We finally have it. A name for our home. After six and a half long years of several attempts—”The Farm at Gosey Hill,” “The Dog House and The Menagerie” (partly because of the many comical moments here with the animals), and even the more eloquent, “Grace Abounds,” —none have seemed to be the right fit. It wasn’t until the name “P’Niel,”—which Jacob named the place where he saw God face-to-face, yet his life was spared—added to the earlier possibility of “Grace Abounds,” that Jerry and I, with a sigh of contentment and relief, felt the quest had finally ended. Continue reading
My husband, Jerry, has told me of the fun-loving antics of his Uncle Gideon, but what his uncle did one Sunday to his mom, Jerry’s grandmother, whom everyone called Granny, is one of the most humorous and endearing stories I’ve ever heard.
Granny was a member of a primitive baptist church in Hatley, Mississippi, located right outside of Amory. Every three months, as an act of service and humility, this congregation participated in a foot washing ceremony, with everyone taking part in it.
Back in the 1890s, women did not wear nylon stockings, but thick black scratchy woolen ones. The night before this particular Sunday, after everyone had turned in, Gideon confiscated his mama’s stockings filling them with soot from the fireplace, emptying them back to remove any telltale sign of his mischief. The next morning in front of God and everyone, Granny removed her stockings revealing black sooty legs. Without a word, she turned and amidst the snickering congregants who were trying hard to hold it in, knowingly pointed her finger at her son. Taking full responsibility, he threw his head back in impish delight. Even though she wasn’t pleased with him in the moment, and probably spanked him across the county line and back again, later she might have broken into a small chuckle herself, for she was like that. And Gideon was known for his pranks. Continue reading
Every year at this twitterpating time, (according to Bambi and friends), we get a host of bird couples making their newlywed nests in our gutters, atop beams, or as safe-as-it-seems-to-them, any nook or cranny. And without fail, there is usually one couple that for one reason or another, seems to be a half a bubble off plumb in their choices.
There was the kamikaze bluebird who inexplicably would follow Jerry from room to room, flying so hard into each window leaving feathers as he went, that his sweet wife would watch from a nearby branch or window with a somewhat stunned look of “what are you doing?” Or there were the doves who nearly died of heart failure every time we walked onto our side porch because they had built their nest in the heart-shaped grapevine wreath that hung right beside the door. Or there’s this year’s winner, Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow, who have already tried and failed in four separate attempts in three different locations, to build their home, the first unsuccessful site, my fault. Continue reading