Riding a Stone Boat

by Judy Ann Davis

If you’ve ever planted a garden or dug in a flower bed or walked on a plowed farm field, you know how those pesky stones poke up unexpectedly from the earth. 

May is the month when farmers plow, harrow, and sow their crops here in the Northeast. Winter, and the snows it brings, has finally disappeared. Now that rainy April has shut off the water spigot in the sky, the drier fields await attention, and their only gift to the farmer is stones. 

When the last glacier came down from the Arctic region, it kneaded stones into the soil at varying depths. And when the mile-high ice sheet eventually melted away, it deposited rocks which had been embedded in the ice. When the fields are plowed for planting, the frost action often lifts these rocks to the surface. 

For many farmers, this meant the back-breaking work of picking these stones before planting could begin. How did they do it? With stone boats, also called a drag or skid boat. 

A stone boat is a long, low, flat sled-like contraption, often homemade and consisting of wooden planks mounted across a pair of wide runners similar to a sleigh. Some are built with a turned up nose to make dragging it across the field easier. It’s surmised that this upturned prow reminded early farmers of a boat gliding through water. The stone boat in theory glides over the soil.  

In the early days, stone boats were pulled by horses. Later, they were dragged over the fields by tractors. Our stone boat was hooked to our Farmall tractor with chains, probably the same hitch that was used when my father farmed as a boy. 

I remember picking stone with Dad on a field where we usually planted corn. The back-breaking technique of the job has not changed over the years. You pick up the larger stones and place them around the outside of the boat and throw the smaller ones inside. 

Once the stone boat is filled, it’s taken to the back or low end of the field where the hard work of touching each stone is once again needed to unload the boat. I should mention that some thought does go into this simple tiresome process. You must decide where you’ll deposit the stones before you begin. Stone boats can’t be backed up. If you take a drive into the country, you’ll often see these “stone piles” alongside farmer’s fields where a piece of land has been cleared. However, stone piles have now dwindled as construction companies request the crude stone to use in building houses and replicating stone walls.

Is there any joy in picking rocks? Only one. Once the boat is loaded, you get to hop on and ride the boat to the stone pile where you unload it. 

                                                        Judy's Amazon Author Page Link

SO LONG, MARCH!

by Judy Ann Davis

I’m the first to admit that I like April, even though we’re still stuck in March.

April is the month when all the flowers from bulbs beneath the sleepy earth start sprouting. Daffodils, crocus, wind flowers, and small grape hyacinths bring color and life back to the flowerbeds.

I think back to my childhood and how my mother loved plants and bushes of all types. We were a  farm family, and  it was not unusual to visit a neighbor’s house and go home with a piece of a bush, or some shoots wrapped in a wet rag, or a bundle of roots tied up in a burlap feed bag. Mother always found a place to plant her treasures and nurse them to maturity. And the favor was returned when friends, relatives, and neighbors came to call and left with a clump of rhubarb or day lilies.

At the front corner of my house, I still have trumpet vines from cuttings my mother gave me decades ago. Every fall we chop them back to stubby trunks, and in the spring they explode in a flourish of leaves and blossoms that entice the hummingbirds.

In the back yard, I have a bed of rag roses from around an old stone foundation of a house built in the early 1800s and situated along a well-used route westward. Everyone always referred to the cleared, often muddy pathway as “The Old Road.”

And, my favorite from our farm is at the side of my house—a large clump of Jack in the Pulpits my mother coddled in one of her flowerbeds.

April brings back lots of good memories. It’s a time of warm days, a time to get ready for spring planting and, for those of us who like to play in the dirt, it’s a month of sheer joy.

I’ll end with a colloquialism that the farmers often used in northeastern Pennsylvania: “So long, March!”

   Willie, My Love

 

A Scheme That Backfired -- Laurean Brooks

BENEATH A MACON MOON

June is the month we celebrate Father's Day, but it is also the anniversary of my father's passing. A humble, sweet man, we lost him June 9, 1980, two months before he was due to draw his first pension check.

Daddy was a big cut up much of the time, joking around, acting silly, and making all of us laugh. His jovial personality kept the family in stitches, reminding me of his favorite comedian, Red Skelton.

On the other hand, when Daddy wanted to, he could look solemn. It is one of these incidences I want to tell you about today.

Our family lived on a farm, seven children plus Daddy and Mama. We took care of a cow, goats, chickens, sometimes pigs, two dogs, and three vegetable gardens—plus we tended four acres of corn. This is why we groaned when Daddy announced his friend Gordon said we could plant another garden on his farm.

A couple weeks later, on a Saturday morning in late April, Daddy said to my sister and me. “Girls, pick yourselves out a couple of sharp hoes and meet me at the truck. We're going to Gordon's place to plant our garden.”

Jewell and I were not “happy campers". What teenage girl wants to spend her Saturday breaking dirt clods and getting sweaty? Although we would not think of disobeying Daddy, we could show him our disdain in a subtle way. (Well, maybe not that subtle.)

So we devised a plan. After tugging on baggy pants and shirts fit for a hobo, we painted up our faces to look like clowns. When we had slathered circles of hot pink lipstick onto our cheeks, we used the same to smear across our lips, drawing broad, turned-up smiles. Then we took a dark eyebrow pencil and stroked in heavy, thick eyebrows that swept downward and into our hairlines. We even penciled handlebar mustaches under our noses. Artistic mustaches that any gentleman would be proud to wear.

With our makeup and our costumes on, Jewell and I plunked floppy straw hats on our heads. Hers was straw-colored, mine a rose pink. Before leaving the bedroom, my sister and I preened before the mirror and giggled. We resembled the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. It was hard to stay mad at Daddy after seeing our reflections. Nevertheless, we planned to show him a little defiance.

We tried to slip past Mama in the kitchen. Lucky for us, she didn't bother to look up from peeling potatoes. Instead, her words stopped me at the back door. “Laurie, the preacher's asked about setting a date for your baptismal service.”

Jewell slipped out the back door since she wasn't part of the conversation. I had made a profession of faith on Easter Sunday, a couple of weeks earlier, Without turning, I answered, “Yeah, I know. I guess we can talk to him after church, tomorrow.”

I didn't hear the rest. I just nodded and said, “Okay.” Her voice trailed off as I rushed out the back door toward the shed. Jewell passed me a hoe and we headed to the old Chevy pickup where Daddy waited, rolling a cigarette. We threw our hoes in the bed, climbed in the cab, and waited for Daddy's reaction. We were sadly disappointed when he showed no sign of noticing anything wrong.

Without cracking a smile, he poured Prince Albert tobacco into a cigarette paper. When he'd finished rolling the cigarette, he licked the paper, stuck the cigarette in his mouth and lit. Reaching for the gear shift, he said, “I guess we're ready to go.”

We rode the mile to Gordon's farm in silence. Jewell and I tried to keep our chins posed in defiance posture. It wasn't easy to do if we looked at each other. Doing so made us giggle. And Daddy wouldn't even glance our way.

After a long morning of breaking dirt clods and dropping seeds onto the turned earth then raking dirt over them, the job was finished. It was time to go home. I looked at Jewell. Her clown mouth was drooping and smeared, and half her mustache was gone. She laughed at the dripping pink circles on my cheeks and the once thick eyebrows melting and running down my face. Perspiration had taken its toll.

Still, Daddy was unresponsive. He gripped the steering wheel, stared at the road ahead, and kept driving. Until we pulled into the yard and spied a shiny silver Oldsmobile parked behind our station wagon.

Daddy rubbed his bristly chin. “Hmm... I wonder who that is."

“It's our preacher. Oh, no! He's come to see me.” My face burned, and this time, not from the sun.

What was I supposed to do? Where could I hide? My face was covered in melting clown makeup, and I was dressed like a vagabond. Too late, I knew I should have listened to the rest of what Mama was saying before rushing out the back door.

Jewell and I did the only thing we knew to do. We ran around to the east end of the house and sneaked in the door that led to a long hallway with two bedrooms on either side. Trouble was, the bathroom was at the far end, next to the living room and kitchen. It would be impossible to slip in there and wash the goop off my face without the preacher seeing me.

While struggling with conflicting emotions and trying to still my pounding heart, Jewell said, “Laurie, you know you should go in there and talk to the preacher. He came to see you.”

“No way! I can't, and I won't.” Nothing could have dragged me in the living room to face him. Not the way I looked. Another thought occurred. “What if Mama comes back here and makes me come out?”

Jewell shrugged, bored with the drama. She slipped out of the house using the same door we'd entered, leaving me to face my fear and anxiety. If Mama or Bro. French walked down the hall, I would hide in the closet. But, to my relief, no one came after me. And after what seemed like hours, I finally took a deep, soothing breath as our preacher stepped into his shiny car and drove away.

If this story has a moral, I would call it: “Defiance never pays; it just boomerangs.”

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Jaela was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. But, when a family secret is disclosed, her heritage is destroyed. Who is she? Will she find true self .....

BENEATH A MACON MOON?

https://www.amazon.com/Beneath-Macon-Moon-Laurean-Brooks-ebook/dp/B00UZXUL88/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top?ie=UTF8

From A Cornfield To A Carnival -- by Laurean Brooks

What does the last week of April mean to you? To many in my hometown, it means a trip to Paris, Tennessee to the “World's Biggest Fish Fry.” Along with huge vats of perfectly-fried golden catfish, it also means a colorful parade and carnival rides.

We didn't give the fish a second thought. Just take me to the carnival. One particular year, my sister's friend Rosalynn, spent the last Friday night in April at our house. We hoped she could persuade our dad to take us to the carnival the next day. Jewell and I had tried, to no avail.

Early the next morning we nudged Rosalynn toward our dad. “Ask him,” I whispered.

Rosalynn, notorious for talking with her hands, dramatically flung them up and out as she began in her sing-song voice. “Mr. Tims, could you possibly find time to take us to the carnival? We would very much appreciate it.”

Daddy grinned and nodded. “Tell you what, girls; I got an acre of corn that needs plantin' in that bottom field.” He pointed through the kitchen window. “If you will plant that field, I'll drive you to the carnival.”

It was all the encouragement we needed. Jewell, Rosalynn and I grabbed hoes and headed down to the already-plowed field. Daddy followed with a heavy sack of corn on one shoulder and set it on the ground at the end of the middle row. “Remember what I told you. Take one short step, drop two grains, take another and drop two more grains. Keep the corn evenly spaced. When the field is planted, I will drive you girls to the Fish Fry.”

Eagerly nodding our understanding, we filled our coffee cans with corn seed. Jewell, Rosalynn and I began stepping off our selected rows, dropping the corn, and covering it with a hoe. Daddy left for the house. I took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of freshly-turned earth. Ah-h... country living.

Before Jewell and I dropped corn halfway down our first rows, Rosalynn reached the far end of hers. She waited for us then started again. Two rows later she had to refill her can.

What was she doing with all that corn? My sister and I looked at each other with a question, but we decided not to vocalize our concerns. A couple of hours later, Jewell and I had refilled our cans. Rosalynn had already refilled hers for the sixth time. With only three unplanted rows remaining, she rushed up to us with her empty can. “ Y'all got any more corn? The sack's empty.”

The sack is empty? Must have been 25 pounds of seed in it.

“We don't have much left,” I warned. “We need to make sure it's enough to finish.” Rosalynn nodded as Jewell and I divided the remainder of our grain with her. Soon we had finished the entire field.

We washed up and changed into fresh clothes before approaching Daddy. He stood up from his easy chair. “You girls ready?”

After girlish squeals, we raced out to the truck, letting the screen door slap to behind us.

True to his word, Daddy climbed behind the wheel of our rickety old Chevrolet pickup while we hopped up in the truck bed and got comfortable.

At the carnival, he gave each of us money for the rides and instructed, “I'll be back in a couple of hours. Meet me at the front gate.”

We rode the Tilt-a-Whirl, Scrambler, Ferris Wheel, and every other thrilling ride we could find. Some of them twice. 

When our time was up and our money gone, Jewell, Rosalynn and I trudged to the gate where Daddy waited. Exhausted from a long day, we climbed into the bed of the truck and relaxed. I leaned back and relaxed, relishing the cool air on my face during the twenty-mile drive home.

I think it was six weeks later when Daddy and I stood in the backyard facing the bottom field. He pulled a pouch of Country Gentleman from his pocket and began to roll a cigarette. When the cigarette was rolled, he stuck it in his mouth and took a puff. His gaze drifting over the cornfield, he pointed. “I'll bet I can tell you every row Rosalynn planted.”

Scanning the corn rows, I smothered a giggle. Every third row was as crooked as the 21-curves on Highway 190 to Latham, and grew as thick as Johnson grass. In a hurry to get through and get on the road to the carnival, Rosalynn had generously strewn corn by the handfuls in the furrows.

Daddy was not smiling as he took another deep draw off his cigarette./

******************************************

My novella, TO TRUST HER HEART, has a new home and a new cover. You can find it on Amazon for a great price.

Amanda must live down a scandal caused by her husband's death. His body found in the wreckage of his Porsche with a young woman wasn't bad enough. Now Amanda finds herself penniless due to his gambling obsession. 

https://www.amazon.com/Trust-Her-Heart-Laurean-Brooks-ebook/dp/B07BFH9LFJ/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1524189579&sr=1-1&keywords=To+Trust+Her+Heart

FLOWERS, GARDENING, AND BOOKS

Hero and I grew up in West Texas back when trees were considered a luxury. Many old, old-timers incorrectly believed trees sucked up needed water. As a result, you could drive through rural areas and see houses with no trees, no shrubs, no flowers, no grass. Ugh.

You can understand why Hero and I love our yard with lots of trees and shrubs. In fact, one of the reasons we decided to buy this house was because we could sit at the breakfast table and look out on a park-like back yard. I enjoy that sight every day. Not that the house is perfect, mind you. Tiny closets, old carpet, outdated kitchen, yada, yada. Those trees make the difference for me, especially since I’m usually in my little pink writing cave except at mealtime and while I’m sleeping.

Cecile Bruner climbing rose

The problem with a shady yard is flowers. I’m not knowledgeable about shade loving plants, but I’m learning. I love roses, but we have almost no spots where they would get enough sun. My Cecile Bruner and Knockout roses are fine, but I want more and more roses. Dozens would be good. Sigh.

Red Knockout Roses

Right now I’m concentrating on bedding plants for a spot in the front yard. We have a St. Francis of Assisi statue and the plants I thought would be perennial weren’t. Poor St. Francis is standing there all alone this year. When my Master Gardener daughter looked at it, she said, “No wonder, they don’t get enough shade.” What? Evidently, I overcompensated.

This year I plan to plant dark purple petunias in front with a row of white snuggled behind them. Purple and white are the school colors of the university from which our daughters graduated. I think maybe a couple of lantanas behind St. Francis would fill the spot. I love petunias because they remind me of my sweet grandmother’s yard. Her town always had water rationing in summer but she could get petunias to grow with little watering. Even the scent makes me think of her. 

Lantana. My grandmother also grew these.

This weekend I’ll be buying the new batch of bedding plants plus a few more for the back patio. A couple of weeks ago, I bought a citronella and a red geranium for the patio. I also have a century plant that was a gift and a lovely trailing sedum covered in tiny white flowers. I recently bought what was touted as a giant hosta, so we’ll see if it lives and grows to five feet and blooms all summer as advertised. Surely an advertisement wouldn't lie. ☺

What are your favorite flowers? Do you like gardening?

Please keep in mind that CASSANDRA, Bride Brigade book 3, is now for sale on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/Cassandra-Bride-Brigade-Book-3-ebook/dp/B01FICL10M?ie=UTF8&keywords=Caroline%20Clemmons&qid=1463270143&ref_=sr_1_9&sr=8-9  If you haven’t tried this series, I hope you will. JOSEPHINE is book one, followed by ANGELINE. Future books will be OPHELIA, RACHEL, LORRAINE, and PRUDENCE. I’ll be alternating them with other series, though, including contemporary western romance and McClintocks.

If you like my books, please do me the favor of leaving a review. I’d also love for you to follow me on my Amazon page. When you sign up for my newsletter, you receive a free novella, HAPPY IS THE BRIDE. My personal blog, A Writer’s Life, is at http://carolineclemmons.blogspot.com and I’d be happy to have you there to learn about new releases from a variety of authors.

I love to hear from readers at caroline@carolineclemmons.com.