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Thursday, May 5, 2016

Brazil Buzz

Thursday, September 20, 2012

We were happy to see our daughters last Friday, although they were following a tight schedule this time.

The visit was brief.

They were on their way to a concert in or near Fishers.

Saturday was spent at the "Country Living Fair," in Columbus, Ohio.

Sunday, Starla and Lori boarded separate planes and flew back home.

This week, Dan Risk, our youngest grandson, will visit us.

He and Amber have much to share about their life in Tinsel Town and movie-making projects in progress.

We have been doing yard work.

The grass is growing faster than we ever dreamed it could, after the damage of this drought.

I observed that the tall lean weed that germinated during the drought has now gone to seed.

They are drowning in their small drink.

Most weeds and grasses, more common to normal conditions, that require a greater amount of moisture, are thriving now.

While I was struggling through the thick of it on my Craftsman rider, an old familiar stink permeated the air.

The last time I picked up the distinct smell of the Jimsonweed was back in 1994, when I took ownership of the home place.

We cleared the garden spaces and thereabouts of all weeds, including those tall poisonous annuals of the nightshade family that produce prickly cockleburs.

The plants were smaller this time.

But the fact is, old familiar stink or not, their sappy stems and flowering crowns felt the wrath of the blades with the rest of the lot squatters.

Still, in short, much re-work will need to be done this week to bring the grounds at both properties back to the condition that they were before the drought.

My brother, Johnny Wayne, did not chew much gum when he was a kid.

Although J.W. did his share of nursing the juices of kitchen matches, clover, sassafras twigs, green onions and toothpicks.

My best buddy liked dry straw and foxtail weed, as well.

One day, while we were hoeing field corn on the back acreage and cutting out weeds, vines and suckers, we came across several Jimsonweeds in our path.

Yep, we were weed handlers back in the day.

Mom gave us a warning concerning the eating of toxic plants and fungi.

Dear brother John thought it would be fun to tell me that he was chewing on a wad of stems of that stinky poisonous Jimsonweed.

The junk in his mouth was a wad-and-a-half.

Like an old cow with cud, his jaws bulged and labored.

The juice trickled down his hairless chin and found the front of his cowboy shirt pocket.

Then, he threw the hoe aside and dropped to the ground as if he were dead as a doornail.

I ran home between the long rows of sharp biting blades shaking and crying.

"Mom, Johnny ate Jimson. I think he is dead for sure this time."

Mom and I could run like deer then.

We reached the trickster.

Still wearing green teeth, there he was, leaning on his hoe.

He was wearing that unforgettable boyish grin.

Our protector spotted the weed cud on the ground and a few freshly pulled, unused wild lettuce leaves close by, in the next row.

The wise one was not surprised, or amused, that he fooled us.

She did not scold him.

But as I recall, her straight face did not give way to laughter, either.

She just shook her head and hurried down the path toward the house.

Our favorite cook was having mixed greens with the rest of our lunch/dinner.

Supper was the evening meal at our house then.

I was going to pass on the wilted greens and did.

The young deer found the blooms on the potted pepper plants.

The woodland critters have experienced a stressful summer, too.

Their water and food supply fell short of quality and quantity.

We were happy to help those who stopped by our backyard.

So I do not chase them away now, just because we lost a few stems and blooms.

Most of this 40-acre piece of land is wooded.

The pit ponds and man-made pond and other features of the property make this the perfect habitat for wildlife to live.

It has been my family's little corner of the world since 1939, the year of my birth.

The workload seems heavier now.

Gone are the days when Paul and I worked from sun-up until sundown and beyond.

No job too big or small.

We still accomplish our goals, but there is no rush now.

We smell the roses as never before.

We dismiss the old adage.

If we old seniors are too tired, it is smarter thinking to wait until tomorrow to get her done.

Today, we attended the funeral of the Lynch family's forever friend, Roy Thomas Rogers.

Roy was the son of Raymond and Mary Jane (Williams) Rogers.

He was raised in this neighborhood.

Like us, he enjoyed this place and the simple pleasures found here.

He loved to run his beagle hounds in the field and in dad's training enclosure.

The beagle owner was an excellent handler of the breed.

My father and brother shared other common interests as well.

The boys hunted together, broke bread together and filled every place they were with laughter.

Tom was always willing to give our family a hand, when needed, asking little in return.

Roy Thomas was a good husband and family man, a friend, loyal and true.

Our friend was a gentleman among men.

He was a soldier who served his country admirably and loved his God and fellow man.

Today, as loved ones eulogized Roy Thomas, I said a silent prayer.

I sent my deepest sympathy to Goldie Malone, the only surviving sibling of the 11 Rogers' children.

I miss each and every one of them, too.

It is my hope that we all meet again someday.

Well, it is bedtime.

It has been a very long day.

I can be reached at 446-4852 or by e-mail at pamsarq@frontier.com.

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