Faces Captured In Time

Handwritten on the back is a date in the late 1890's, and the fact that the gentleman pictured was of an age to place his birthday circa 1840. 

He neglected to sign his name--surely the recipient of the photo knew him well.

The portrait was taken at a studio in the nearest 'city'  30 miles from my home town.

A youthful dandy, posed in his finest, hat at a jaunty angle.

The photo is undated, unsigned.

The young man's dark curling hair and square chin don't bring to mind any face I have known.

The background of hewn rock in this photo suggests a quarry.

Although no details are included, the man's stance, the set of his shoulders bears a resemblance to my  Uncle Bill.

I like to imagine that this is a photo of his grandfather for whom he was named, William "Bill" Lewis, whose family connections have proved so elusive.

We know that g-grandfather Lewis worked as a young man, barely out of his teens, on the construction of the Union-Pacific Railroad.

He returned to upstate New York where he worked as a foreman in the open pit graphite mines.

This portrait has a name inscribed on the back:

Harry Sisson.

I was able to discover that Harry was a contemporary of my grandmother, Helene, and that for a season or two he taught in one of the rural schools in her hometown.

Harry, who was raised in a neighboring village, became the head of household after the death of his parents, making a home for his siblings, as well as several nieces and nephews.

My inventive imagination toys with the possibility that perhaps Harry cherished a fondness for Helene.

He may well have boarded [as was the custom] with her family, one of the most prosperous in the district.

This photo poses a conundrum of a unique sort: I've never determined if the subject is a rather plain, heavy-featured woman--or a smooth-faced man.

My g-grandmother Eliza's name appears on the back, and a set of scribbled directions for various roads in the town which has been home to my mother's families for more than 200 years.

When I transcribed the directions for my Cousin Bruce, he astonished me by replying that the roads to be followed would lead from the village of Hague directly to the dooryard of the ancestral home!

Perhaps this was a member of Eliza's family.

Nearly every family at some time finds themselves in possession, by default, of a collection of lumpy photo albums, or vintage shoe boxes which when opened disgorge a tumble of shiny Kodak photos, scalloped edges crumbling, creases distorting a face or a landscape.

The first such album which I recall lived in the parlor cupboard of my grandfather's farmhouse--the house to which he had come upon his marriage, the newly purchased home of his wife's parents.

The album cover had gone soft with time, the lacing which held the black pages in place 

had come  loose.

A few pages had torn free, shedding the triangular 'corners' meant to secure the photos.

The cupboard shelf was high, meaning that I had to carry the piano stool to wedge inside the door and clamber up to pull down the album.

Rarely, I could interest Grampa Mac or my Uncle Bill in paging through the photos with me.

Some of the photos bore on their edges a scrawling handwriting which I was told belonged to my grandmother, Helene, who had died when my Mother was a few months short of her 10th birthday.

Her notations were brief, identifying persons and times.

A small boy, bundled to the ears in winter clothes, held on a sled by a white-moustached man who knelt in the deep snow beside him.

"Dad with Billy" was her caption.

Another, taken in nearly the same spot, barns in the background, shows my great grandfather with his hand resting against a shaggy dog: 

"Dad with Old Shep."

Other photos captured family gatherings--folks posed around an automobile of the early 1920's--the family assembled for a 4th of July picnic.

My mother at about 5 years old, hair clipped in a neat bob, clothed in a middy blouse and bloomers, her brother Bill in tweedy knickers and a tie.

My Grampa Mac seems not to have enjoyed photo ops--he is usually caught standing at the back of the group, looking anywhere but at the photographer--anxious perhaps to return to the farm chores of the day and be done with the fuss of company.

He looks at ease in a photo where he stands at the heads of his beloved team of work horses.

When my late Mother was a few years older than I am now, she spent a snow-bound January going through the old album, sorted photos from the jumbled piles in the boxes.

She brought out her own albums--the photos she and my Father had taken during their courtship and later as they built their home and recorded the special moments of their three daughters.

Dividing the  vintage photos according to our special interests and including those which marked such individual events as our graduations, weddings, our children as they arrived, she lovingly created a memory album for each of us.

Shortly there-after a cross-country move took Jim and me to the unfamiliar [and sometimes forbidding] landscape of Wyoming.  Feeling rather dislocated and with gardening not an option,  I determined to begin compiling a legacy of family history.

I remembered many of  the stories Grampa Mac loved to tell; I had been 'all ears' as a child whenever there was a family gathering of my Mother's aunts and uncles.  I had listened as she read aloud the letters from her cousins, who vividly shared the details of family life.

Most of them had passed away, and Mother's grip on day to day existence was slipping by the time I began to organize family lore.

I purchased a membership in ancestry.com and began plowing laboriously through the pages of the census, often stopping to boil a kettle and brew a mug of tea while my infinitely slow dial up connection loaded yet another image of cramped and faded script.

I filled pages of notebooks with information; amateur that I was, I often neglected to note sources.

I scribbled in margins, crossed out wrong information.

I wasted hours on peripheral searches that drew me down side roads and into the families that had lived alongside my own.

I typed up questionnaires, mailed them to Mother hoping she could fill in the blanks.

On a flying visit home she presented me with a box of vintage photos, many of them studio portraits.

Many of the faces looking back at me from the stiff cardboard folders were younger versions of those I had known and loved.

Some were faces which Mother couldn't identify.

I learned through my research that my great-great grandfather, dead in his 37th year, was buried with a gathering of his kinfolk in a small graveyard a few miles from the homes my Mother had 

known so well.

When questioned, she couldn't recall having gone to the cemetery, although she had many times accompanied her grandparents on visits back 'across the lake' to the family stronghold.

Before her death she bequeathed yet more photos to my Nephew the History Teacher--the one who will carry on the love for family research.

Through the marvel of the internet I connected with a courtesy "cousin" whose families have been in the upstate New York hamlet as long as had been my mother's people.

"Cousin Bruce" has years of research published on his web pages and a fingertip away in his 

PC files.

Our emails flew back and forth.

I had progressed from wanting merely to share stories to a deep interest in the facts and vital statistics of generations past.

Cousin Bruce put me in touch with my own second cousin, a woman who shares my passion for family lore.

Barbara has her grandmother's scrapbooks--photos and clippings, a wealth of details.

Together we puzzle over the album of 'miniatures'--tiny formal cameos of bearded men in high collars, women in bustled gowns.

We can name less than half a dozen of those who must be of our blood or of our great-great grandparent's circle of friends.

I delight in the copies of old photos which have been shared with me.

Before her death last year my Dad's younger sister passed along photos I didn't know existed.

Her son, Cousin Tom, scanned and shared them along with his mother's surprisingly accurate family details. Tom typed notes scribbled down as Aunt Liz related stories of youthful escapades--giving me a view of my Dad's childhood which he had never shared. "Here's the outline," Tom would message, "You write the story."

Aunt Liz was into her 90's before I unearthed the family background hinted at by her notes, made more difficult as I struggled to decipher French Canadian names phonetically spelled on birth and death certificates and census listings. 

A lively correspondence began with a 'cousin' on my father's side--one who has been a leader in her local genealogical society.

Cousin Pat is also a gifted story-teller.

We hit 'brick walls', those of us who become entranced with family history.

We shuffle through the unidentified photos, we puzzle over a generation that seemingly 'disappears' from record.

Sometimes there are those 'eureka' moments: the scrap of information, the missing fact which suddenly makes sense and connects the dots.

As more archival hometown newspapers are digitized and published on the internet, the available resources expand.

Some photos shared , some information discovered come burdened with fore-knowledge.

I gaze at the family portrait of my maternal great-grandparents with a pang.

In it my grandmother, Helene, stands beside her father's chair, her hand on his sleeve. My slender great-grandmother, Minnie Jane, holds on her lap their son, Lawrence. The full skirt of her foulard printed gown is rumpled as though toddler Lawrence had squirmed at being held.

Minnie Jane was likely already a few weeks pregnant with her third child. She would die in childbirth on her 26th birthday within that year.

Lawrence would meet death in the Second Battle of the Marne, never returning home to wed his financee, to pick up his fiddle and make music.

Helene, the grandmother I never knew, would die of leukemia at age 44.

My home state of Vermont several years ago made available to ancestry members digitized images of vital stats from the mid 1800's to within a few years of the present.

Hours of trawling through them confirmed the six stillbirths endured by my paternal grandmother and the loss of her two younger brothers, a sister, and a beloved sister-in-law during the flu epidemic of 1918.

If my father knew of these sad facts, he chose not to speak of them.

There have been delightful finds as well: the description of Grampa Mac and Helene's wedding--so detailed that I can visualize the familiar dining room and the parlour of the old farmhouse dressed with 'choice plants' for the occasion.

The same newspaper archives have yielded in their local columns the details of church gatherings, school outings, road building, weather and farm reports, all sprinkled with names I recognize.

Often after hours of peering at the screen, scribbling notes, I return to the present in a daze, suddenly realizing that I need to prepare a meal or fetch the wash in from the clothesline.

I look with interest at the photos which others post, whether in the local online gazette or on a favorite blog; I want to learn more about the young soldier in his stiff uniform, or the elderly couple seated in the porch swing, the children straggling in untidy lines in front of the one room schoolhouse.

Photos and tidbits of information continue to come to me, sometimes shared from surprising sources--shared by those who recognize the value of heritage, those who also want names to match the faces captured on film in some long ago moment.

November Sunset

I was putting a tentative foot out of bed this morning when the phone rang.

It was Mose Miller wanting to tell Jim that he was ready to have the enclosed trailer brought up to  load more machinery from the leather shop.

I thought it strange that Mose, a courteous man, would call at 6:30 in the morning!

Jim learned later that the Millers, like many of the families and small businesses on the county line, keep 'fast time,' The county line is also the demarcation for the time zone.

The wind had kept up a steady booming roar all night, and dawn brought sternly grey skies to the north, overlaid with scudding clouds. 

A litter of small bare branches was scattered over the grass, and the deep drifts of leaves in both front and back yards had been blown into the soybean field where they fluttered and danced 

among the stubble.

Charlie and the boy cats spent the night in the entry [they refused to settle down at bedtime] and when let in began to race up and down the hall with their feline pals. The lot of them ricocheted off furniture, sped down the basement stairs, peered around doorways at things that, to our human eyes, were not really there.

 Jim was anxious to make the most of the daylight, so gulped his coffee and slathered two slices of anadama bread with butter and jam.

Katy-Dog bounced from the bedroom with Howard creaking behind her.

I popped a bread pudding in the oven and tackled the daily drudgery of the cat litter boxes.

I decided that the kitchen linoleum and the basement floors needed to be swept and mopped.

A large framed print had been knocked off a shelf in the entry and the shattered glass had to 

be dealt with. 

From the dining area windows I could see that the sky had turned a brilliant blue as the sun triumphed over the morning's somber start.

Howard, waiting on an appointment with the chiropractor, was gathering up the strewn branches, pausing to kick Katy's ball across the grass.

When I took a rug out to beat and brush it I was surprised to find that in spite of the wind, 

the air was warm.

Basement floors swept and swabbed, kitchen floor clean, contents of mop bucket flung out, ash bucket emptied.

I wanted to stay outside, and began walking the perimeter of the lot, picking up yet more fallen branches. The short November day was moving on, the sun trawling the western sky, the wind developing a cooler tang.

Back indoors, to find the cats sleepy, some tucked up on the loveseat downstairs by the ebbing fire, Bobby Mac sprawled on the table, where he can open one eye to monitor the backyard birds.

The late afternoon sun slants into the west window of my study, lying warmly on the oak flooring.

I glance wistfully at my rocking chair, the books ranged on the shelves nearby.

I wonder when--and what--Jim and Howard have eaten.

I bring out the remains of the weekend hickory smoked turkey breast, assemble the meat grinder, two stalks of celery, a quarter of an onion.

Bobby Mac and Nellie appear to monitor this production of sandwich filling.

More onion and celery chopped to sizzle gently in olive oil, add the garlic, the turkey broth.

Down to the basement to fetch a quart of home canned tomatoes, a handful of tiny pasta stars dropped into the pot as the contents come to a gentle boil.

The homey scent of simmering soup takes over the kitchen.

The men arrive home--Jim first, roaring in, trailer loaded with more of the Miller's goods.

"Have you eaten?" I ask.

The Millers invited him to share their dinner.

In response to my interested queries he describes the meal: a noodle casserole served with kielbasa; apple pie with ice cream; a 'fluffy' sort of side dish, perhaps a pudding; an array of cookies.

Two of the Miller daughters were there, helping Anna with the packing, along with two neighboring Amish women whose husbands were laboring alongside Mose and Jim to load heavy machinery from the leather shop.

Jim asked how they managed to have ice cream.

Like so many Amish families, the Millers have an 'arrangement' with their nearest neighbor, to keep an electric freezer in an out building.  Mose also has a telephone installed there, paying a small monthly fee for these services.

Howard's arrival was heralded by Katy dashing into the kitchen.

I spread filling on home made bread, indicated the kettle of soup.

The sun hovered on the brink of the horizon, ready to plunge behind the hills.

I snatched up my camera, wanting some tangible memory of this glowing day of wind and sun.

Dark shadows were already spreading across the front lawn.

The last rays of the sun struck the tops of the backyard trees with a ruddy glow, outlining the nuts that still cling to the bare branches of the pecan tree, gilding the clusters of pine cones.

Life marches at a strange pace here, days of unexpected work as well as the mundane chores of country living.

Mose has given Jim the keys of the upper house!

Tomorrow I will have a duplicate set made to keep in my handbag.

Soon I will drive to the empty house, let myself in, walk freely from room to room, imagining

the transition to a new home.

Weather This Week

Cold and gloomy weather began on Sunday with a persistent mizzle of rain.

By evening temperatures had dropped below freezing, and snow began to fall during the night.

The wind blew, harsh and raw, for several days.

We told ourselves the cold was nothing compared to that experienced for years in Vermont, and later in Wyoming, where winter's first heavy snow often fell before the end of September.

Still we have felt abused: huddling downstairs by the woodstove in the evenings and piling on blankets at night, scurrying down with morning coffee to sit with the cats in front of the glowing fire.

Jim has worked outside at the Amish house, installing the electrical entrance box in preparation for inspection.

Part of the installation was in the leather shop, so he could pop inside, warm up and 

watch Mose Miller at his craft.

I drove up on Tuesday to see how my plants had fared.

Sadly, the largest of my rosemary seedlings which I had set in the raised bed, still in their pots, were crisped black by the frost.

I remember wondering what I would do with so many seedlings as I pricked them out in the spring from around the dead mother plant.

If I harbored any doubts, it has become obvious that the prostrate rosemary is the most tender of my several varieties.

Thankfully, I brought the six smallest seedlings into the kitchen where they are flourishing by the window beside the sink.

I have been covering the large upright rosemarys on the front porch here with a layer of towels each evening.

The harsh winds brought down the leaves from the pecan tree.

These fall, not as separate leaves, but complete on the branched stems.

Some lodged in the clothes line, others were heaped, still green, in great drifts on the back lawn.

The roof is covered in pecan leaves, bleaching brown under the coating of snow.

The pecan tree, suddenly bare of foliage, but with the brown nuts still clinging on.

This morning brought sunshine and milder temperatures with only a slight breeze.

I pegged out sheets and towels, cleaned litter boxes.

I trundled the vacuum cleaner about, then went down to the laundry room where my plants, mostly begonias, are spending the winter.

I cut back on watering when I moved them in from the front porch.

Today I sheared back leggy, tired stems, watered well.

Howard, feeling better from his hard cold, has been out sorting tools into the smaller of his 

two trailers.

Jim met with the electrical inspector who 'passed' the preliminary installation.

The Millers are collecting themselves for the move to our former home, a daunting process with all the specialized machines and tools for the production of harness.

Since the Amish do not own motor vehicles, they must hire local men with trucks and trailers to move them.

Early next month Jim will begin wiring the house which we will eventually call home.

Robins and blackbirds [I think] gleaning in the soybean field. 

While this undertaking is exciting for us, the day to day progress reports don't make for interesting reading.

I feel that I am 'marking time'--trudging through necessary domestic chores of cooking, laundry, cleaning, small errands. 

I am rather curiously detached from this house where we spent so many hours of the past months refurbishing and redecorating.

Our plans changed so dramatically just as we began the moving in process--there has been no real establishment of routine, no need to organize and settle in.

I am often tired, sometimes a bit daunted by the project we have undertaken, a bit anxious about the necessity of selling what has become the 'interim house.'

I am also excited, enthused, visualizing the Amish house at the end of the lane as it will be when we have converted it for the ways of "Englishers."

We've been in quite a number of houses since leaving Vermont in 1998; none of them has whispered 'home' to us in the manner of the Amish farmhouse which has captured our fancy.

Pellyton

Pellyton is an unincorporated community in eastern Adair County,Kentucky, United States. Its elevation is 741 feet (226 m)

The above is the sparse entry in Wikipedia for the area which will be our new home.

Pellyton is located near the line dividing the Eastern Time Zone from Central Time Zone.

In Adair County we early learned to ask if an appointment was made in a neighboring county, whether we were expected to arrive on 'fast time' or 'slow time.'

The clocks and signs are posted over the entry door of The Mustard Seed, a small 'mom and pop' store and cafe located between two roads which follow the creeks into the 'hills and hollers.'

Looking down the main road from the Mustard Seed parking lot earlier in the week.

We have taken to stopping in for a sandwich or pizza when we are trucking back and forth from our present home to the Amish houses.

On this trip while Jim and Howard laid out plans for plumbing the lower house, I planted the peonies and iris which have languished over the long summer in pots.

When I dug them in April, the plan was [of course] to set them out at our present house.

While I did start a flower border along the front porch, using mostly divisions from my Gradyville garden, I found that a sprawling network of maple roots interfered with my plan to enlarge the small plot near the driveway.

I managed to poke in some tree lilies, but gave up hacking between the heavy tree roots.

A raised bed situated along one end of the leather shop at the new property was easy to work, so I settled the peonies there.

I was pleased to find that although the foliage had died back all the tuberous roots showed signs of vigorous life.

The side hill on which the smaller Amish house house sits has rather shallow gravelly soil, but several compact beds have been created with brought-in topsoil layered over landscape fabric.

I set out my cherished small plants of lavender and thyme as edging--hoping they can settle in and survive the winter.

[The above photo was taken in early October when we first viewed the house.]

An Amish homestead which is just to the right of the pasture seen in the previous photo.

Pellyton has had a flourishing Amish community for at least 25 years.

Mose Miller tells us at one time 52 families lived in the area.

Some returned to their home states of New York and Ohio--others migrated to Tennessee.

Today at noon we drove to Pellyton, parking the car at the 'big house' and crossing the road to explore the big corn fields so recently harvested.

We trekked up into the woods, crossing Spruce Pine Creek on a gravel bar.

We followed a wavering fence line along the width of the property.  We've been told that in places the boundary lines extend farther up the ridge.

We didn't venture there today--Jim is hoping he can persuade Mose Miller to 'walk the lines' 

with him.

The Miller's team of Haflingers watched us for a few moments then returned to calmly chomping the frost-bleached grass.

There are many sycamores along the creek and scattered amongst the maple, beech and oak of the woods.

The seed balls dangle like bobbles from the twigs of the mature trees.

Sycamore is sometimes called 'buttonwood'--from the days when buttons for clothing were shaped from the branches.

Thus we have 'button balls' as an alternative name for the seed/fruit.

Across our boundary line a windmill can be used to pump water from the pond.

As we tramped across the cornfield on our way back to the car, Jim remarked, 'Isn't it nice to have woods again!'

Cat Mornings

The cats have not yet adjusted to the return to standard time.

Their boisterous morning rampages are now beginning anywhere between 4 and 5 A.M.--not an hour of the day when either of us wish to be up and about.

Charlie-cat often starts the ruckus by trolling up and down the hallway, in and out of the bedroom, complaining in his silly high-pitched voice.

If shut in the downstairs laundry room for the night with Willis, Willow, and now, Sadie, he is quite capable of throwing himself repeatedly at the door, punctuating his thumpings  with pitiful and strident wails which resound up the stairwell.

His offspring, Mima and Chester, land on the bed, stomp heavily on me, plead with me to wake up and notice them.

Nellie's favorite trick is to smack at the window blinds, while Edward joins him to pull at the blind cords and set them swinging against the window frame.

Bobby lands on a dresser and pushes small items to the floor.

I have tried ushering the tribe out of the bedroom and firmly shutting the door.

This results in determined scrabblings and caterwauling. 

So--I get out of bed.

Getting up early is preferable to waiting for Jim to lose patience with the cats and spring from bed to swat at them, while loudly deploring the disturbance to his cherished last hour of sleep before starting the day.

Since I am already awake, I might as well indulge the cats.

Its not as though they are starving--but they think they must have their dab of odiferous tinned food to launch their day.

Pulling on an assortment of warm garments, I hurry 

to dish out the treat amid a clamour of ingratiating meows and loudly flattering purrs. After refereeing the meal [we have several greedy gobblers] I go downstairs to clean the litter boxes, stoke the wood stove, slip outside to feed the feral cats.

Back in the kitchen I pick up the cat dishes, wash them, wash my hands, measure coffee and water, press the 'on' button on the coffee maker.

On a 'good' morning, I may now be able to sit cradling a mug of coffee while looking out the back windows--or sitting at my desk--or retreating to my rocking chair with an undemanding 

book or magazine.

My thinking processes are still muzzy, my body slow.

I am not a MORNING PERSON!

By the time Jim appears, fully dressed, the cats have polished their whiskers, visited the litter boxes, enthused over the birds and squirrels who are waking up in the back yard.

The boy cats put on a show of thumping and wrestling, gallop up and down the hall--they join Jim in the kitchen as he pours his coffee, suggesting that they have NOT had their breakfast and a bit of cream wouldn't go amiss.

By the time I start to prepare human breakfast, the cats decide that they are tired.

Edward stretches out on my dresser, his toes charmingly curled.

I prod at him, but he is too sleepy to respond.

Mima may choose my rocking chair for a snooze.

Ringleader Charlie and his cohort, Nellie, relax on the chest by the front window--here they can leap to attention if the feral cats rattle about on the porch.

Chester, his nerves rattled by the activities of the morning, finds a chair full of cushions.

Bobby reclines on the dining room table.

From here he can view the activities of the backyard squirrels.

Nellie may appropriate the armchair.

Teasel pads to the bedroom, joined by Mima.

It is only 8 A.M.--but I have been up for 2-3 hours!

I am mildly resentful that my mornings are structured by the demands of this tribe of felines!

I am also resigned that this is not likely to change--other than the darker days leading to the solstice may gain me a few precious moments of peace.

Cats--its a good thing I love them.

November Days

It was frosty this morning when I opened the front door to take food to Mamma Hiss-Hiss [the feral mother cat] but so sparkling and pretty that I hurried in for my camera.

The house faces more or less south with the sun now coming up low in the sky, slanting over the hill.

Looking to the south-west. 

It is always interesting the way the vistas open up as leaves fall from the trees.

In Kentucky nearly every view is criss-crossed with the overhead power wires.

Double-Red Knock-out roses against the front wall of the house.

They are frost-bitten, but still appealing.

The four straggling rosemarys which I felt had a 50-50 chance of survival.

Three are slowly growing--the fourth is spindly but tenacious.

Jim has been moving wood from our former home as the new owner is bringing in his own store of wood.

Sunflowers, seared and blackened by frost, stark against a brilliant early morning sky.

The ghost of a waning moon peeks between the stalks.

I moved peonies here in the spring, but didn't find a suitable spot to transplant them.

The foliage withered and died and I feared that the roots might not have borne the strain of living in a pot all summer.

At least three are showing new growth--I intend to find a spot at the new farmhouse where they can be put in the ground to over-winter.

Days are demanding with the work needed to clear out our former home.

I spent the day there, hauling out the sort of bits and pieces which seem to accumulate--those small items which don't fit in any particular category of usefulness--items which likely should have been thrown out long ago.

Having cleared the rooms, I began wiping down all the woodwork--baseboards, top edges of doors [embarrassingly dusty] meticulously scoured the bathtub and shower surround, ditto the vanity sink and commode. I swabbed cupboard shelves, finally trundled the vac through each room.

Whenever we move out of a house I am appalled to find that painted walls behind furniture  have been scuffed, color has faded around pictures and wall-hangings, and rooms decorated a mere 4 years ago need to be refreshed.

I suspect that my 'cottage' colors will soon be covered with the ubiquitous high gloss paint in some shade of blue--an Amish preference. 

I piled my van with a tumble of oddments, and set off for the barn hoping to capture Sadie and Sally, the tortie barn cats who must be conveyed to their new home.

Jim had set the big cage in the raised stall which has been their part of the barn since 

their arrival as kittens.

Sadie was in the loft and pattered down the stairs as soon as I called, 'Here, kitty, kitty.' 

I stuffed her in the cage and went in search of Sally.

She appeared from the center aisle of the barn and approached me.

I picked her up and she instantly became a writhing, twisting ball of muscle and fur.

She plunged from my arms and skittered toward the tobacco barn.

I followed, wheedling and coaxing.

After some 15 minutes of hide and seek, I lost sight of Sally somewhere in the dimness of the barn.

I pottered around the house for a few minutes, then called her again.

She remained hidden.

I needed to stop at the store on my way home, so loaded in Sadie and departed.

The checkout lines at the store were frustratingly long [the usual with Wal Mart.]

By the time I finally got on the road for home, the sky was stained with the colors of sunset: shades of rose, pink, mauve, coral.

It is lovely to see the colors of nature in their true values with my 'new' eyes!

In the rear-view mirror, contrails plumed, white gold against a molten sky.

When I pulled into the driveway, trees and buildings were going dark against the deep lavender rose of nightfall.

I lugged the cat cage down the back stairs to the laundry room and decanted Sadie to enjoy [?] a reunion with Willis.

A rush to prepare supper before the aches and tiredness of a long day would cave in on me.

Jim and Howard grease-smeared from working on an ailing vehicle.

Cats milling about the kitchen, clearly feeling the neglect of the day.

Katy-dog hovering in the hope that a tidbit might fall her way as I sliced beef and veg for a stir-fry.

I can't even think of what to do with clutter and clobber in the van!

How many trips will I need to make before I can catch the skittish Sally?

It is not yet 9 P.M. but of late my 'second'wind' refuses to blow in.

My night-owl nature has temporarily succumbed to the need for rest and renewal.

I long for the time [and energy] to write, to read, to sew.

Surely sometime soon we will sort ourselves out, settle into a final permanent home.

For now, a mug of tea, a few minutes to nod over a magazine--and then fall into bed!

The Moving Of Worldly Goods

I suspect we have moved a few more times over the years than the average household.

The current re-shuffle has some interesting elements.

Jim has a truck and trailer--the Amish family have ample man-power.

Whenever we convey a load of items to store in the basement of the Amish farmhouse, the Miller men convene to carry boxes, bins and furniture out of the trailer.

This done, they quickly begin to load up items from the two large leather shops or the two houses--all of which must eventually be relocated.

One of the more picturesque items we've ever moved is Dan Miller's buggy.

This handsome piece of equipment spent the night on the truck and then was conveyed to the new residence of Dan and his family.

Supplies and tools from the leather works are being deposited in what used to be our hay barn--soon to be remodeled into a large and efficient shop.

I have rather given up on the sorting and reorganizing which I hoped to do.

Whatever space is empty in the trailer is being stuffed with bins and boxes--out of season clothes, and bed linens, stacks of books, piles of unrelated oddments.

I mentioned to Mose Miller this afternoon as we trundled some of our chattel into the newly vacated 'big house' that whenever I attempt a project I find that something I need has gone away 

to a different place.

"I know that feeling," responded Mose.

The weather is sulking with chill rain, leaden skies, nights that draw darkly in before suppertime.

After crisply golden days we are now experiencing the drab aspect of November.

I squelched out to the desolate garden at noon to pick side shoots of broccoli.

Lunch was cream of broccoli soup with a melting of sharp cheddar, and popovers, hot and buttery.

It is weather for thick socks and a fleecy 'hoodie.'

The cats find warm places, ranging themselves on the basement staircase to bask in the heat rising from the wood stove.

I prepare meals, do laundry, hover over my belongings as they are carried out to the trailer.

We are poised on the edge of changes--marking time.