especially the garden. But when you spend the summer traveling from one adventure to another, the garden just has to fend for itself.

Which is what it did, and it did fine.

So since Labor Day weekend is behind us now, and since I'm up early this morning (dawn hasn't even cracked yet, and when it does it better crack quietly 'cause I'm in no mood for loud noises), I thought I'd see if I could get us all caught up on what exactly I did this summer.

Maybe it'll jog my memory. It needs some excercise anyway.

Let's see...way back in June my summer break kicked off with a bang when I drove a van piled full of my aunts and cousins over to the quaint little town of Pawhuska, Oklahoma for no reason what-so-ever.

​Just kidding. We had a definite reason to drive to Pawhuska--the same reason as 6,000 other people did...

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We wanted to visit The Merc!

​Otherwise known as The Pioneer Woman's Mercantile Store, which that savvy lady opened up last year in an old mercantile building in her once sleepy little town.

It was fantastic--the Merc and the town...and her ranch. Yep, I got to go to The Pioneer Woman's ranch!

I really thought she'd have some delicious dish bubbling away in the oven awaiting my arrival, but nope. The oven was empty.

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So I just popped into the pantry, grabbed what I wanted...

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And whipped up something fantastic.

Or maybe I just pretended.

Either way, it was loads of fun...as were my traveling companions:
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Emily, Jane, Sue, Cynthia, Julia, Phyllis...

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And Will and Ladd Drummond.

Oh wait...silly me. Ree's husband wasn't actually traveling with us.

But he was just traveling by us when he spotted our group, jumped out of his pickup, and begged us to snap a photo with him.

Or maybe it was the other way around, in a round-about way. Anyway...

I have tons of pictures from inside the Merc, but I can't show you them yet. But I will show you them soon, because soon I'm going to post about why I really went to visit the Mercantile...(here's a hint: big old general store in desperate need of renovation, crazy redhead in desperate need of inspiration.)

​So let's move on...
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Because in July we headed out to the gorgeous Colorado Rocky Mountains to visit my brother and his family...

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Which now includes my new little niece, Ariel, who happens to already have long wavy red hair just like mine!

Or maybe we staged that photo...but she really does have red hair, I promise.

And I also promise that Colorado is still just as amazing as always...
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Wild and rugged, breath-taking and refreshing.

Which was just what I needed, because just as soon as we got home, we were off on yet another adventure...

We hit the state fair again! Many, many times this year...mainly because Will was doing this:

Blacksmithing! He was apprenticing with the blacksmiths at the fair again this year, which meant that out of the ten day duration of the fair, he spent 6 of those beneath the blacksmith tent--in close proximity to several forges full of blazing fires and ret-hot coals, and pounding away at glowing metal.

Often in 90 degree weather.

Kids.

So while he was pounding away hitting steel, my husband and I hit the pavement and circled the fair...

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I went by to say hi to the largest pumpkin and all his friends...

And I checked out all the prize-winning produce...
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And I made eyes with an award-winning rooster.

I really feel like we bonded. But he probably just liked my earrings...or my mini skirt.

(Ahem. I'm not sure if it's alright for women over forty to wear mini skirts, but that didn't stop me from doing it anyway. At least somebody appreciated it.)

I wish Mr. Rooster and I had more time together, but for some reason my husband pulled me away and steered me right out of the poultry barns and over to our old friend, the mechanical bull.

Men.

He thought he was gonna ride that bull again this year--until he remembered he has an injured shoulder.

So then I thought I would ride it again this year--until I remembered I had on the miniskirt.

Figures. But while attempting to ride a fake wild bull might have been out of the question that day, jumping on the back of its towering, knobby-kneed, hump-backed neighbor certainly wasn't...​
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Apparently I can't resist a camel ride, even if I'm not exactly dressed appropriately for it. They're such neat creatures!

And now I want my own camel.

You heard me. And you and my husband sound a lot alike. But let me tell you what I told him as soon as I hopped off that crazy animal, re-adjusted my mini-skirt, and dusted myself off:

"You never know when you might need to cross a dry, thirsty desert, and there's no better animal to have along with you when that happens."​​

To which he replied, "Okay."

​But the look on his face clearly said something different...something like "I think you waited too long to put that sun visor on today."
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Oh, and I got some new sun visors.

So now I have several...but I still only have one head.

Oh boy. Clearly I'm still a bit groggy. Or loopy...or just plain sleepy.​​ I think I'll head on over to the couch and rest my eyes a bit while I wait for the sun to come up.

It's a good thing it's Sunday and we get to go to church today...​I'm beginning to think I need it!

​I'll add myself to the prayer list.

I was up bright and early for my morning walk, just like "Mary Magdalene and the other Mary" were a few thousand years ago.

Alright, that might be a stretch, but humor me here. And get your imagination warmed up because you may need it before I get finished. Now back to our story...

​The birds were chirping, leaves were rustling in the breeze, and the sun was peeking over the tops of the eastern trees as I made my way down the garden path. The crispness of the morning made me appreciate the warm cup of coffee in my hand as I pondered what was in the hands of those two particular ladies centuries ago: spices.

Spices to prepare the body of their beloved Jesus, who lay in a borrowed cold, damp tomb...or so they thought.

I took a sip of my coffee and smiled as I imagined their reaction upon reaching that very tomb only to find something completely unexpected.

And then I looked down and found something else completely unexpected (although not nearly as impactful as their find)...

Another patch of wild violets! Of which I made good use of the next day by turning them into this...

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Wild Violet Syrup. Good for coughs, sore throats, and snoring too--if you mix it with a bit of moonshine, according to the old-timers.

I'm not quite sure how I got from Jesus to moonshine so quickly, but just do your best to keep up.

Speaking of keeping up, Will happened to catch up with me that morning right about then. We stood there in the garden together in the stillness of the morning and whispered in hushed tones about the special day that was dawning.

Then we went back into the house, and I made these...

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Cinnamon Orange Rolls sprinkled with lilac blossoms!

Just because it was Easter and it seemed appropriate. And spring-ey. And tasty, which is what really is most important.

I really wanted to eat the whole pan myself, but I manage to resist and brought them along with us to church, where they tempted and tantalized me all through the service...although don't tell Jesus that, please, because somehow despite my watering mouth, for the most part my mind was able to focus on the service.

On second thought, fell free to tell Him all about that. Maybe my outstanding will-power will impress Him. ;);)

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Here's where the low-key part of the story comes in, because despite the lovely weather, some of us where actually "under the weather" this Easter. So, instead of a big family gathering like in years past, we had a small quiet dinner at home.

Our family picture was a selfie, our meal came ready-made from the deli counter, and our Easter egg hunt consisted of gathering the eggs from the nest boxes instead of clever hiding spots in the garden.

It was very nice, and coming at the end of a very hectic week, it was exactly what we needed. Despite how much I adore tradition, sometimes it's nice to break it--especially when you really need a break.

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And the only other thing I needed that day was a picture of my Easter dress. So, like those infamous Kardashian sisters, I decided to try the "mirror selfie" technique.

It was easier than waking my husband up from his nap and tracking down Will, who I thought was somewhere outside building a fort, but who happened to appear beside me just as I snapped this photo.

At this very instant he's pointing out to me that in my attempt to figure out how those Hollywood hotties manage to snap pics in the mirror without showing their phones, I had inadvertently knocked over the cat's water bowl which for some reason was sitting at my feet.

Life is full of unanswered questions....and unsophisticated selfies too. Just add mine to the list. But in all seriousness, isn't this a great dress?!!

A great dress worn on a great day marking the greatest event in history...in my opinion, at least.

Happy late Easter everybody!!

Have you ever looked at something you've seen a thousand times and suddenly it's like you're seeing it for the first time? 

Anybody?? 

Well, ​I have.  And I just did.

I ​took this photo a few weeks ago while playing around with my new camera, and I ran across it again today.  Aside from how unashamedly cute I think my outfit is (turquise and coral are soooo trendy these days), what struck me was how different (and reasonably clean) my house looks reflected in the mirror...and also how plain it seems. 

I really thought I had more interesting things happening in the décor arena then what it appears.  And you'd think being the gardener that I am, I'd have a few flowers and at least a houseplant or two sitting around. 

But the reality is, ​I like simple décor.  And as much as I adore all my plants and flowers out in the garden, I don't really need them inside. 

Inside my home is a different world than outside my home, and that's how I like it. 

Now that's not to say that plants are totally non-existent in my house.  After all, I do have these bright and perky poppies in the dining room...​

But they're not real. 

​I bet you noticed.
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These poppies are in the form of a framed embroidery that I picked up at a yard sale for 50 cents a few years back.

But they count as indoor flowers in my book. 

​And in keeping with the poppy theme, there's also this lovely arrangement:
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This one comes in the form of an antique tabletop (snagged for yet another 50 cents) that hangs on my kitchen wall.

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Oh boy...I probably should have straightened things up before I showed you this. 

Oh well, I'll live.  And I'll probably live quite well, since I'll be dining on those heirloom tomatoes, fresh peppers and garlic tonight that I brought in from the garden.

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And speaking of gardens, I do have this garden-ey fruity floral-ey picture hanging the wall in my sitting room.

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As you probably noticed by my description, I'm clearly an educated art connoisseur....who was at yet another yard sale when I sprung for this painting--it was a whopping five bucks. 

I'm such a big spender.

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And a big procrastinator.

Here is another $5 painting, this one of sunflowers, that I stuck in my under-renovation bathroom to hid an ugly, unfinished wall...and two years later it's still hanging there hiding the still ugly, still unfinished wall.

Apparently I have other things to do with my time than renovate the bathroom.​  Like play outside in the real sunflower patch.

And I hate to tell you this, but through no intention of my own, I'm ending this post in the toilet--or above the toilet, to be exact, since that's exactly where this thing hangs!

And no, I'm not showing you that.​

So sorry.

But I have to draw the line somewhere, and I had to make my point (if only to myself) that I do have plenty of flowers in my house. 

They're just not alive.  But there are plenty of live ones outside, and since that's where I spend most of my time anyway, I end up surrounded by them almost all day, almost every day.

And that's what makes me a happy gardener...and a wanna-be stylish one too.  Let's take another look at that outfit...​

Yep, I still like it.  And the hair's not bad either.

Hey, sometimes you just gotta celebrate the successes...

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By posing in the garden.   

What?!  Normal people don't do that? 

​Well, you learn something new everyday.

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I've been out of town. 

And I just got home.  When I left, my yard was a barren, brown mass of ugliness and when I returned, it was ALIVE!  Yellow bushes and flowers were exploding all over the landscape, tender shoots and stems had burst forth from the soil and were eagerly reaching for the sky, and a sea of emerald green grass had replaced that sad, sorry lawn.

Maybe I should go away more often.  I mean, the transformation was so incredible that I called my husband (who had held down the fort while I hit the beach) from the car and told him I had just pulled up at the cutest place and I wished he could see all the pretty flowers and shrubs and wonderful things I was seeing...and then I said, "By the way, I'm home!"

"Finally!", came the reply.  I took it as a complement, although it's quite possible that the relief in his voice had more to do with not having to babysit my chickens anymore than it did with him being glad to see me. 

But I still love him...and I love my home.  Although a week in South Florida at the end of winter never hurt anybody, if you catch my drift.  And no, I wasn't catching waves the whole time either.  I was helping my sister move.  But in between loading and unloading the moving truck I managed to squeeze in a visit or two to a beach or two, a leisurely pass through the downtown Naples shopping district, and of course, a sunny stroll through the Marco Island Farmer's Market where I scored a ripe juicy pineapple, three blood oranges, two bear lemons, a turmeric root, a purple sweet potato, a basket of fresh picked strawberries, and a super sweet red onion....and some saw palmetto honey.  And the most amazingly beautiful french melon that was so sweet they called it a "honeymoon". 

It lived up to its name...and I saved the seeds from that one.  Ha!

So now that I'm finally home and spring is finally here, it's time to get outside and get inside the garden.  But before I head on out there, here's a few photos from my road trip...

I couldn't go to Florida without my favorite little boy, and he couldn't go to Florida without jumping in the ocean.

I just can't stay away from farmer's markets...and I can't not touch the produce.  I don't know why.

By the way, I got a new sunhat after the dog chewed up my other one.  And a new set of sunglasses after I sat on the old ones. 

I'm not sure why I felt compelled to share that. 

So I'll share this--because a nice big pile of produce always makes me feel better.

As does traveling with family...although I have no idea what Will, Mom, and Aunt Sue are staring so intently at.  Obviously there was something fascinating on the other end of the pier--probably a pelican.  Or a fisherman. 

We're easily entertained.

Even watching a squirrel nibbling on a Scooby Snack at a rest stop is fun for us. 

Twenty hours of driving makes you do strange things.  I thought it was nice of Will to share his snacks, and he thought we'd never get home. 

He said that more than once.

He's nine.  Time passes slowly when you're that age.

And speaking of time, we hit a time warp somewhere in Georgia.  I felt like a teenager again when I pulled up to this retro station with its vintage pumps.  The only thing missing was the full-service attendant. 

I never realized how much I miss saying "Fill her up!" and "Could you get those bugs off the windshield, please?".  But alas, that only exists back in the good old days...

And speaking of good old days, no road trip is complete without a stop in Nashville and a jaunt down the back steps of the original home of the Grand Ole Opry--the Ryman Auditorium.  I drove fourteen hours in one day on the way home just so I could have time to do this. 

It's tradition!

And the story of this place and this alley is so legendary (as are the many stars I've run into on these very steps) that it merits its own post, so you'll just have to tune back in later.  In the mean time, you can tune your radio to WSM 650AM every Saturday night to catch the Grand Ole Opry show, live from Nashville...after ninety years, it's still going strong.

Which is more than I can say for myself at this point--I was wearing down fast by the time we got to Antique Archaeology, American Pickers star Mike Wolfe's new Nashville shop.  But I still managed to strike a pose in the midst of his antiques and beside one of Loretta Lynn's stage dresses...

And sneak a peak into Mike's storeroom when one of the employees happened to open the door.  He's got all kinds of stuff stashed in there--even this motorcycle, which according to my local bike expert (a.k.a. my dad) is most likely the British-made Truimph that Mike scored on a recent episode!  I snapped this picture as I passed by on my way to the coffee shop two doors down...

I needed a little caffeine to medicate my crushing headache still lingering from the night before. 

For some reason, driving through rush hour traffic in downtown Atlanta causes my head to throb.  Apparently the speed limit signs were only a suggestion, and with five lanes of traffic going ninety (!) miles an hour and coming at me from every direction, I found myself suggesting that I might be crazy for getting smack dab in the middle of all that chaos.

We don't even have a stoplight in my little town.  I'm not used to big city driving.  And you're not going to believe this, but I have five new gray hairs now.

I'm flying to Florida next time.

But that will be a long time coming, because when this is what I have at home, I just hate to keep running off...

Aahhh.  Home, sweet home.

I fell asleep Christmas night watching old clips of Jerry Lee Lewis performances, inspired by the gift I gave my mom--Rick Bragg's recent book His Own Story written in conjunction with Mr. Lewis himself.  Just before I drifted off, I came across a clip of "Ole Jerry Lee" at the piano, in a ruffled tuxedo shirt with sleeves rolled up, covered in sweat that clearly had been worked up by some heavy-duty Shake, Rattle, & Rolling, but slowing the show down for a moment in that way of his that somehow makes the slow songs just as dramatic as the fast ones.   He transitions by saying he wants to do a gospel song, and nodding at the applause from the audience, then places his fingers back on those ivory keys and gracefully strolls on into the beginning strains of what's been my favorite old hymn since childhood.  In doing so, he sparked in me a resurgence of sorts, a gentle and welcome reminder of who and what I am and Who and What enables me to be just that.  And it was just the refreshment I needed as the end of a roller coaster year draws to a close.

As Mr. Lewis softly serenaded that room and mine, tears formed in my already tired eyes even as I rolled them at the thought of the multitudes of women (myself now included) he's brought to tears in his lifetime--and the multiple reasons for it.  But his rumored (and self-confirmed) adventures aside, Jerry Lee Lewis' gift for making us "feel" the music is indisputable.  Which is why I feel the need to share a bit of it with you now.  So here he is, courtesy of YouTube, singing a song that makes me pause in reverence every time I hear it.  And it also makes me yearn to get back out in the garden--after all, I never know when a Visitor might stop by...

Beautiful.

And just for fun, here's the clip that lured my nine-year-old son away from the mountain of gifts under the tree and compelled him to huddle with me around the iPad as his eyes, previously glued to a new Nintendo game system, grew big as saucers.  I couldn't help but smile when I heard him mutter an amazed "Whaaa?!!!  Oh WOW!!" as he watched "The Killer", back in 1957, belting out this legendary song...

Incredible!  Almost 60 years ago, and still so mesmerizing I can't quit watching it...and I also can't seem to quit shakin' my way around the house this morning.  Oh well, it makes cleaning up the Christmas mess all the more exciting.  God bless Jerry Lee Lewis!

I've always longed for an old property...a place steeped in tradition and rich in history; a home where generations grew up while decades strolled by; a structural gemstone lovingly passed down from parent to child. 

It's hard to find those places, or even something similar.  Unless you're not looking, which happened to be the case for us when my husband and I, newly engaged and in search of a place to begin our married life, ended up with an old dilapidated dwelling at the edge of the town where my family had been rooted since pre-Civil War days.

It wasn't much to look at, with its rusty metal roof, crumbling chimneys (one for each room), junk-filled yard, and decrepit porch.  The interior wasn't much better--the rotting bathroom floorboards barely supported the cracked toilet that seemed to be hanging for dear life above the gaping hole surrounding it.  The rodent infested kitchen cabinets, themselves remnants of an apparent 1940's-era update, were scratched, stained, and desperately clutching walls painted crayon green.  Not to mention the dank, smelly, sludge-filled half-basement that conjured up images of medieval dungeons and damp, dark isolation chambers.

Yes, the house was appalling.  But it sat on a property that wasn't.

Perched on the edge the city limits and encompassing seven acres, the land boasted a century-old, weather-roughened barn, a cellar complete with shelves sagging beneath mason jars full of decades-old elderberry jam and pickled beets, and an oddly-situated but fully working wooden water wheel.

It had character.  In my eyes, at least.  Most everyone else disagreed, but rarely to my face.  I could read it on theirs, though, and it only served to fuel my desire to prove them wrong.

Ten years later, I'm still working on that. 

That's not true...I long ago gave up on worrying about the opinions of others.  What I'm really working toward now is preserving a bit of my heritage, and also a bit of history...

You see, not long after taking possession of the property, my soon-to-be-spouse decided to pick up one of my aunts and my granny and bring them over to show off the place.  Having spent her life in this town, Granny knew just about everything there was to know about anything you needed to know about.  And so it wasn't a surprise when, upon arriving in the driveway, she exclaimed loudly in her slow country drawl, "Well I'll be!"  and then quickly followed that with, "My dad built that house!" .

In 1918, shortly after his second daughter, Lola (my granny), was born my great grandpa (the train-robbing, bank-heisting, circuit-preaching, moonshining great grandpa) began construction on a two room, plank-roofed, high-ceiling house nestled along the Rock Island Line train tracks.  The home was intended to be the place for his adopted father, known as Grandad Hill, to spend his last days.  This house served its purpose well, and when Grandad Hill passed on, the property passed right on out of the family too.  It was occupied for many years by an interesting husband and wife duo (he lived in one room, she in the other) who operated a cider press on the grounds.  In the fall of the year, when the apple harvest was gathered from the gnarled trees dotting the homesteads around town, the townsfolk would load their bushel baskets of fruit in the wagons and haul their bounty to the press.  The resulting crisp, fresh cider would refresh and help sustain them through most of the winter.

When I was in my early twenties and away at college, long before ever meeting my husband, I got a phone call one day from Granny.  She said she had something she wanted to show me, and on my next trip home I'd better get myself over there to see it.  Being the obedient (and curious) granddaughter I was, I did just that.  My intrigue grew as I followed her up the creaky staircase leading to her attic studio where she worked on her weaving and quilting, and into the farthest corner of the dim room.  There, beneath a stack of frayed scrap material and ages-old newspapers, sat what appeared to be a well-worn storage trunk.

With her rough old hands planted firmly on her scrawny hips, she matter-of-factly declared, "This belonged to Grandad Hill, and I rescued it out of the creek years ago.  They tossed it there when they were cleaning out the house after he died.  I remembered it the other day, and you came to mind...so I want you to have it.". 

Even now I marvel at all this.  Through no act of my own, I managed to end up with a trunk and a house, albeit years apart, linked to the same long-gone family member.  I often wonder if my granny, with her uncanny ability to glimpse snippets of the future, knew where I would end up and wanted to show her support.  At the least, discovering the connection between both objects was simply confirmation, during a time when I was anxious about the changes happening in my life, that I was on the right track. 

I've spent plenty of time getting off-track the past few years, but I've recently purposed to focus again on this house--its past and  its future.

I think it's a diamond in the rough.  We moved out of it several years ago when we purchased some adjoining acreage that boasted a bigger house.  This one became a rental property for us, and thus suffered the ins & outs of tenant wear & tear.  But with the recent trend of back-to-basic living, the growing interest in agritourism-based properties, and my background in tourism & hospitality, I have a plan for this place. 

I have visions of a quaint bed & brunch cottage surrounded by abundant berry patches, vegetable plots, a field bursting with brightly colored you-pick flowers, and an heirloom apple orchard with its very own cider press.  And maybe a vineyard bordered with the purple haze of lavender in bloom.  And chicken coops--there must  be chickens.

You think I can pull it off?  I guess that remains to be seen--if Granny was still with us she just might be able to see into the future and answer that question for me.  But knowing her, she wouldn't tell me anyway...she'd just smile that ornery smile of hers and twinkle her eyes behind those coke-bottle glasses she wore for almost a century. 

"Ain't nothing to be done that can change anything I see anyway, so's we might as well just spend the day thinkin' about the 'now', and not the 'when'." 

I can still hear her voice...and I'm trying to take her advice.  It's just that now  all I can think about is when that old house finally shines like the treasure I know it to be.

The past few days found us in the nearby Lake of the Ozarks area, with hubby Geoffrey scooting from meeting to meeting and Will and I killing bits and pieces of time in between.  We decided to use that time wisely by briefly visiting the local attractions closest to wherever we dropped hubby off, and our first stop just happened to be a place I wrote about back in the fall...

Ha Ha Tonka State Park.  With only a 1/2 hour to spend, we pulled into the parking lot and headed straight for the nearest ruin--the carriage house.  We followed the path that runs along the backside of the structure, which gave us a view that I hadn't seen before.  (That's usually the case when we're talking about backsides, now that I think about it.  Shall we move on?)

This place never fails to give me pause, and I always seem to get lost contemplating the devastation of what was basically the turn-of-the century version of a modern-day garage.  Only much larger-- the picture doesn't even show half of it!

This time, however, I got distracted when I spotted a pretty little clump of Sweet Williams growing midst the ruins.  Fittingly, I stuck my Sweet William next to them and quickly snapped a photo. 

How could I not?

On closer inspection I realized the flowers were not actually Sweet William, but Wild Verbena.  Oh well.  They're still pretty, and they just happened to be growing close by something very intriguing...

To make a long post even longer, the next day found us continuing our adventures by visiting Bagnell Dam, where after watching an old episode of River Monsters the night before, we decided to search for that elusive Giant Catfish rumored to be residing in the murky waters of the Osage River.

The antique hinges squeaked slightly as I carefully raised the lid on the old trunk.  I reached inside, grasped the stained and frayed bundle, and lifted it from the depths of the ages once again.  As my eyes focused on the nearly impossible to decipher script written on the century-old paper, I was again transported to a world, and a yearning, long forgotten...

"Dear Sweetheart,  I love you just as much as ever and I don't consider it time wasted...I picked a beautiful red rose this morning, I wish I could have given it to you but some other fella who called got it.  I know you are very busy, but don't forget me.  You'll never be sorry if you can only love me enough.  Now for goodness sake, don't lose this!  Chew it up and swallow it if necessary, then you won't need anymore tobacco..."

Oh, how I'd missed her!  This young school teacher so desperately in love with her older, unattainable beau.  In her beautiful penmanship she pours out her heart to him, she chastises him, she longs for him, and she peppers it all with her sharp wit.  There several letters in the bundle, and each one gives me a deeper look into her life, her surroundings, and her world.  It is a fragmented but fascinating read, and even though I never knew her, her words fuel my imagination like the coal that fueled the train she eventually rode west.  Without a doubt, it's one of the most intriguing voyages I've ever been on.

To be continued...


P.S.  In case you're curious, here's the original post:

Faded Love
February 4, 2014

The rotted floorboards crumbled in my hands, the pieces falling through the hole we had created, past the now exposed support beam that was holding up the floor, and into the darkness of the basement below.  My husband and I were working on our renovation project, an old general store building, and had decided to tackle tearing out the water damaged areas of the floor.  It was getting messy.  I reached through the gaping hole in what was left of the floor to scoop off the debris that had piled up on the support beam. I grabbed a handful of splinters and started to toss them on down, but something caught my eye.  It looked like old paper, and the handwriting on it, though faded, was beautiful.  I brought it closer for a better look, and in the dim light I read "We can't be too careful.  Chew this up and swallow it if necessary..."  My heart jumped.  All work was forgotten.  I knelt there on the beam and slowly, carefully unfolded what turned out to be honest-to-goodness secret love letters.  Dated 1913.  From a young school teacher to an older man.  She never mentions her name, or his either.  But she doesn't hold back her adoration, her longing, and sometimes her frustration with him.  She is feisty, funny, and flirty, and I see why he liked her.  I have yet to piece together their story, but from what I've read so far, it's an epic one.  And even though it happened over a hundred years ago, it's only beginning for me. 

And even attacking rival sea-faring vessels, aka birthday cakes.  And then the feasting began. 

Since Vikings aren't known for their table manners, the feast was brimming with traditional eat-with-your-hands warrior fare--chicken legs, baby-back ribs, and hotdogs.  Yes, Vikings ate hotdogs.  Check your history books...but don't tell me what you find.

When the feasting ended, the battle cries faded, and the choppy waters calmed; the warriors slowly trekked home. The day slid into night, the summer into fall, and before we knew it, the year was gone. 

But the world never stops turning.  As I sit here at my claw-foot desk, with the warmth of the wood stove swirling around me, I can hear the winter wind whistling past my windows.  And I know that change is in that wind.  It always is.  This old cold weather won't last forever, and before long that frozen pond will come alive.  The birds will sing, the grass will green, and the calender will loudly proclaim "Spring!". 

But let's not rush it.  Everything has its season, and I want to appreciate those seasons for as long as they last.  And then I'm ready for the next one--especially if it brings with it those vicious Viking raiders, lead by that ferocious clan king who just so happens to snuggle next to me each night.

Did someone just say "Long live the King!!"?  Oh, right.  That was me...

And I meant it with my whole heart.

Let's try to zoom in...nope.  Still not any better.  Actually I think that's worse.

Shoot.  I really wanted you to see it.  I wanted you to experience the amazement I felt while gazing at this mesmerizing animal.  The kind of wonder I felt when my granny would tell me stories from days gone by about mysterious creatures living deep in the hills surrounding our tiny town.  Like the creature that walked on two legs, creeping behind my uncle as he walked the path home from a visit to his sweetheart.  The panther lounging in a tree, staring into the upstairs window at a lady as she brushed her hair before bed.  The search parties headed into the darkness of the woods by lantern light, in pursuit of elusive mountain lions who had decimated their livestock.  Eerie eyes glowing in the moonlight, peering at the occupants of passing wagons on their way home from town.  The big cat killed by the menfolk that was so massive its nose touched the front of the wagon, its body stretched the length of the bed, and its tail dragged the ground as they hauled it to town. 

Those were the days.  And those were the stories that were told, whether we believe them or not.  What I do believe is what I've seen with my own eyes, tired though they were.  One thing I know for sure, when a black panther looks you in the eye, you believe he's real.  Even if you're peering through binoculars when it happens.  I am also aware of the caution that needs to be exercised now that I have one in my midst.  But still, I feel honored to have glimpsed it.  It's as if for a few moments I was granted access to a wilderness reserved for the truly wild, a place very few humans get to see.

My glimpse was short-lived, as they always are.  As I watched my panther disappear into the brush, I slowly returned to my chores.  The excitement faded and routine returned.  All day long I glanced toward the pond, hoping to catch another glimpse of my pond panther.  But it was not to be.  He was long gone, yet even now he lingers in my mind.  And in my imagination.  And one day when my grandchildren sit at my knee, I will smile to myself and tell them about the time I came eye to eye with a black panther. 

And then maybe, just maybe, I'll tell them the truth!

Julia and David own and operate the shop, One Man's Treasure, which is a fantastic treasure trove of antiques and nostalgia items located on Hwy 65 not far from Harrison, Ark.  Every time I visit, they bring out their latest finds and let me ooh and aah over them.  I'm really good at that.

Mornings at Julia's house are spent sitting by the catfish pond, drinking coffee, tossing crackers to the fish, and letting your troubles float away.  Even though it was rainy, I wasn't gonna miss out on this.  It was so relaxing.

At least it was until we realized we had a pumpkin thief in our midst...

Here's the pumpkins he was thieving from...see the bite marks? 

Outlaws will try to get away with anything!!

But they're fun to have around.

You never know what you'll find once you actually get to a sale. You just have to go and see for yourself.  Some sales are inside a neatly organized garage, with items clearly marked and sparkling clean.

And then there are sales like this.  They just use what they have (like a boulder) to display what they've got (holiday decorations and old shoes).  It's easy to turn your nose up at something like this, but I like to dig a little deeper.  Some of my best antique finds were covered in grime and priced 50 cents!

I love yard sales, because where else can you find a KitchenAid mixer displayed next to a plastic coffee can planted with Hens & Chicks....alongside a hammer...and a BBQ grill...and a birdhouse?

And I couldn't resist a photo of these...they're giraffe legs!  Yes, they're real.  I found them at a sale in an old barn.  Don't get upset, I left them there for someone else to buy.

My car was full, anyway.  I couldn't have fit them in.  When my trunk starts to look like this, I know it's time to head towards home...

I had the opportunity this weekend to go someplace I've wanted to go for a long time.  Even though it's just a stone's throw from my home, it's taken me almost 40 years to get there. 

I'm fortunate to live in an area where parts of my family have lived since pre-Civil War times, and I am also fortunate to have had a granny who loved to tell me about all those folks.  She'd tell me the stories of their lives, lived so long ago, with such color and salt that I became completely infatuated.  I wanted so badly to see them myself, and the places where they lived out those tales.  Yesterday I decided to try.

It was a beautiful late summer evening when Will and I began our hike back in the woods to the homestead of my great-great-grandparents, George Orwan and Margaret Sanders Orwan.  She was the daughter of a plantation-owning Southern sympathizer, and he was a Northern soldier. 

These two were star-crossed lovers, meeting during the almost forgotten Battle of Brushy Hill that was fought near our town during the War Between the States. 

The battle was fought in the field surrounding this spring, supposedly over the very rights to the spring. The battle may have even involved a band of gypsies who were squatting nearby, and the local Native Americans, who had dug out and cleaned up the spring, and were camping around it. 

On this peaceful evening it was almost impossible to comprehend the agonizing battle that raged around that very spot, especially when it was so easy for us to walk right up and get a drink.

With our bottles of fresh spring water in hand, we continued on up the path beside the creek.  Just a bit further along, we came into a clearing accented by a massive clump of yucca plants, and I knew we had reached our destination:  The Orwan Homestead. 

This is where Mr. Orwan returned to after the war.  He settled on the very land where he fought that terrible battle, then he married his true love, Miss Sanders (despite her father's objections) and built their homestead just up from the spring.

He raised his family there, and even allowed the gypsies and Indians to use the land and spring just as they had before the war.  We believe this is a photo of the Orwan family, after the kids were grown. 

I was lost in my thoughts of this family as I approached the yuccas, and I realized as I drew nearer that I was actually in a garden.  Albeit, a long abandoned and very overgrown one.  I was overwhelmed as I gazed at a huge lilac surrounded by massive clusters of daylilies and flag iris.  There were sweet pea vines climbing shamelessly through it all, and a border of baby's breath and asters that stretched as far into the brush as I could see.  

I knew exactly who's garden it was, too--Aint Lib's. 

Lizzie (or Aint Lib, as Granny called her) was one of the Orwan daughters.  Lib loved to garden and always grew a yard full of beautiful flowers.  Her first love had been killed in Europe during World War I, and so she never married.  She remained on her parent's homestead with her other two unmarried sisters until her death in the 1940's.   

This is Lib in her garden, with her niece, a few years before Lib passed away.

And this is me in Aint Lib's garden, seventy years after it was abandoned. 
I wanted to stay forever.  But, night was falling and my time was running out. 

After tearing myself away from the place where Lizzie "Lib" Orwan found her solace,
I searched the area for signs of any structural remains while Will explored the field.

I came up empty-handed; he found a wild turkey feather.

Will stuck the feather in his hair and took off whooping and hollering through the field, and I gave up and sat down in the lily patch.  I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the place full of life and activity.  After a few moments, I was startled out of my trance by the sound of children's voices.  I looked around in amazement, wondering if I had accidentally conjured up some voices from the past.  And then around the bend came my friends Andrew and Lindsay and their kids. 

Whew!  Since Andrew's family now owns the property I was sitting on, his appearance certainly made more sense than that of ghosts from the past! 

I hadn't lost my mind after all. 
Keep your comments to yourself, please. 

I was grateful for Andrew's arrival, because he was able to lead me to the last remaining structural remnant of the Orwan Homestead:  the root cellar.  Now hidden deep in a grove of cedars and brush, the cellar had eluded my earlier search.  It's certainly not in great shape, especially after a tree fell on it a few years back and the roof caved in.  But I was thrilled to find it.  

We stood quietly, murmuring in hushed tones about all that had occurred there, and then, with the sun setting over the horizon, we slowly made our way out of the woods of the previous century, and back to civilization and the modern world. 

And as it always goes, the kids made it back quicker than we did! 

The first cool day that comes along after a long summer heat wave is cause for celebration at our house.  When the rain came last week and brought with it a twenty degree drop in temperature, we decided to abandon the homestead for an afternoon hike in the Ozarks Hills.  

And to us, the most majestic place to hike is at the Ozark's own Ha Ha Tonka State Park. 

I've been visiting Ha Ha Tonka since I was a kid, back in the day when you could still splash around in the mouth of the spring.  What fun that was!  And you talk about cold!!!
Times have changed, and the mouth of the spring is protected now.  But you can still take a quick dip further on downstream, and so we decided to make that spot our final destination.

There are countless trails to choose from, but we decided to start our hike on a trail that I had never been on.  It's near the castle ruins, which are so breathtaking and attention grabbing that it stops me in my tracks no matter how many times I've visited.  And because of that, I never make it to any of the trails nearby.  This time I did my best to walk right past the castle without pausing.  It was hard.  Okay, so I paused for a photo....but only for a second.

My perseverance was rewarded because I made a new discovery just as we started on the trail: 
The castle had greenhouses!  And not just one or two little hoophouses, but an entire complex of carved stone, glazed glass, boiler heated, works of art greenhouses.  Of which nothing remains except rubble.  Still, the gardener in me was fascinated.  In fact, I stood there and studied the information plaque for so long that I didn't even make it any further down the trail!  My family hiked the trail without me, while I traipsed around in the ruins like Indiana Jones in search of the holy grail.  Without the whip.  It was exhilarating, even if I didn't find any treasure. 

I reluctantly tore myself away from the greenhouse ruins when I heard my family coming back up the trail. But I couldn't resist one more shot of the castle as we passed back by.  What a tragic structure, once an extraordinary symbol of turn-of-the-century wealth and luxury, now an empty shell.  Destroyed in an early Autumn fire that raged over half a century ago, it was never to be rebuilt.  The place is simply mesmerizing.  See why I get stuck there?

But, determined not to get left behind again, I turned my back and walked away.  On down the trail we went.  And what a trail it was.  Parts of it are a piece of cake to follow, like this nicely paved, flat walkway...

...which morphs into a slightly more challenging set of rustic steps.  This is where the heavy breathing started.

When the trail changed into something even more challenging to navigate, I was beginning to re-think this trek.  That's a drop-off there on the other side of the tree.  Just thought you should know.   Cue the big sighs and amp up the huffing and puffing.

Believe it or not, I managed to pick my way along the trail.   And I actually found some interesting things on the way.  Like this grinding stone from the old grist mill. 

And a hollow log...yep, hollow.

And a millipede, I think.  I didn't really count all his legs.

And I can't resist a shot of the wildflowers. 

And then there's this.  A balancing rock.  Quite an incredible feat of nature, but it made me so nervous that I quickly scurried on by....you never know when that thing could fall. 
I worry about things like that. 

And then finally we reached our destination.  We wasted no time jumping in--after that hike, you wouldn't either!  I must say, the frigid waters were quite invigorating, and it was just the re-charge we needed to start back down the trail.  Although this time, we were soaking wet!

I went out to visit my favorite local greenhouse the other day in search of a few perennials, and I came home with more than I bargained for.  Well, I didn't exactly bring it home that day.  It wouldn't quite fit in my car.  But let's not get hung up on the specifics.  Here's the overview...

I stop by Shirks Greenhouse and Produce just north of Barnett, Mo about twice a month.  I'd like to go twice a day, but that might seem obsessive.  And how many plants does one person need, really?  That answer is debatable, so let's move on.

So I'm wondering along, meandering through the hoop houses fill with pots of flowers, shrubs, and vegetables, basking in the warmth of the sun, when I notice this thing laying on the ground by the workshed.  "Hmmm", I thought.  "That looks like a butcher-block table.  Funny place for it.  Wish I had one for my old general store..."  And then I got distracted by the field of roses nearby.

Two weeks later I was back again, wandering through the hoophouses (sweating in the heat this time, the basking was over) and I casually on purpose walked by the workshed.  Guess what--it was still there.  Nothing had changed.  "Hmmm", I thought, before turning my attention back to the flowers yet again. 

I carried my chosen plants down to the checkout counter and chatted with the owner, Phillip, as I paid for my goodies.  I casually on purpose mentioned how I liked his butcher-block table up by the shed, and he said "Oh do you? Would you be interested in that?" 

What?!!!  He's willing to part with his table?!!!  Ok, pull yourself together, you need to respond to the question.

"Yes!"  I mean, "Yes."  Play it cool.

"What's your price?", I asked him while trying to rearrange my expression into something resembling a poker face. 

"Well, I'll just give it to you if you want it..."

AACCKKKK!!!  What did he just say????!!!

"Really??!!!", I squeaked.  All attempts at a poker face were out the window at this point.

"Yeah, a guy offered it to me so he didn't have to burn it, and I took it because I thought somebody might find a use for it.  Since it was given to me, I don't want to charge anybody for it.  I just hated to see it burned."

My kind of guy.  A kindred spirit.  I told him I had a use for it, and we'd be back with the pick-up truck the next morning.  And then I thanked him.  Profusely.  I'm not ashamed of it.

As promised, we headed out the next morning in the pick-up (without Esther--just thought this was a funny pic), wondering for the entire five-mile drive how we were going to load a 400lb-ish table into the truckbed.  My husband's strong, but that was a bit beyond his weight limit, even if I was helping.

I needn't have worried, though.  When we pulled up at the greenhouse, Phillip already had the table sitting on a forklift and moved into place, ready to be lifted into the truckbed.  Those Mennonite folks are on it.  They don't waste any time. 

He hopped on the iron-wheeled forklift, pulled a few levers, lifted the table high in the air, and then slid it right in the bed. 

"Well, glad I could help.",  I sputtered, and was rewarded with a grin from Phillip and a sigh of relief from my husband. 

The relief didn't last long, though, because everybody knows Murphy's law:
What's Loaded Must Be Unloaded. 
Or something like that.

We realized the challenge we faced when we pulled in our driveway, got out, leaned against the truck, and contemplated what lay inside the truckbed.  The table filled it almost completely--5ft long, 2.5ft wide, and 1ft deep.  With six solid maple legs.  And no iron-wheeled forklift in sight.  

And then a lightbulb came on.  In my husband's head, of course.  That's usually where it happens.

He rounded up a few barrels we were saving for a new rainwater catchment system, laid them on their sides behind the tailgate, climbed in the truckbed, and gave the table a shove. 

I have no photos of this.  Somebody had to be on the other end to catch everything if things went south.  And that somebody couldn't hold a camera at the same time.

But you get the gist.  The barrels created rolling leverage, balanced out the weight, and enabled us to negotiate the insanely heavy object easily into position without lifting anything.  At all. 
It just rolled right out of the bed and onto the barrels as smooth as pie.  Mmmm, pie. 

And there it sits.  I know it needs a lot of work, and some might think it would've been better off in the fire.  It's weather-cracked, warped, weighs a ton, and is coming unglued.  But who isn't?

I think it can be mended. 
It's a big project. 
It's gonna take every bit of my non-existent woodworking skills to get it in shape.  

But I can do it.  I'm visualizing it all gussied up, on display in the hundred and ten year-old general store, surrounded by life and given purpose once again.   I can do it.

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...