In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!
Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes
The gray smoke towers.
Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!
A poem by Robert Louis Stevenson, from A Child’s Garden of Verses, 1885
The rabbits play. At this stage of my garden, it hardly matters. Let them eat what they will.
I’m taking a couple of weeks off, so enjoy the memes, and share away.
No kid in my family, or the generation before mine, took music lessons. But we had the music in us. I know, because if Daddy was with us, there would be music wherever we went.
He didn’t need to haul around a guitar, a banjo, or even a pair of bongo drums. He was the musical instrument. Yes, you read that right.
Mom grew up on the West Coast. Dad was born and raised in West Tennessee, so we traveled back and forth across country many times. He always had the radio on. He’d listen to it all–hillbilly, cowboy country, rock-n-roll, or preachin’. But during those times when radio was not available, he made his own music.
He was not singing. There were no words to his music. Literally.
Daddy played the nose trumpet, the mouth harp, the pec drums, the ab drums–you get the picture? He also played the harmonica, but not as often. And once, when I was ten, I saw him strum an electric guitar.
Oh, this man was talented. He had rhythm. He was right on key, and his nose trumpet was to be envied. His audience adored him. We laughed till we cried and sometimes had to beg for a potty break along the way.
Mom was a little less enthralled by his grand abilities. When she wouldn’t laugh at his concerts, he’d make his pecs dance. Guaranteed giggles, especially from the peanut gallery.
Where did he develop these wondrous talents? We’re not really sure, but he definitely honed them in the Navy. I guess they had a lot of down time on board ship and had to learn to entertain themselves. And he was guaranteed a captive audience.
It’s not really something he passed on to the next generation. I don’t think either of my brothers inherited this talent. But in my mind and heart, I can still hear Daddy playing his music. The memory always makes me smile. And I really believe that was the purpose of his one-man concert.
“All the days of the afflicted are evil, but he who is of a merry heart has a continual feast.” Proverbs 15:15 NKJV
Scripture from <https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Proverbs+15%3A15&version=NKJV>
One of the characters in my latest release, Annabelle’s Ruth ( Book 1, Kinsman Redeemer series), makes what she calls “Summer Soup.” It’s a healthy sampling of summer’s bounty, fresh from the garden. Grandma simmered her soups all day on the back of the stove, but her summer varieties, what she would’ve called “fresh soup,” took only a couple of hours, and were often bits and pieces of leftover veggies from her canning.
Today, we can chop these up and put them in a crockpot, add vegetable or chicken broth, cover it, set it on high or low (depending on how long you have) and walk away. When you get home from work or wherever you had to go, it smells wonderful. Dip it out into bowls and eat.
What makes a good summer soup? In the picture above, I started with minced garlic, diced onions, sliced carrots, chopped celery and summer squash. Instead of potatoes, I used something a little more flavorful–a turnip–but you can substitute potatoes. The herbs pictured are from my garden–thyme and sage. I start with a 32-oz. carton of organic chicken stock, then add about a cup each of the chunky vegetables, two or three cloves of garlic. I chop up the herbs and add them last. Then I usually add a 14.5 oz. can of chopped tomatoes, a dash of pepper and salt. All of this goes in the crockpot for 5 hours on high or 8-10 hours on low.
Don’t have a crockpot? Add all the ingredients to a Dutch oven or other soup pot, bring it to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer until the veggies are tender and the flavors are fully combined. This should take at least an hour, but longer is better. Add more broth if needed.
The beauty of this soup is, you can add or subtract. I may add a can of drained beans, fresh or frozen corn, a teaspoon of chili powder–whatever I’m in the mood for. The shorter, cooler days of fall are perfect for this yummy soup. And the best part is, the house smells wonderful.
What else do you need? I’m from the south, so I often make cornbread to go with soup. Annabelle Cross (Annabelle’s Ruth) makes really good cornbread. There’s nothing so satisfying on a cool fall evening as a hot, buttery wedge of skillet-baked cornbread alongside a bowl of steaming veggie soup.
I’ve started working on the second book in the Kinsman Redeemer series. A lot of the characters from the first book are showing up in the second story. One of them reminded me that he is a reader’s favorite. He’s my favorite, too. And he loves cornbread, as well.
If you’ve read Annabelle’s Ruth, you might guess who I’m talking about. If you haven’t read it, and would like to, you can find it at most online booksellers. I’ve left a couple of links below to make it easy to find. If you just really, really want an autographed, print copy of the book, I can mail you one for just about the same price as you’d pay online. I do have to charge shipping…use the contact tab above to email me. Thanks so much for stopping by–
Enjoy the bounty of summer!
Annabelle’s Ruth — After their husbands perish in a fishing boat accident, Connie Cross determines to follow her mother-in-law, Annabelle, from Southern California to Tennessee. Her misgivings begin as they cross the bridge over the muddy Mississippi River. In their new town, where living conditions are far below their previous expectations, they must set up a household and hunt for work to survive. Thanks to the kindness of Annabelle’s handsome, young cousin, life begins to settle down. But Connie has a secret that could change everything once again.
I don’t have any sisters, but I have an older cousin named Norma, who is as dear as a sister to me. I thought about her one day as I was putting on a favorite pair of earrings I hadn’t worn in a while. When my grandmother was dying, I wore those earrings when I went to the hospital. My cousin Norma arrived from Illinois wearing earrings just like mine. I guess that means we have similar taste, good genes, or something like that.
I kept thinking about Norma, throughout the day. I’d not heard from her in a while, and she’s not on the computer, so I found a card with an appropriate message and wrote her a note.
“Do you remember when Grandma was in the hospital and we arrived wearing the same earrings? Well, they’re back in style, and I’m wearing them today. I’ll always think of you when I see them.” I finished with some news about the family and sealed the card.
The next day, I had the card with me at work, planning to mail it, but I’d forgotten to write the address on the front, and I didn’t have her information with me. She didn’t have a “land line” so her address wasn’t in the online phone book. I put the card back in my bag so I could mail it the next day. A few days later, I was looking through the bag and came across the card I’d forgotten all about. So I took it out, found the address, and put it back in the bag.
I finally remembered to mail the thing several days after I had written it. A few days later, I received Norma’s answer.
“You are such a blessing,” she wrote. “Your sweet card arrived on Mama’s birthday.” Her mother, my favorite aunt, had died a little over a year before. Norma was feeling sad when she went to the mailbox and found my card.
I smiled at the memory of my forgetfulness, but after re-reading Norma’s note, I wondered. My delay in sending the card meant it arrived on Aunt Jen’s birthday (which I’d forgotten about). Coincidence? I don’t think so. I prefer to believe in a loving heavenly Father who cares about our every need. His plans for us sometimes include precious surprises that brighten our day and help us through difficult times.
He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. Psalm 147:3 NIV
Originally posted on Facebook, September 15, 2011
Betty Thomason Owens 