Exchanging Valentines

I remember in the first grade Miss Moses made a big, beautiful Valentine's box and the students exchanged Valentines. The grade mother brought delicious goodies to school and we had a party and opened our Valentines while we enjoyed the refreshments.

Miss Moses made Cool-Aid in a huge dishpan and gave it to each child. She wore her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck and smiled as she served each child. Her Cool-Aid was so good that students from the other grades knocked on the door and asked for it. Miss Moses just kept dipping out the drink until she had given the last drop to the children.

Valentine's Day was a special holiday. We made Valentines out of red, pink, and white construction paper and glued them on paper doilies. Miss Moses would tape our Valentines on the windows and I can still recall how lovely they looked as the sunshine smiled into our first grade classroom.

Valentine's Day, a first grade party, and Miss Moses' delicious Cool-Aid served in a dishpan will always be a part of my treasured memories.

VALENTINE CRAFTS

This Valentine bookmark is fun to make. I ordered the kit from Oriental Trading.

The bookmark and Valentines are part of the projects I'm working on for Valentine's Day.

For Valentine's Day, I'm making bookmarks and Valentines with magnets glued to the backs. I like to display them on my refrigerator. Each kit includes all the parts and are fun to make. I order the crafts from Oriental Trading.

THE ORGAN LOFT

Brenda Kay Ledford's article, "The Organ Loft," a profile of Jerry Taylor, appeared in the January, 2010 issue of COUNTRY EXTRA magazine.

Jerry Taylor of Young Harris, Georgia plays a 1935 Imperial organ, the first he collected. He has over 30 antique reed organs in his home that he calls, "The Organ Loft." He gives tours of his collection to school groups, church groups, senior groups, music groups, or to individuals. You may call him for an appointment to view his unique antique organs.

A retired history teacher, Jerry is the official historian of Towns County, Georgia. He's very active in the Towns County Historical Society and enjoys giving lectures about the culture and heritage of this region.

You may purchase a copy of COUNTRY EXTRA (January, 2010) online at: http://www.country-magazine.com/ to read about Jerry Taylor and his antique reed organs.

GEORGE GROUNDHOG PREDICTS SPRING

George Groundhog rushed to bed. He needed to get a good winter’s nap.

He wound his clock and set it for February 2, Groundhog Day.

During his hibernation, Thanksgiving came and went. Christmas came and went. Martin Luther King’s Birthday came and went.

But George did not know about these holidays. He was snug as a bug in his burrow.

Ringgg! Ringgg! Ringgg!

George tumbled out of bed when his clock alarmed. “I don’t want to get up,” he said. “I just got to sleep.”

He peered out the window. It was snowing and he did not want to leave his burrow.

Everyone in Bambang would be waiting for George to look for his shadow.

If George saw it, this meant six more weeks of winter.

If there was no shadow, spring would come early.

The farmers were depending on George. They needed to know when to plant their crops.

George made a cup of hot cocoa and sipped it.

A crowd gathered outside his burrow. Reporters from the Groundhog Gazette showed up to cover the story.

The crowd shouted, “Hurry, George. Come out, now!”

The noise frightened him and he did not want to go outside.

At last George decided to leave his burrow. He put on his jacket, a hat, gloves, and boots.

Then George flung open the door…

Cameras flashed as George looked for his shadow.

Snowflakes twirled like feathers to the ground. George could not find his shadow.

The residents of Bambang cheered because spring would come early.

The mayor presented George a key to the city.

The Bambang School Band played, “He’s a grand ‘ole fellow. That he is.”

George blushed because he was after all just a shy groundhog.

by: Brenda Kay Ledford

WINTER WOW LAND

Here in western North Carolina, we got our first "major" snow last Thursday. Like a child excited about getting out of school, the snow thrilled me. Mother Nature turned over her cloud bucket and snowflakes twirled like confetti to the ground

Each flake teased the other: "I'll race you to the ground. Get ready. Set. Go!" And they flew to the earth covering it with a featherbed in a short time.

I raced through the house from window to window watching the feathers flutter to the ground. Cotton clung to the red house's roof.

Cardinals, black-capped chickadees, wrens, snowbirds, flocked to our feeder. Mr. Blue Jay bossed the birds and got first place at the feeder until the crows arrived. They gobbled seeds like it would be their last meal. I grabbed my camera, sneaked on the porch, and got some shots of those feisty fellows. They hardly even noticed me.

My black lab dog also loved playing in the snow. Pepper rolled and made canine angels; with his nose powdered, he gobbled it like snow cream.

Although the icy roads made driving dangerous, and there were many wrecks in our region, SNOW was just what the children and children at heart ordered. It was a winter wow land!

BLUE RIDGE WOMAN

BLUE RIDGE WOMAN

I am from the red plank house filled
with patchwork memories.
I am from the place where the rain crow
cawed as the sun sank crimson
and honking geese formed a v-shape
behind the Shew Bird Mountain.
I am from the farmland Daddy cleared
with plow and mules.
I come from the wind of spring scented
with honeysuckle and blackberries
spilling sweet juices on my tongue.
I come from the table loaded with green beans,
sweet potatoes and Mama’s fresh baked cornbread.
I come from the red plank house where
I sat at Mama’s feet and watched her piecing
scraps of history into Monkey Wrench quilt.
by: Brenda Kay Ledford

LEGACY

LEGACY

The thread runs
from an Appalachian home
framed by golden poplars.

The thread loops
through the Matheson Cove,
climbs Shew Bird Mountain

riding the wind with mountain laurel.
Whippoorwills ricochet in the holler,
Hyatt’s Mill Creek whispers my name.

The thread zigzags
through the corn patch
Granddaddy Bob plowed with mules.

The thread dashes
milk Ma Minnie churned
into butter golden as sunflowers.

The thread plucks fruit
from trees bowing to the ground
and fries peach pies.

The thread gallops
through generations selecting genes,
stitching them together

thread by thread
like Mama piecing
a Lone Star quilt.