A mother deer and her offspring were nibbling at the tender green chlorophyll filled leaves of my burning bush this morning.
Hungry starlings scoured the freshly watered lush landscape searching for earthworms.
A baby rabbit and its mother found the rain drenched clover by the well.
Last week I disturbed the nesting area with my rider. No accidental deaths to report.
As I watched, that mother and young, precious memories came into full focus.
A silent, ghostly mother, Geneva Edith Siner Lynch 1914-1992 and her little girls knotted clover chains from channeled days. She smiled as we played.
Shortly before Mother's Day, 2004, a day much like today, I filled the lines of "Brazil Buzz" with precious memories that I shall remember all of the days of my life.
This child of a beautiful angel wants to share the same with you this week.
She swept the front room rug, briskly with her big straw kitchen broom. Her Mother had once told her to sprinkle damp salt onto the 9x12-floor covering.
Grandma pointed out that the broom would loosen the soil and the salt would collect it The procedure brighten and brought out the strikingly beautiful colors of the oriental designed pattern of the well-worn rug.
She soon found that the rug smelled like the sea and the nap awoke from sleep and rose to the occasion.
The rough-hewn floor planks surrounding her carpet shined like a pond on a moonlit night.
The odor of freshly applied dark oak hi-gloss enamel still permeated the room. The leather surface of the mission style couch was seasoned and supple.
The wood trim that framed the heavy piece of furniture, polished well with Rex Furniture Oil.
The jacket on the boxy Majestic coal-heating stove sparkled.
The draperies were new. They were made of heavy paper of some sort and came in various colors, patterns-floral, and plain.
The unusual window dressings flew out the doors of G.C. Murphy Co., during World War II and the days that followed. She grabbed two pair and walked them home.
The flowers on slightly wrinkled drapes bloomed in profusion and emitted an almost nauseating scent of geraniums.
Rosie McKeen's mother stiffly starched and stretched the lace panels beneath the draperies to the limits.
The ivory and ebony keys of her upright Hammond piano gleamed after I gave them a good cleaning with baking soda paste on a dampened cloth.
On the ledge above the ivories, sheet music from Damn' Music Store, songs like "Sentimental Journey," familiar names such as Jerome Kern, Cole Porter and George Beverly Shea overlapped in perfect alignment waiting to be recognized and heard.
A tattered brown Methodist hymnal would likely get the most use.
She was lovely that spring day-that Mother's day so long ago still lingers in my mind.
The queen of "make do" rolled her hair with a No. 2 lead pencil, a few generous gobs of wave set and lost and found Bobbie pins, in her quest to achieve a tightly curled "do."
She etched her eyebrows with a spent moist kitchen match.
Her vivid red Hazel Bishop lipstick and compatible rouge added color to her flawless ivory complexion.
A pretty sky-blue dress embellished with white lace trim wore well on her frail frame.
She inspected her little girls, adjusted their satin hair bows, and then hurried off toward the kitchen window to watch for her guests.
It was Mother's Day. Her mother and two sisters would be spending a couple of hours of -togetherness, good conversation and singing spiritually uplifting songs.
After her family arrived and favorable remarks were made about the living room, she gave the top of the piano stool a quick turn. The little songbird's melodious voice filled the room.
Her finger's danced across the key's. I loved what I heard -- my heart sang!
It was plain to see and clear to me that a not-so-ordinary ,lazy Sunday afternoon would end as a perfect day and it did!
Did you ever wonder why most of my weekly ramblings are written on Sunday afternoons? Now you know.
Happy Mother's Day!
I can be reached by phone at 446-4852 or by email at email@example.com.