THE HOLIDAY TOUR

 The Golden Club  was offering a holiday tour of Little Switzerland, NC.  Mama and I donned our Christmas sweaters and boarded the bus.  We were giggling like two children.

A merry group of senior citizens greeted us.  Everyone was decked out in festive garbs.  Some wore reindeer antlers, others were dressed as elves, and ornaments flashed around the necks of passengers.

Anticipation mounted as we crossed the Blue Ridge Mountains.  We were making good time until two women delayed our trip.  The bus waited 30 minutes in the parking lot at Ingles for the ladies.  Finally, they looked in their rearview mirror and discovered the bus was already there.

Someone muttered, "Good night!  Looks like they could have seen something big as a bus!"

Mama and I were so exhausted when we got to Little Switzerland, that we went straight to bed.  At 2:00 in the morning,  Mama headed to the restroom.  She pulled, yanked, and banged on the door.  She couldn't open it.

I was groggy, could hardly speak.  "Mama, stop! That's not the bathroom.  It's the door to the adjacent room.  Those two ladies who  delayed our trip are there."

 Mama muttered something about "the old goof balls," and finally found the door to the bathroom.  Despite the obstacles, we had a jolly, holly trip to the beautiful alpine village that was decorated and decked out like Santa's workshop.

This story first appeared in:  To All a Good Night, a poetry and prose anthology, printed by:  Old Mountain Press.

                               PEACE, JOY and LOVE

                                      to

                        You and Yours

                  THIS CHRISTMAS!

                      Mama and Me Celebrating

                            THE HOLIDAY

November

 The golden glory of fall

retreated to the somber

season of winter's icy hands.

Trees gave up their garments

of bold, gaudy colors,

bronze leaves rode the wind

and spread a patchwork quilt

of brittle foliage across

the forest floor tucking nature

in for a long slumber.

I searched my attic

to decorate for November.

The pilgrims carried a cornucopia,

Native Americans wore deer skins,

orange turkeys bore salt shakers.

Outside my office window,

a flock of wild turkeys marched

to gobble grain scattered when farmers

harvested the cornfield.

                        -Brenda Kay Ledford

I wish my blogger friends a very 

Happy Thanksgiving Day!

In Memory of Mama

 Today if Mama had lived, she would be 101.  She passed away two years ago and I still miss her.  We were best friends, took trips together, went to church together, we enjoyed each other's company.  Some people may think I "should have" gotten over the grief, moved on with life. Sure, life goes on and I must go on, too.  But today I grieve the loss of Mom.  Of course, I believe she's in heaven, but I still miss her.  Always will.  I've written a poem about her and posting it in celebration of precious Mom.

Blanche, Blue Ridge Woman

I am from home-canned jellies,

from Ball jars and Blair food coloring,

I am from a log cabin

tucked away in the Trout Cove.

I am from black-eyed Susans

pulsing in the fields,

I'm from pumpkins and squash

piled in orange and yellow heaps.

I'm from mountain dulcimers,

Granddaddy Shook sawing the fiddle,

clogging in the old red barn.

I'm from  moss-covered rocks,

swimming in Brasstown Creek.

I'm from Shady Grove  Baptist Church,

Richard Powers leading shape-note music,

and Daddy planting crops by the signs.

I am from the Blue Ridge Mountains,

water-bath canning, jars

of peaches  and garden produce

sparkling like gems in the pantry.

                 --Brenda Kay Ledford

FALLING INTO FALL

 

Gems glitter on grass,

royal-blue ribbons herald fall,

sunflowers drinking light.

A wedge of geese honks,

cornstalks rattle their fingers,

Joe-pye weeds dancing.

Pumpkins dot the patch,

the old wagon is loaded.

Mama's pie baking.

Ghosts fly through the skies,

stars sparkle on black velvet,

a barn owl resounds.

                 --Brenda Kay Ledford

Wishing all my blogger friends Happy Halloween!

Signs of Fall

     It's beginning to look a lot like fall here in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Western North Carolina.  There's no holding back autumn.  The first trees to turn are the walnuts.  Golden leaves flutter on the wind as the sunflowers lift their cups to drink light.

    A wedge of wild geese honks over the cornfield that glitters like copper.  Goldenrods waltz beside Hyatt-Mill Creek babbling past the Grove Farm.  Shewbird Mountain wears a purple shawl in the distance.  Cardinals spear red berries from the dogwood trees and lilac asters bring bouquets to Swaims Road.

    The evenings grow cooler and our Hayesville High School football team plays their rivals.  Our local church holds a luncheon for the Clay County Schools and I wear gold and black to support the Yellow Jackets.  I pick up a cake at the Ingles Grocery with the message:  Bless our schools!

    Each fall my heart is drawn toward the school.  As a retired educator, I will always long to teach kids.  I can almost smell the chalk, hear the kids treading down  the hall, and standing at the door greeting each child to my classroom.  My heart fills with love for my students.

    Fall is a beautiful season.  I love the bright colors, the wildflowers, football games, pumpkin pie, apple cider, and the Fall Festival held in our mountain town.

    Some call it autumn, others call it God!

Sunflower

 The first sunflower of August 

lifts a cup to drink light,

a Full Sturgeon Moon stamps

its fingerprint on royal-blue skies.

Golden coins spin from trees

on a pine-scented breeze,

walnuts plump to a carpet

of needles, squirrels gather food.

A wedge of wild geese honks

over the cornfield glittering with copper,

lilac asters bring bouquets to Swaims Road

as Hyatt-Mill Creek laughs through

a tunnel of Joe-pye weeds.

The tempo of nature increases:

creatures rush and prepare for winter,

kids get supplies, gear up for school.

                 --Brenda Kay Ledford

I wish all my blogger friends joy as autumn approaches.

Town Creek--the Little Mountain Stream

 

TOWN CREEK

Goldenrod waltz on the wind,

Tusquittee Mountains stretch their arms

to the crystal-cobalt skies.

The backwoods stream gurgles

over arrowheads the Cherokee Indians

carved at Spikebuck Town.

The poplar trees wave

their golden fans, the earth

cannot hold back fall.

Through the verdant valley,

beside an old-red barn,

the Town Creek murmurs.

She is just a brook,

no one looks up to her.

Wild geese honk in v-shape 

above the Lake Chatuge.

Your waters, little creek,

are the heart of her soul.

             --Brenda Kay Ledford

My daddy was a Baptist preacher.  One of his wise sayings was:  "Little is much if God is in it!"