Belewville Gallery

 

 

Old Pumpkin = New Christmas Decor

Don't throw your pumpkins away after Halloween or Thanksgiving.  Dress them up and give them a second life with some spray paint and silk flowers.

I've kept it simple with white spray paint and a poinsettia and pine sprig, but you can use gold  or silver or even glittered spray paint.

These pumpkins have been a part of my outdoor decor from September to December this year.

Talk about stretching your dollar.

Christmas On The Farm

When your living is dependent on the cattle market or the weather, it seems that it is often feast or famine.  Being one of six children of a farmer/rancher, I can tell you that results of these less than dependable factors can be glaringly obvious at Christmas time.

My parents, though, were smart and resourceful and always made the most of what we had at the time.  I never really knew which year was feast and was which was famine.  Instead of dragging us along to shop among the throngs of frantic holiday-goers or fretting about excessive decorating, my parents chose to spend more time over more money and gave us holiday memories that still echo in my heart 20+ years later.

Each Christmas, we would load up and make the two hour trip to the Christmas tree farm where we would drink hot chocolate around a large outdoor fire and ride in a horse drawn buggy among the rows of fragrant green trees.  They would let us choose the perfect tree and then we cut it down ourselves and drug it to the cart path where it was picked up and loaded on our car.

Once situated in our living room, the smell of pine permeated the entire house - an amazing scent that meant the Christmas season had begun.  After stringing it with twinkling white lights and covering it with years worth of accumulated ornaments, we would often drink eggnog and watch Christmas movies.

Thinking back, I couldn't tell you what gifts I received or what kind of holiday goodies were baked or even how the house was decorated, but I can vividly remember cutting down our own Christmas tree and the warmth and togetherness that it inspired each year.

Take the opportunity this holiday season to purchase quality memories with your time, just as you purchase quality gifts with your money.  Many years down the road, your family will remember the things you did together, even when the memories of the gifts purchased and money spent have been long faded.

Prairie Tempest

I watch as the clouds billow and rumble overhead. The oppression of the sun's ominous fury has been squelched by these merciful pewter masses.  Leaves scorched by drought and sun swirl slowly to the ground as a soft breeze begins to ripple over the prairie grass and through the Honey Locust trees.

The farm is eerily quiet - not a bellowing cow or a chirping cricket - just the sound of the wind.  The sweet smell of impending rain is muddled by the acrid stench and sage brush and ripe vines full of gourds.  Though half devoured by this summer's plague of ravenous grasshoppers, they still manage to perfume the air with their strange familiarity.

As the windmill at the old Thomas place creaks and groans back to life in the wind, I wonder what early settlers on this prairie thought when these thunderheads rolled across the plains.  Today, this late afternoon prairie tempest has stirred the drought stricken prairie to life. Against the slate colored sky, the golden grasses of the dry fields almost seem green.  The barn cats have began to mingle in the yard and the pasture cows are now grazing up against the fence nearest the house.  They know what is coming.

I look at the row of mangled trees just across the dirt road from our farm house and consider, with reverent respect, the potential fury that I know exists in the Oklahoma sky.  The booming clouds draw nearer and speak louder and I am reminded of the security of our storm cellar.  As the plains interact with the wind and the rumbling sky, it paints a picture of a much younger prairie.  From my seat on the porch, all I can see is sage brush and love grass whipping and nodding in the breeze.  I see a trail that the cattle have tromped that slinks and wanders into a large thicket.

A wall of clay colored dust  rises from the thirsty road and pings and scuttles as it hits our prairie home and metal outbuildings with stinging force and at this moment, I know what my great grandfather felt as he looked out on this very same rugged piece of land almost 100 years ago.  I connect with this land in the same way you connect with an old friend.  No matter how long you are away, when you finally meet again, it feels like you never left.  I am comforted and reassured that just as the storms and and tempests of life may bring destruction and desolation, in this moment, this prairie tempest reminds me of where I came from and who I really am.

Suburbia: Country's Distant Cousin?

Although my heart is in the country among the sage brush and sweeping plains, my geographic location currently places me in suburbia, also known as "Pleasantville" or as my children often call it "who-ville."  We call it this because although all of the houses in this particular neighborhood, though relatively new and well kept, all have similar neutral colored siding and identical slate colored roofs and greatly resemble each other.  Let's face it, if it weren't for house numbers and street signs around here, it would be hard to find your way home.

Every night, just after dark, I walk.  I do this because it reminds me that singing crickets do still exist and because it gives me a little time alone with my thoughts - and, as strange as it sounds, because it is the only thing that reminds me of life in the country.

I quickly exit my neighborhood on foot and abandon the sidewalk in favor of the grass.  Although it is uneven and less stable underfoot, it is preferable to the unnatural rigidity of the pavement.  There are no paved roads other than the highway near our country home - and a smart country gal doesn't walk down the highway.

I jog/walk down the side of a busy street near our neighborhood.  It is strangely devoid of street lights and reminds me of the 3/4 mile of dirt road running past our house in the country, lit only by the moon at night.  This may sound a little strange and creepy, but I love the outdoors at night.  Everything that is hot and dry and reclusive during the day seems to come to life with shadows and mystery after sunset.

The dirt road by our farm at twilight.

It is a well known fact among country kids that if there is a tree - you must climb it.  There is a small grove of trees nestled in, what I assume is the back of some ritzy addition, on the northwest corner of this dimly lit street and another busy street directly across from a Walgreens.  Every time I walk by this miniature urban forest, I seriously consider jumping the wrought iron fence and scaling the medium sized oak tree in the middle.  It is, in fact, so tempting that I have taken to walking on the opposite side of the street in hopes that the constant stream of four lanes of traffic will deter me from trespassing.

The best part of these nightly strolls is the smell.  Even in the city, the smell of freshly cut grass mingled with flowers and fresh air creates a summer time medley that not even the most talented of candle makers can accurately capture.

As a side note, when the wind blows from the south, the sweet smell of summer time is often masked by the putrid stench of dog food being made at the Purina plant a few miles away.  It makes me long for the smell of the pig farm just a mile from our house in the country, which smells decidedly better than freshly made dog food. 

So, if suburbia and the country are actually related, I would have to guess that they are second cousins twice removed and differ greatly in genetic material.  Having said that,  although my GPS shows me planted in the middle of suburbia's expansive grid of city streets and a large population, somehow, it never fails to remind me of it's distant cousin, the country, and home.