Abraham Lincoln's Boyhood Home

We have seen the roadsigns pointing to the boyhood home of American President, Abraham Lincoln, and mentioned several times that we should pay a visit to the site located in Hodgenville, KY.

Lincoln is one of the heros of history whom J. admires.

G. decided she would go along on this outing, so we collected her mid-morning and

drove into LaRue County.The two sites commemorating Lincloln's early years are less than 10 miles aprt, both maintained by the National Parks system.

The trend is so often to romanticize any place associated with a figure of national importance, but Lincoln's humble birthplace could scarecly be glamorized.

The building in the photo houses a replica of the Lincoln homestead cabin in a climate-controlled granite space.  The 56 steps leading up the hill represent the years of Lincoln's life prior to his assassination.

Steps of stone and concrete lead into this grotto-like hollow around the clear cold spring which supplied the Lincoln home and farm with water.

In the time that they were living there I expect their footsteps had worn small depressions in the slope leading down to the spring. At wet times of year the ground would have been muddy and slippery.

The Linclon homested was known as 'Sinking Spings.'

Moss and ferns cling to the rock wall that backs the spring.

I was surprised to notice that a considerable amount of poison ivy had been allowed to invade the vinva planted along the banks which rise on either side of the stone steps.

Inside the visitor center we watched a 15 minute documentary and viewed such things as facsimilies of the marriage certificate of Thomas Lincoln and Nancy Hanks, and the recorded deed to the homestead.

As it turned out, the Lincoln's deed was contested and the family--Tom and Nancy and two children--were evicted.

Abraham Lincoln was 2 years old at the time and had no later recollection of his birthplace as a home.

This replica cabin is at the Knob Creek farmstead where the Lincolns lived until Abraham was 8 years old.

The cabin is thought to have been constructed from logs salvaged from the cabin of the Lincoln's neighbors, a family called Gollaher.

The interior of the replica cabin is sparsely furnished--a bed in the corner, cast-iron cooking utensils in the hearth, a churn, a few dishes.

There is a narrow loft where Abraham and his sister Sarah would have slept.

If you would like to read more about this site and its significance in Lincoln's life, go to this link:

http://www.nps.gov/abli/planyourvisit/boyhood-home.htm

The grounds here were quiet.

I followed the sun-splashed path down to the creek.

The stream bed is nearly dry.

An attempt has been made to cultivate a small garden such as the homesteading family might have had.

Corn and pumpkin plants, beset with weeds, stood limply in the hot afternoon sun.

Herbs flourished at one end of the garden patch.  This stand of camomile was labeled "DILL."

In an odd twist of fate, the Lincolns and several of their neighbors lost their claim to this small farm as well as the first one.

Fed up with Kentucky the family loaded their sparse belongings and headed toward Indiana

to make a fresh start.

Nancy Hanks Lincoln would die there little more than a year later, victim along with her aunt, uncle and several neighbors, of 'milk sickness'--an often fatal poisoning caused by drinking the milk of cows who had ingested the weed known as white snakeroot. [ageratina altissima]

Walking around the quiet grounds it was not difficult to imagine living there in the early 1800's.

The crude cabin would have been hot in summer, cold in winter, redolent of woodsmoke, cooking odors, and the scent of a family living with very little in the way of niceties, with difficult arrangements for bathing and laundry.

As we walked toward the car, G. noticed this oddly coiled limb of a catalpa tree

[above photo and this one zoomed in on the burled formation.]

It was a hot day--harbinger of many to come.

On a back road not far from home we noticed these cattle wallowing in a scum-covered pond, cooling their massive bodies.

We had driven in an air-conditioned car;

We left our house with the windows shut and the curtains drawn, blocking out the heat of the day.

The fridge hummed, the ice-makers' bin was full.

We could shower at bedtime, tossing our clothing into the laundry basket to be washed and line-dried

in the morning.

J. turned on the ceiling fan, dropped into his recliner.

I tended the cats and retreated to my cool basement sewing room.

The conveniences I take for granted are little more than a century old--a sharp contrast to the harsh life that was common for so many years of earth's history.

Gardening in Moderation

I returned home at noon from my 4th chiropractic visit in two weeks.

It has always been frustrating to me that while my back--or shoulder--or ribcage--can 'go out'--it can't 'go back in' short of coercion by a professional.

"So, what have y'all been doing?" asks Dr K. as she bustles into the consulting room.

"Err, more gardening," I admit sheepishly.

Dr. K. presses a button, a motor hums and I am tilted flat on her table, face buried in the

paper-swathed headrest. 

"Is this the onset of old age?" I ask, as Dr. K. prods at my shoulder. "Do I have to stop gardening?"

[I am feeling just a bit sorry for myself, here!]

She snorts inelegantly.

"You're not that old and I almost never tell people to quit doin' stuff they like to do.

I don't know how anybody could set around doin' nothin!'

[Dr. K. like many college-educated people here continues to talk in the local vernacular.]

My shoulder obligingly crunches into place under pressure.

"Oh good," says Dr. K. and levers me upright.

She regales me with the encouraging story of a patient in her 80's who gardens crawling on her hands and knees.  "She is just the happiest woman, comes in here for an adjustment, tells me what-all she's got growing in her garden."

We speak briefly of the problems associated with fibromyalgia. Dr. K. admits that I might be old enough to experience a 'touch of arthritis.'

Tucking her clipboard under one arm, she delivers her exit line; "You're no way needin' to quit gardening---but you might could try to do it in moderation!'

Leaving my car in the doctor's parking lot, I walk up to the Courthouse Square to the bank.

I catch sight of myself in a plate glass window--always a bit disconcerting.

I see a woman who is obviously not young--labeling her 'middle-aged' might even be s stretch. Greying hair which swings in a braid over my left shoulder--blue denim capris, sun-browned bare legs, feet in sandals, fingernails which in spite of repeated scrubbing wear the green/brown stains of plants and garden soil.

I ponder this idea of 'moderation.'

It has begun to dawn on me this spring that it is not so much what I do, but the fact that once in the gardens I don't stop weeding, transplanting, digging, hauling dirt, until I am forced inside by J.'s need for a meal--or by nightfall, when I suddenly realize that I have my face 6 inches from the earth trying to discern just a few more weeds as darkness creeps across the landscape.

I attempted moderation this afternoon.

I made our lunch, tended a load of laundry, answered emails.

I watered the 4 pots of daylilies which I had brought home from Wal Mart--reduced price and in need of urgent release from their black plastic nursery pots.

"Tomorrow," I told myself firmly.  "Tomorrow will be time enough to plant them."

After a bit I wandered outside.

I admired the poppies in the upper perennial strip--so lovely, and their season so soon to be past.

I remembered that I intended to move 2 Stargazer lilies from in front of the porch to join the 'tree lilies' in the border.  Surely that was a moderate sort of task.

I looked at the place designated for the bargin Stella D'Oro lilies--the area near the front steps where G. and I worked last week.

A clump of flopping over-grown sedum needed to be removed to make way for the lilies.

I found J.'s big shovel and began to pry up the clump of sedum.

The dirt along the edge of the porch is inhospitable, coarse. I broke the sedum into 3 parts, heaved the plants out onto the sidewalk.

Feeling virtuous, I took a 5 minute break.

I spread a layer of packaged garden soil over the disrupted ground, gently dragged around a half bale of peat moss.  I stirred and turned, creating a nice climate for the lilies.  They were pot-bound, poor things, so I carefully teased apart their tangled roots, tucked them in place.

I hauled off my debris, swept the porch, said nice things to my rosemary seedlings, shooed Sally and Sadie out of the freshly dug-over patch.

I went inside to scrub my paws, scooped out a helping of ice cream and went back to the porch.

Dusk crept in with the whip-poor-wills tuning up across the creek.

Bobwhites called, the mockingbird mocked and the bluebirds swished through the twilight intent on capturing a bedtime snack for their young.

I trust I accomplished a moderate amount of gardening.

I don't promise I can consistently apply 'moderation'--the season carries me along.

One of the self-sown poppies--a beautiful color.

Willis has no trouble with the concept of moderation--he indulges in fits of activity alternating with languid sprawls.

Two of my favorite achillia are in bloom.

The first magnolia opened yesterday--this one on a lower branch is today's offering--waxy

white and fragrant.

This shrub, whose name I don't know, fills the air with its scent--sharp, pervasive, rather than sweet.

[I want to call it fothergilla aka witch alder--but I have my doubts.]

The newly planted area by the steps.  I may bring home yet another pot of Stella.

A clump of Stella D'Oro lillies planted last season, already spreading comfortably.

These lilies have become an urban cliche--almost ubiquitous in landscaping of public places.

Common they may be, but also readily available, economical, cheerful and sturdy--a good choice for a moderate gardener!

Darkly Green Days

It was well that the hay was dried, rolled and under cover by Friday evening.

Saturday dawned cool and cloudy--one of those days when green darkness seems to press in, the sky seems low and brooding. There was a sense of waiting.

The rain came during the night--a drenching rain, sometimes calming to a sullen drizzle.

Sunday morning was darkly chill and gloomy.

Leaves and 'seed wings' from the maples were clogging the eave troughs, so J. fetched a stepladder and endured splots of water down the back of his neck while he cleared the debris.

Water seeped under the basement door, an event which always draws several of the cats to stare and dabble in fascinated horror.

I had promised strawberries and whipped cream for a Mother's Day dinner which Gina and her friend Ellie were organizing. 

I togged up in wellies, a sweatshirt with the hood drawn tightly over my head, a down vest.

I left my spectacles on the table.

Gathering up collanders for the berries I announced to J. that I would much appreciate that a fire be crackling in the fireplace by the time I returned to the house.

As I knelt in the wet grass, pawing through the leaves for ripe strawberries, the rain began to slant down again with a vengeance.

Willis and the tortie girls, my usual companions in the garden, were notably absent.

By the time I squelched back to the house with my two containers of berries I was wet literally to my shivering skin.

Willis--the deserter--was snug in the back of the herb garden, protected from the wet by the overhang of the roof.

In the kitchen I toed off my boots, clattered the collanders of berries onto the sink counter. Peeling off sodden  jeans and layers of shirts to be cast into the washing machine, I headed for the restorative bliss of a very hot shower.

The living room was warm and J. had coffee ready.

I sat gratefully in my old rocking chair for a few minute, letting the heat soak into my bones, before heading into the kitchen to deal with berries and sponge cake.

Although the weather remained gloomy, our gathering with friends at Matt and Gina's home was one of those times of delicious food and comfortable fellowship.

By Monday the rain had quit, but the entire surrounding landscape was wet.

Much too wet to work in the gardens.

I did the usual morning chores of feeding cats, tidying litter boxes, preparing breakfast.

When I went out to the front porch, watering can in hand, I noticed that several of the pots holding lavender seedlings were heaving with wood lice.

Moving the pots I found whole colonies of the beasties scumbling about.

I squashed them mercilessly!

I was sweeping the porch and thinking it would be an ideal afternoon to spend time downstairs sorting some quilting projects, when G. roared in.

I explained about the wood lice, where-upon she began twitching plant pots and porch furniture about.

"Its this nasty carpet!" she declared. "You need to get rid of it."

Removal of the shabby green indoor/outdoor matting which covered the front porch and steps has been on my 'to do' list, but not a high priority.

G. was already tugging at a rip in the edge of the carpet and making loud noises of disgust.

"Right," I agreed.  "It might as well be today."
Some of the carpet pulled up easily, some adhered.  We yanked and tugged.

As the remnants came loose from the steps, I uncovered armies of ants who began to rush about trying to carry their white grub/babies to safety.

I don't much like pesticides or herbicides, but I had G. fetch the aeresol that J. uses on wasp nests and finished off the ants.

With the carpet dragged off to the bonfire area, G. tackled the sad looking clumps of sedum and such which sprawled at the base of the steps.

I brought out the loppers and went at the nandina shrubs. [They were trimmed last fall, but the recent damp weather sent them on a frenzy of growth.]

I am not especially skilled at pruning.  I try to keep my balance while brandishing the loppers above my head to reach branches that are taller than I am. Its a bit like trying to cut one's own hair! 

One side of the bush looks too tall, so I lop away at it, then stand back and decide that the other side must be clipped again to match.

Hours sped by as we pruned, dug, raked, swept, carried trimmings to our bonfire.

The men of the family appeared at intervals, made helpful [!] comments, then found it judicious to be occupied elsewhere.

It was twilight before we declared that order had been restored!

I opened the curtains this morning to white mist.

Willis and company were tucked up on the wicker loveseat on the tidy porch.

You can see the effect of the pruned shrub at the end the of the porch and the newly

cleared area by the steps.

That remaining clump of sedum is slated for removal.

The blossoms are a sickly bubble-gum pink.

G. discovered that there is a vinyl edging along the front of the flower strip.

I think I'll clear the sod back to meet it.

Only a few bewildered wood lice in residence under the lavender pots this morning!

[I hope they weren't bumbling about looking for their deceased mates!]

A long view of the porch, shrubbery trimmed, shabby green matting removed.

[D. insists he preferred the porch with the carpet!]

There will be fewer flower pots lined along the front once I can transplant

the seedlings.

Soil much too wet to work in the gardens.

By noon the sun had eased out and I went along the edges of the perennial strips enjoying the poppies.

Wild onion springs up everywhere, to be tweaked out of the flowers.

Wild indeed!

I collected thousands of seeds from my heirloom poppies last year.

So many self-sown seedlings appeared that I didn't sprinkle out my saved seed.

Thus far I have none of the ruffled varieties from last year.

Ironically, the friends with whom I shared the seed will likely have a better display than mine.

I cherish each bloom.

The Sweet Scents of Summer

After consulting several five-day weather forecasts, J. decided on Wednesday that a rain-free slot of time would allow him to cut the hay on the home meadows.

I have been enjoying the scent of summer which is present whenever I am outdoors.

It is familiar in its likeness to the country smells of my Grampa Mac's farm and of the place we farmed when our children were young.

Some of the elements are easily defined--swaths of red or white clover and tangles of pink or purple flowered vetch are dominant.

Other scents are more elusive, a faint perfume noticeable as I walk to the mailbox, perhaps the dewy fragrance of the blackberry bramble across the road, or a sun-warmed clump of grasses stirred

by a light wind.

Willis the Cat swishes through the tall grass--hunting--and returns with his tweedy fur delicately scented.

From the neighboring pasture, comes a faint but unmistakable odor of cows--not strong enough to offend, part of the half-nostalgic, half here-and-now country living element.

Red clover predominates in this swath of hay drying in the sun.

Uncut pasture beyond a neighbor's fence.

I have puzzled over this bright yellow flower with its tough stem and fern-like basal leaves.

Comparing it to photos in my Audubon Society wildflower book and to numerous on-line photos and descriptions, I beleive it to be 'Long-bracted Tickseed Sunflower'--which is indeed a weighty designation.

Clumps of Ox-Eye Daisies are a feature of roadside and meadow this year.

It is interesting to note that the differences in springtime weather [early heat, drought, chill, rain] influence which native flowers/weeds predominate.

Common Fleabane took over the fields in March; just now Buttercup, the daisies, and the

Tickseed dominate.

A stand of daisies across the road against the backdrop of shrubbery which screens the creek.

An invasive--but handsome--pest, the musk or nodding thistle grows to statuesque heights.

I've read about one plan for control which is to introduce a 'weevil' into areas that are afflicted with spreading stands of thistle.

Close-up of a developing thistle bloom.

Wild Yarrow [Achillea millefolium] is a hardy plant which adapts to many variables of soil and weather.

This plant, growing in a fence corner escaped the mower.

Perfect haying weather prevailed. Sunshine, brilliant blue skies, low humidity and

a light north wind.

I don't usually photograph the old barns from this angle, but had plodded along the southern boundary fence sniffing out flowers.

In this photo taken in 1931 my Dad's older brother, Warren, guides Queen and Girlie as they haul baled hay to the barn.

Neither Daddy nor his brothers continued in farming after their father died.

This photo came to me recently through the generosity of Cousin Tom who is slowly sorting and scanning his mother's collection of vintage photos.

Cousin Tom's great-grandfather Joel Archer used his team of oxen, Buck and Bright, to haul in a wagon load of loose hay.

[This photo, reproduced from glass plates made by Flora Sexton, was used in both editions of "The History of Graphite, New York" written by my great-uncle, Wilford Ross.]

J.'s line-up of tractors and farming implements is ever-changing as he 'wheels and deals.'

Last week he purchased a used 'round-baler' which will eliminate the heavy 'hands-on' loading, stacking and moving of the smaller rectangular bales.

He experienced a rather frustrating 'learning curve' before the machine produced the neatly packed and tied roll of hay he wanted.

His triumph is evident in this photo!

Hay-making tools have become very sophisticated since the days when our grandfathers were gathering in their harvest of winter cattle feed.

I'm not sure why I was required to pose beside the bale after it was removed from the bale 'spear.'

Perhaps to serve as a measurement for its height [?]

I have to say that if a perfumer could capture the scent of new-mown hay, I wouldn't mind making it my signature fragrance!

Strawberries

The yield from the stawberry patch today.

This is the third 'picking' this season.

The berries are smaller than last year, probably due to the dry weather when they were forming.

They are sweeter than last season.

J. took this photo after he had made his serving of dessert.

He prefers strawberries on 'shortcake'--a baking powder biscuit.

I am partial to Aunt Dorothy's Sponge Cake which I made on Sunday using the fresh eggs I buy from a friend at church.

My tube pan has gone missing--our many house moves in the past decade leave me with no idea where some items disappeared.

G. came to the rescue with an assortment of pans from her kitchen.

The cake batter produced a cake made in a spring-form pan and one in a small tube pan.

Jim's Aunt Dot [ 87 years old last week!] always made this cake for special desserts.

Her late husband, Ed, grew strawberries, raspberries and blueberries in their Massachusetts garden which, fresh or frozen, accompanied the cake.

Around here we do not serve berries with 'Cool Whip' or with aerosal whipped topping.

We use heavy cream whipped with a bit of sugar and pure vanilla extract.

Aunt Dorothy's Sponge Cake

2 cups flour

1 1/2 cups granulated sugar

3 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 c vegetable oil

7 eggs, separated

3/4 cup cold water

1 teaspoon vanilla.

Preheat the oven to 325.

Separate the eggs.

Beat the egg whites until stiff peaks form.  Set aside.

Sift together the dry ingredients into a large bowl.

Make a 'well' in the center of the dry ingredients.

Add the oil, egg yolks, water and vanilla.

Beat at medium speed until smooth.

Using electric mixer on slow speed, or by hand, fold beaten egg whites into batter.

Turn into ungreased tube pan or large springfrom pan.

Bake 50-55 minutes.

Cool in pan--on a wire rack.

Loosen edges of cake with a sharp knife, invert over plate and gently remove from pan.

Serve with fresh berries and cream.

Tea With Cats and Bluebirds

I accomplished some minimal tidying of the kitchen after a light and late lunch, and headed for the front porch.  I made myself comfortable on the wicker loveseat, toed off my sandals, prepared to sink languidly into the sleepy afternoon nattering of the birds, to enjoy the flourishing plants lined up in front of me.  I vowed not to think of seedlings to transplant or weeds to pull, or to contemplate the begonias which  wintered over beneath the flourescent lights in the basement and now need to be brought

outside for the summer.

Behind me in the house, the phone trilled.

No matter, likely one of the endless calls for Jim.

J. popped through the front door waving the phone at me.

"Who is it?" I hissed.

[For whatever perverse reason the man refuses to tell me who is calling!]

Putting the phone to my better ear I managed a 'hello' in a courteous, but less than enthusiastic tone.

"You need to come see the bluebirds!"

It was son-in-law Matt in his most peremptory mode.

"Errrr--" I muttered.

"Gina is making tea," stated M. firmly, "And you need to see these baby birds."

I poked my feet back into my sandals, found my camera, and as an afterthought, put my wellies in the car.

[The snake population inhabiting M. and G.'s backyard and climbing their maples

inspires me to rugged footwear.]

The front yard of their cottage looked cool and tidy.

The front steps sported the various plants in shades of pink which G. has been tucking into

pots and planters.

Inside G. had created a pretty display with a bouquet of my vintage peonies flanked by a scented candle and a gently worn coffee set--a yard sale treasure.

I began to perk up as we conveyed our tea things to the bistro table set up near the side porch.

Note T-Baby [aka Bubbie] lounging in a chair.

G. interprets for Bubbie, who was apparently denying any interest in our tea.

"Is that real butter on the muffins?"

The oddments of lawn furniture were passed along to G. when her neighbor moved this week.

With the table, bistro chairs, two weathered benches and two Adirondack chairs was a birdhouse condo on a sturdy wooden base.

G. hoicked all the pieces the several hundred feet from the boundary fence and positioned the birdhouse near the back door where it could have a scrubbing. 

On removing one of the bird boxes she discovered bluebird babies almost at the fledgling stage

 

Ninah-Cat knows the birds are there, just out of reach and coos blandishments to them

in her sweetest tones.

Overhead Mother Bluebird watches--not squawking, not diving at the cats, hovering quietly to await developments.

Our repast of applesauce/date muffins. fruit salad and blueberry iced tea was consumed in a less than leisurely manner in deference to the safety of the bluebird children.

G. produced a large roll of chicken wire and we devised a cat-proof barricade around the birdhouse while Ninah and Jinka glared their disapproval.

Serenity restored; Mother Bird swooped in with choice delicacies for her brood.

The cats resigned themselves to bird-watching at a distance.

G. and I resettled with iced tea, a faded copy of Petersen's Birds of North America and the binoculars.

A pair of rabbits cavorted and 'boxed' in the long grass around the tottering barn in the next lot.

As tree shadows deepened, the scent of honeysuckle and clover lulled us to a few moments of leisure.