COUNTRY RAMBLIN’S

Happy Easter to all you God-fearin’ folks who know the true meaning of this sacred holiday! Jesus lives—He proved it by rising from the grave after three days, and ascending into Heaven to be with God the Father. That’s why we Christians need a holy day to remember what our Savior did for us so that we might have eternal life, and the grave not have victory over us.
And please folks lighten up! There’s no sin in all the fun we Americans have with our kids and grandkids letting them believe for a short time in their young, sweet lives that there’s an Easter Bunny who hides colorful eggs for them to gather in a pretty basket, (later to be converted into deviled eggs.) As long as you take them to church and tell them why we truly celebrate this day, there’s no harm in it.

Where I was raised in eastern Washington, we sometimes were jumping snow banks to find eggs hidden in a few yellowed, grassy corners of the house where spring was desperately trying to peek through. But we had great fun anyway when after church we’d hunt the colored eggs, then, re-hide them for the little ones.
We always had a crowd of family to the house for Easter dinner, and then would play games long into the dusky afternoon and evening. I have picture albums full of these gatherings. I’m so grateful to the shutterbugs in the family who took lots of pictures to share. (I became one myself when at age thirteen, I received a small camera one Christmas from my grandparents on my Dad’s side of the family.) Oh, what joyful memories those old albums hold—so many faces now long departed.

Well, I’m hoping this April you are starting to see flowers peeking through muddy soil where you’re located. I know snow is hangin’ on this year for you folks up north ‘cause it’s been a rough winter, (must be ‘Global Warming.’) Oh sure! With each half ton of snow you shoveled from your driveway repeatedly these past few months, I’m sure you swore you’d ring Al Gore’s neck if he mentioned that myth one more time!!!

The desert is in bloom here and glorious if I do say so myself. My yard is fairly new but I see some flower buds that want to burst soon on my many cactus plants. I’m like an old hen with a batch of new chicks hoverin’ over them. I even had to spray rabbit repellent all around each plant so the new flowers will not be devoured by those ravenous little creatures before I can fully enjoy their beauty. I’m rootin’ for the coyotes that make a daily trip through our back yard to chase down breakfast, (a tender rabbit) every morning. GO COYOTEES!!!
I know spring is a busy time for farmers and it seems to be for me too. Have to beat the heat and get our outdoor projects finished now that the long parade of winter visitors has scaled back. Ahhhhh! I needed to have my space back badly.
Now, get out and plant those gardens, oil that tack an’ harness, get the old tractor ready for plowin’…..Spring is here, and life is worth livin’!

Granny Tam

Below is one of my poems that may get you in the spirit of a new season….

I climbed up on the mountain
to see what I could see.
Plateaus stretched before my eyes—
below—a vast prairie.

Wild wheat rippled in the breeze,
gnarled apple trees stood tall,
and at the far end of my gaze—
a house almost to fall.

Old lilac bushes clung to life,
still blooming ‘round the shack.
They silently stood sentry-watch
lest the master should come back.

I chanced to go exploring
inside those weathered walls.
The rooms had no partitions,
no bedrooms, and no halls.

An’ old cook stove left standing,
and two rusty iron beds,
ticking hung from mattresses
where folks laid weary heads.

Mice scurried off to corners
to wait till all was clear.
They’d soon return to scavenge
this home deserted years.

I spent the afternoon atop
this mountain I had claimed—
sunshine streaking thru’ the clouds,
and wind no man had tamed.

My heart grew very heavy
as I traversed down the slope,
returning to the world below
where man must learn to cope.

But, I’ll not forget that field aloft,
peaceful and serene—
that plateau on the mountain,
a retreat—a place to dream.

Tamara Hillman