Ramblings from the Homestead

Daybook today... Outside my window – a cool spring morning and a beautiful sunrise I am thinking - about walking the dog in a few minutes I am thankful - for every little blessing that comes my way unexpectedly...and for my sweet husband I am wearing – jammies and warm sox I am remembering – new beginnings and how exciting they can be I am creating -reenactment dresses, a new quilt, a wool braided rug I am going – to work soon I am reading - Shelter II by Lloyd Kahn I am hoping – for peace in my life On my mind - sisters, sons, and grandchildren Pondering these words – Joy is peace dancing, peace is joy at rest From the kitchen – freshly ground and brewed coffee and later, some oatmeal Around the house – reducing and removing, letting go of the extra stuff Some of my favorite things – my cat, Fester and little dog, Peanut A few plans for the rest of the week – two more days of work... then a birthday weekend for David My picture posting: Fish River at Big Daddy's

Now just because I named my bantam rooster after my dad doesn’t mean Fred was small and cocky…. On the contrary, he was a big man, with a huge presence… I always found his big, calloused hands a bit frightening, and his gruff nature put me off. We had a fractious relationship in my teen years and beyond, but I have been assured he loved me with all his heart. I believe that now…. There were times when I didn’t. Fred was a lot like me, although I didn’t readily admit it. He was a tinkerer, a wanderer, and an inveterate scrounger. He cared not one whit about the latest fashion, and wore his grubby jeans low and baggy. His flannel shirts and striped railroad cap were a signature… pushed back on his head, a two day growth of beard stubble that he loved to rub on my cheek to hear me holler, and a pair of sturdy black leather laceup boots were his usual garb. He cleaned up nicely, and I have memories of him, clean shaven and smelling of Aqua Velva, heading out the door in the evenings. The

My great-grandmother, Isabella Grace Pierson Jones taken when she was about 21

I can’t easily count the number of times I have moved in my life. It is probably around 30. That is a lot of uprooting and packing and unpacking. Now some of these moves happened before I was grown, and are not always accompanied by a happy memory… which is why I write about them now. When I was in my twenties, facing another move, a wise friend gave me a poster. It showed a kitten curled in a flower pot, sleeping blissfully, and proclaimed “Home is wherever your heart is”. It was a comfort to me, as I wrenched up my shallow roots yet again, and prepared to nest in another unfamiliar place. Many times the moves I made were due to financial hardship, family problems, or perhaps a desire to start anew a life that was rocking like a ship in a rough ocean. Whatever the reasons, there were sweat and toil, loss of possessions, new house issues and new landlords and locations to deal with. I always thought, thanks to my Dad, who loved to wander, that I had a bit of the gypsy in me. I stil