Links to Excerpts:
Page 1
Reason Enough For Me
Page 3
Awakened At Dawn
Page 5
May-June
Page 115
Spring River Saga
Page 134
The Front Porch Swing
Page 182
Grandma's Delicious Recipes

Under bare feet making their way to the beach,
the sand is delicious--soft, fine, neither warm nor cool.
Morning birds sing and call to one another
from their homes in the grassy dunes where
the sea oats grow.

Rose fire and golden light of sunrise break
through blue-gray thunderheads
disintegrating now and moving out to sea.
Wet sand and shallow oncoming waves
reflect rosy, golden light. A coconut palm
with gigantic roots and a double trunk rests on the
beach, stranded as high tide receded a while ago.
Snails work their trails in wet sand.

Each wave roars its way up the beach, mingling
its sound and form with the others.

I mingle my sound and form with others
of my kind as the waves do, for the waves
are part of the ocean and all waters on the earth.

I am one with all, a part of all. I'm only
another voice, only another form among billions,
and yet I am myself alone.

Islander, August, 1974, Hilton Head Island, S.C.

Shaggy pink and white peonies shed their petals
to the earth. Late varieties of iris bloom and shrivel.
Roses open one by one in full May glory, then likewise shatter.
Graduates rejoice and party. Schools close to
the mutual satisfaction of teachers and students and
to secret dismay of parents. Memorial Day turns
sedate cemeteries into strange exotic seas of flower boxes and
gaudy plastic posies. Pools open. T-Ball and Little
League begin, and a ribbon of vacationers unfurls along
the Interstate. Early day lilies open wide with golden
light, and freshly planted annuals brighten flower beds
precisely. Suddenly it's June, and we expect the cosmos
to produce only perfection and the cycles of weather
to stand still for us. We expect all sunny days
and skies of deepest blue.
No rain or storms, no hail, nor gale,
no poison ivy, pestilence, nor itchy insect bites.
No black spot, mildew,
cold nor heat, no virus
and no hated flu.

Despite our dreams and fond desires, what will be,
will be. The universe won't stand still. The cycles
of Nature won't cease, and wisdom will teach us finally
to accept the rhythm of the cosmos, make no demands
and bring ourselves into harmony with it. Warmth,
sunshine and full bloom are only part of the pattern.

   No one else now living remembers or ever knew what it was like for our family during the time we spent on the Spring River farm.
       In "Spring River Saga", I write in the vein of nostalgia and storytelling as I recall a certain place and certain people who shaped my life.
       During our New York City years, my parents and I always spent our summers on the Spring River farm back home in Southwest Missouri. We seldom returned to the city until October, and wasn’t I the lucky child to be able to go with my cousin Jay to his one-room school near Spring River whenever I wanted to, which was most of the time? We carried our tin lunch boxes, walking all the way in good weather, played softball and tag or Hide-and-Seek at recess, used the “privies” out back and helped sweep out the schoolhouse when asked, in stark contrast to my life at school in Manhattan.
       In early October, Mother and Daddy and I left by train, with its sleeping cars and elegant dining car, ready to walk a little faster on the streets of New York City, breathing deeply of its brisk salt air. The energy was contagious, and we all enjoyed it.
       I knew the best of both worlds, or thought I did, and plunged into both of them with relish.
       There was a time when authors felt free to address their readers, and now I am going to do the same. As early novelists used to write, "bear with me if you will, dear reader" as I share these memories of what life was like for me in my grandparents’ home and on their farm.

(In the book, this section is illustrated with many old black-and-white photos and pen-and-ink drawings.)

Besides the screened porches, one above the other, there was another porch at Grandpa and Grandma's house. It was the front porch, a wonderful open porch facing southwest and looking out across the fields and pastures of the valley toward the thick line of trees bordering the lake and Spring River just beyond. White wooden columns supported the overhanging roof. On the porch was a swing big enough for two or three to sit side by side and a footrest that could be used to pump the swing higher. Even on the hottest of summer days, it was by far the coolest place to be. Tall black walnut trees, hickories and oaks with shiny green leaves provided welcome shade. There was always a bit of breeze, however faint. Some of the happiest times of my early life were spent on that swing with Grandma, my cousin Jay and with other members of the family.

At the bottom of the hill before us was the farm lane, the vegetable garden and beyond it, we could glimpse the progress of work in the fields and pastures, the farm equipment, horses, cattle, people and vehicles. A large dinner bell hung near the porch steps to summon the men from the fields, if only we could ring it loudly enough to attract their attention. Below us to our left was a fenced area containing the orchard, henhouse and rabbit warren and, in the shade to our right, the sand pile, where Jay and I dug our toes into the cool sand and spent delightful hours building castles, moats and forts. He
was good at sound effects as we enacted long scenarios with his toy trucks and cars, soldiers, horses, cowboys and Indians, all within view of the front porch swing.

I should explain that whenever Daddy, Mother and I arrived at the farm for an extended visit, I was expected to pitch in the very next day to help with all the chores, inside and outside the house. This meant doing whatever Grandma or any of the adults asked me to do and sharing Jay's regular morning and evening duties of gathering eggs and feeding and watering the chickens, rabbits and some other animals. For me, fresh from apartment or hotel living in New York cities, it was fun, and I never minded the work in the slightest. Milking, though, was a skill I never mastered. The cows and I were all too nervous.

Grandma and I often sat together on the porch swing with newspapers or paper sacks on our laps, with a kettle or large bowl between us, stemming and slicing strawberries, pitting red cherries and peeling apples or peaches. We peeled potatoes, raw or cooked in their
skins for potato salad, shelled peas, cut the eyes out of new potatoes and chunked them up, sometimes to cook with the peas, snapped green beans, and peeled carrots, onions and cucumbers. My favorite of all was peeling cold boiled beets. I loved the way the skins slipped right off so easily. We would peel hard-boiled eggs, too, for deviled eggs, potato salad and one other important use.

Grandma knew how to make delicious pickled beets, and she would often use a quart jar to alternate beets with the hard boiled eggs, which became rosy and well-seasoned from the pickled beet juice. As we worked, we always had a great time visiting and talking.

It was on the front porch swing with Grandma and in her small kitchen that I first became interested in food preparation and started to learn about cooking. I became actively involved in the work of canning and pickling that went on all summer and fall. I helped to
can apples and applesauce, peaches, cherries, green beans, corn, tomatoes and all kinds of pickles, including a delicious relish called "Last of the Garden." I loved Grandma’s dill pickles with a passion and after I was grown, Mother would teach me to make them myself.

Grandma even canned chunks of beef. When she opened the jar later, she could fry the beef, cook it with noodles or dumplings or make a stew with vegetables. Every way was good. She taught me how to churn butter and make cottage cheese, which she drained in
a muslin bag from the clothes line outdoors, before breaking it up with a fork and adding cream, milk and a little salt.

During World War II, we bought white margarine sealed in plastic bags with a spot of yellow food coloring, and the front porch swing was a good place to sit while kneading the bag to work and distribute the yellow color uniformly all through the margarine to make it look like butter. By that time, Grandpa and Uncle Paul were raising Hereford beef cattle on a big scale, a far more profitable operation which eventually allowed
them to pay off Grandpa’s 1919 mortgage. Some of the cattle had complete pedigrees, and a few of the bulls were registered. I don’t remember whether Grandpa
and Paul had stopped keeping milk cows altogether by that time or if most of the cream was sold to make butter and cheese for the armed forces.

I do remember that during World War II, the front porch swing was a good place to paste sugar stamps into ration books and try to figure out if any of us had enough left for buying sugar to make jam, jelly, ice cream , applesauce, or desserts. Like the whole country, we also needed ration stamps for butter, margarine and any kind of meat we wanted to buy, even hot dogs, bacon or lunch meat. Beef or pork took more stamps
than lamb, poultry, fish or seafood. The men took care of pasting in the precious gasoline and oil stamps, but the females studied dress patterns in the swing and tried to decide how many print feed sacks it would take to make a skirt, dress, smock or apron in a certain size. Deals were made among us as we traded favorite prints and colors. Aunt Inah made it fun. The important thing was knowing exactly what kind and color of feed sacks to buy next time we went to the feed store in the small towns of Neck City, Oronogo, Alba, Purcell or Webb City. The feed sacks were not burlap but substantial
cotton woven tightly enough to retain the feed within. I remember how hard it was to decide between the many appealing patterns and colors available and come up
with the right number of sacks to make the desired garment. Mother and Aunt Inah did the sewing on their machines. Mother had her own electric Singer machine at the farm and Grandma had an old-fashioned treadle sewing machine, which I would sometimes attempt to use. Unsuccessfully, most of the time.

Silk stockings were almost unobtainable, and nylons had not yet come on the market. Women could buy thick cotton stockings, which were warm but not pretty at all, in flesh-colored tones. In summer, we tanned or used leg makeup, even painting on darker lines down the backs of our calves to look like the seams of silk stockings. I was doing this by the time I was in the eighth grade, along with a good part of the other young females in the U.S.

We all knew our country was in a fight for survival. We had to make do with what we had. If we couldn’t get much sugar, butter or silk, we could improvise with corn syrup, honey, saccharin, molasses, margarine, rayon and feed sack fabrics.

Those excursions to buy groceries and farm supplies were great adventures for me when I was younger. The smallest towns closest to the farm were all former lead and zinc mining towns. Tiny, but tough. I loved to split a lime or orange popsicle with Jay or pick a frigid cream soda bottle out of the ice in the cooler. We delighted in spending our pocket money on crackers called Guess Whats and couldn’t wait to pop them open immediately to discover our paper hats, pieces of candy and prizes, such as a tiny toy, game or magic trick.

If there was time, the adults let us to go to the skating rink, where Jay always roller skated far better than I did, and big rough-looking boys asked me to skate. Once in
awhile I agreed, since it was much easier for me to stay upright around the rink in cross-hands position with one of them. Someone in the family was usually in the stands keeping an eye on us, which was a good thing in view of how tough some of those adolescent boys looked.

This will fill one 9" or 10" unbaked pie shell. Preheat oven to 400°. Combine dry ingredients. Place pumpkin in mixing bowl. Beat in egg, then milk until well mixed. Add dry ingredients and beat again until smooth. Pour into unbaked pie shell and place on bottom rack of preheated 400° degree oven. After ten minutes, reduce temperature to 325° and bake until crust is light gold and filling is completely set. If edges start to brown, lay piece of aluminum foil over pie. Table knife blade into center should come out clean. Serve with whipped cream.