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Saturday, Apr. 30, 2016

Brazil Buzz

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Snow fell on the little blue house at the end of the road last night. The landscape soon became a splendid sight to see.

I love to watch those snowflakes stealthily fall, accumulate and cover my world in flawless and pristine beauty. From the roof tops to the fringe of the snow cover in view, I am in awe. Oh, the wonderment of it all!

The cedar boughs in the tree row, outside my kitchen window, are heavily laden with the unspoiled white stuff.

I dug out my old black totes from the storage cabinet and geared up to take a short trip down the path. The snow was deep, but my legs are long and my feet know how to find their way out of drift.

The only time that I am a high stepper is when I hop through the snow.

I wanted to check out the movement of the deer and rabbits and anything else with a beating hearts and footprints, recognizable or not. My world was silent.

This old kid saw few snow bunnies of any kind. Nevertheless, the walk was well worth time spent. I hated to give it up.

On my return, I stopped by the henhouse find out if my barred rocks left some cool gifts for me in their straw filled nests.

Six of 20 were in the gift giving mood. The rest stood there at the closed trap door with feathers hanging from their empty pockets, cursing the snow day under their breaths. That, late blooming, crazy rooster was doing his dirty dance.

The snow-covered chicken pen, had yet to receive, its new canvas cover - so, no go for the shut-ins.

Besides, it was clear to see two curious dogs, large and small, had been moving about in front of the door of the house. Their playful paws messed up my snow and that's not all. Itsy-bitsy "Betsy Wetsy" placed a yellow ribbon around the frosted old black walnut tree, nearby.

Soon the wind will become offensive and the temperature will take a nose dive. Icy conditions will try to stop me in my tracks -shorten the walks.

Tootie Mae won't mind at all, but, I have always been a child of the wild. Old man winter has his work cut out for him, if thinks he can fence me in.

I came in, happy about the eggs that I gathered. I washed them and placed three in the carton and three I separated into two small bowls.

In no time, a rich homemade butterscotch pie filling filled the crust that I made earlier.

This cook prepared a pot of creamy potato soup, a favorite of Paul Baby.

I started making the soup from scratch, several years ago, without a plan. Since, the concoction just seems to improve in texture and taste. Fact is, none is wasted.

A friend brought us some venison. I plan to serve it with root vegetables from the garden this week.

One must acquire a taste for wild game. It came with my pedigree. When I was in my youth, I could safely say, I spit out, no doubt, consumed more buckshot than any kid in school.

Wild game of all kinds flew off of top and out of the oven of the cook range and onto our table. Small game swam in the sizzling home rendered lard in the well- seasoned, black iron skillet. Once or twice frog legs jumped in, thanks to the late Bob Johnson, our hero.

"Give me some goat or a slice of raccoon. Hold the opossum or I'll be barfing past noon."

When properly marinated, tenderized and cooked, deer meat is delicious.

A hearty stick to the ribs meal, that includes wild game is most welcome, anytime, at our dinner table.

That is, as long as other family members do not show up. They aren't from the old school. They didn't have my dad for a teacher or a keeper.

We Are Not Always Happy When We Smile

We are not always happy when we smile:

Though we wear a fair face and are gay,

And the world we deceive

May not ever believe

Yet, down in the deeps of the soul,

We could laugh in a happier way.--

Oft times, our faces aglow,

There is an ache and a moan

That we know alone,

As only the hopeless may know.

James Whitcomb Riley

The above stanza is a part of a three stanza poem written by the beloved poet from Indiana.

Mr. Riley patterned that small piece of his works from his own misfortune. James suffered from depression most of his life. Yet, many friends and associates knew nothing of it during his lifetime.

I often wonder how James Whitcomb Riley handled the holidays. Could he function as a writer during those days or was his magic pen paralyzed along with his happy thoughts.

Consequently, I have been thinking about you: the shut-ins, the jobless, seniors, those whom morn the loss of loved ones, old friends and neighbors and especially; those of you whom have love ones fighting for our country in far away lands and serving in peaceful places, elsewhere.

I sense your sadness. I know first hand, the holidays can be bittersweet.

This writer is aware, a gift wrapped in pretty paper will not erase the aloneness, hopelessness and pain that you are feeling.

If you need someone to talk to, I will gladly lend you an ear and a piece of my heart. It may not help you, but it can't hurt you, either. I am sincere about that.

I can be reached by phone at 812-446-4852 or by email at pmlsartor@aol.com.