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When I'm forced to take a step back, I try and tell myself, it's merely life's way of allowing me to re-evaluate where I am, where I want to be and if I'm headed in the right direction.
Kellie M. Shanley

Getting older doesn't bother me, but It seems lately I'm reminded of it more frequently than I'd like.
Checking out at the grocery store Saturday evening, some snot nosed kid called me....Mam. OK ...he really wasn't a snot nosed kid, he was a nice young man. But... in those few seconds, while I thought, what is he thinking, MAM? I feel 40 therefore I must look 40, I felt better telling myself he was a snot nose tyrant calling me a bad name. Really, how could I be upset, he was telling it like it is, and to him even 40 is older. So I thanked him for being a nice young man and then explained with my age of wisdom weaved within the gray hairs on my head, that a polite young man is something I don't encounter that often anymore and it was a nice change. He blushed and I think he was glad I didn't pinch his cheek.
Now, I've noticed I... tune in...towards more serene sounds. Dean Martin...some of you might remember him, some of you may not....I do. I liked him when I was younger, but he wasn't one of my favorite singers...to mellow for taste then.
Monday, I was driving to my sisters, to pick her up for our day out, of taking her to see the new Wal-Mart on Southwestern, Do lunch and her Doctors appointment. I don't play the radio often while driving, but this time I turned it on and was listening to 104.1 the oldies station. After turning up the volume, singing along and rocking with Robert Palmer as he belted out Bad Case Of Loving You. I left the volume alone when Dean Martin came on crooning...Let it snow, Let it snow, Let it snow.http://www.whtt.com/goout.asp?u=http://www.tunegenie.com/onair/whtt/ ( If you want to listen, Click calendar for Dec 14th and songs played at 9AM) The song ended. I found I was smiling and still humming Let it snow. How could this have happened...I liked it as much as rocking Robert Palmer. But I cannot tell a lie. Dean, though I enjoyed our time together...Robert...you still rock in my book, and that's the facts MAM.

Because everything today is thrown at us in bulk, super and mega sizes, I wonder if we don't have a tendency to underestimate the power of one at a time. If so...think about the snow that fell, one flake at a time, last week socking us in over night. Ahh the power of one at a time.

The Days Of

It came back in a flash, when I was cleaning out a dresser drawer. Tucked away inside the small dark area, within a handmade leather belt buckle, with a hand painted picture of Mike and me on the front of it , swinging at a ball, our number…22, were memories of Mikes & my Polo days.

I held the belt buckle gently in my hands and admired the craftsmanship of the stamped letters, “Ranchers Daughters Polo Team” and the laced edges. Then awed by the good shape it’s still in after 25 years even with the wear and tear of me wearing it. I turned it over and the initials J.M reminded me who made it, Julie Milazzo dated 1984.

I remembered the pride I felt wearing it. I was a polo player. Teamed with Mike, my ½ Arab Quarter horse (who I received as 15th birthday present, when he was 6 months old). He and I were the team of choice from the three horses I used to play polo. We played center or forward 98% of the time and he usually played all the chukkers too.

Mike, somewhat lazy, except when playing polo, morphed into a different horse, when his 1500-pound, 16 hand frame came alive with zeal at the thought of the game. He loved the game of indoor Hockey on Horseback. He loved running and chasing the ball. Hitting the other players hard, sometimes even when I didn’t want him to. I trusted Mike totally, not really needing the reins to guide him, as he followed the ball, watched the walls, let me hang off his side as I reached for the ball, and he kept an eye on the other players, while I concentrated on getting the ball to the goal. He told me through his body what was going on around me so that I could act accordingly. What a great partner he was.

He and I were voted MVP’s, if I recall, 3 times, playing a 90 minute game of speed, chasing and hitting a ball, running hard, riding other players off and getting the ball through the goalie. It was a game of breathing heavy, sweat running from my brow and he and the other horses getting covered with lathered sweat, even in 20-degree and sometimes colder weather, making a fog hover around the arena lights giving it an mystical hue.

It was the days of no fat and hard muscle on our bodies, cantering Mike and my other polo horses at least 4 miles a day. Days of loading three horses 3-4 times in week in the midst of winters snows and cold, trucking, blanketing, and putting hoods on them to keep them warm, to take us all to practice and games. It was the days of cooling horses with 3-4 layers of cooling blankets, removing the top layer when it could no longer wick away the moisture, till their coats were dry, before trucking them home, so they wouldn’t catch cold.

It was the days of much liniment, (for both horse and rider), sore muscles, carefully wrapped horses legs, chaps, spurs, gaming reins, tightened helmets, dirty jeans and faces, wrapped polo mallets, and camaraderie after a hard game of competitiveness. A game that made friend’s adversaries on the polo field and adversaries…team players.

It was the days of running your horse at 30 mph hitting the ball trying to make a goal, doing tail shots, under the belly and neck shots. One hit shots down the wall, bank shots, stopping the other players mallet, elbowing, riding off and sitting in the penalty box (I may have been in there a ‘few’ times) for unnecessary roughness, hooking, crossing the line of the ball, or talking back at the judges.

It was the days, when your horse was your partner and your partner always came first.
It was the days…of fun, late nights, and early mornings and days of going to work after a practice or game, wrapped and bound because you played to hard, sprained an ankle, jammed an elbow or jaw, got hit by a mallet or a spur raked down you calf. It was the days of black and blues, many visits to the chiropractor for you and warm compresses for your horse because you and he took a tumble while running full speed after the ball. It was the days when not only you cared about your horse, but your horse cared about you and did his best when you and he fell, not to land on you, resulting in a sore back for him.

It was the days…of when Joe said, “Uh…no way. What…you nuts… I’m not going for the ball, Kellie and Mike are coming for it. They’re like a freight train coming full steam ahead. I ain’t getting in their way, trying to take that ball. They can have the goal”.

I think even Russ McCray (he and his wife owned ‘The Ranch’) might be spending time in heaven with Mike, because it was the days of, when the first time Russ ever saw Mike play polo, his words were as he rolled a cigarette… “Well… I’m impressed. I would have never in a million years, thought that THIS horse, usually a ding bat Arab, desert donkey, and I know horses, could do what I just saw him do. Stop, spin, follow the ball and run like the wind. Yes I am impressed, very impressed.”

So here’s to you Mike, a high hoof… to one of the best partners I ever had in the, (I don’t know if I could do it now), fun days OF.

Your thoughts about the Noble Peace Prize

I don't think about the noble prize. I may give it a seconds thought, when I hear someone has won. Nor am I one to discuss politics at length, because I don't follow the political road close enough to form a strong accurate opinion. Plus it's a subject that usually ends in a heated debate, which I try to avoid.

However I am curious as to what others think about the President's recent winning of the Noble Prize for Peace. It has caused quite a commotion around the world and I'm wondering what and if it caused any commotion close to home.

If you would like, please leave your anonymous thoughts on the subject here.
I will follow up with my thoughts in a couple of days.
If you are one that needs to vent, please keep your comments G Rated:)
Thank-you

Choices

Choices, they can go one way or another. By this, I mean, sometimes our choices tell us —how— we will live our life. Other times—our life— delegates which choices to make.
I made a choice.
One year ago, October 11th 2008, Herbs & Things & I were married and we opened our doors to who would choose to walk through them.

The first year has gone quickly. When I am inside Herbs & Things paneled cedar walls I often ponder over this first year. With questions such as, what were we one year ago. Where are we today? Have we’ve grown? Have I made right choices? Is this marriage compatible?

I then smile as I remember stocking Herbs & Things shelves for the first time. The excitement I felt putting everything, I had on the shelves, trying to make it’s small interior look full. It was a few weeks later, I had to remove some of those items and add two more shelves to make room. Then a couple of months after that, I squeezed more ‘Things’ together, added 3 more shelves and a cabinet area with doors for the spices. It didn’t dawn on me, this was us growing.

Feb 2009, a new Herbs & Things idea emerged. A weekly emailing to keep everyone informed of what’s new, upcoming and future intentions. In my dreams, I did not expect the loving reception of those emails. Thus, I worried, feeling the pressure was on to keep them enjoyable. A little voice intervened, untangling my worried thoughts and told me “write from the heart and you will do just that.”

The first part of June 2009, came the small wine cooler, keeping Herbs & Things organic chocolates cool on warm summer days. Also in June, I added hours to Herbs & Things by attending the Holland Farmers Market on Sundays 8:30-1. Then, added more miles and hours by attending certain Saturday events, leading me down a new path. This in my mind was not only a good business move, but led me to meet some wonderful new people. Which makes packing the numerous boxes, then unpacking them, so worth it.
So, it’s a yes to my questions. This marriage feels, as if it is exactly as it should be.

Herbs & Things little home is bursting at the seams and soon, it will be time to expand its cedar walls. However I’d be lying if I said everything as gone according to plan. It hasn’t. Such as my plan of selling my fresh garden vegetables, that…became impossible, due to the bad growing season. The soy berry wax melts I ordered weren’t a good choice, they are too different. The flavored, Mud Pie Coffee was not a good choice. The Hazel Nut Dream was.
The Raspberry Pretzel dip…well that was definitely a VERY GOOD idea.

I guess now is the time I must admit to one HUGE mistake. The choice of quitting my job to open my home based business. No— the mistake wasn’t quitting my job, nor that I knew money would be tighter. I wasn’t mistaken either about the hours it takes to make the business grow. I am use to working many hours, so the hours needed doesn’t bother me. My mistake was, when I thought, because I would no longer need to travel back and forth to work, I would have extra time.
I remember telling my husband “if I do this I will have more time to do things around the property, house and barn.”
One year ago, if I were someone else looking at me, I would think too, wow she works from home that has to be nice and add, it must give her more time.
It is nice and I love it. But that extra time— never happened.

I put more hours in this little home based business than I ever did working outside the home or the hours I traveled giving riding lessons. Moreover, when I left work before, it was behind me. Now work is with me everyday. With my personality the way it is, I have a hard time shutting off when the doors of Herbs & Things are closed. The mind is always reeling, with things that need doing that I can only concentrate on when Herbs & Things is closed. such as this blog, ordering products, my writing, and Herbs & Things emails. Which none of can be done late at night either, I’m usually too tired to concentrate, hence still the early mornings 3:30-4 am.

Going back to my mistakes, I must make a retraction of the statement "I knew about hours it would take to make Herbs & Thing grow." I was wrong, I did underestimate the amount of time. I am still figuring how to fit that time comfortably in between, barn chores, canning, shopping, mowing, brushogging, gardening, laundry, housework, wash, ordering, gift baskets, stocking, packing and unpacking for special events.
Inhale deep.
The farmers market, maintaining the website, Pay Pal, my writing, photography, doing the books, spending time with the dogs, anything else keeping the place running entails and accepting that IT IS OK to take some time off to relax and re-energize. Hmm… I feel like I am leaving something out…Oh yes spending time with my husband who has given nothing but support for this endeavor.

Income wise, well I’m not getting rich, and more would nice. I do want to make money at this; however, during this first year, (anything I make goes back in to ordering for Herbs & Things) I found something important. My inner voice and instincts are more fine-tuned. My heart has a certain comfort, knowing there is something bigger going on here. I am not exactly sure what the bigger is yet, that info is down the road of this journey. Nevertheless, that little voice, the one I first listened to, a year ago, tells me if I believe and keep working hard, the money and comfort will eventually come along with so much more.

This first year has been wonderful. I’ve learned many things. Received education in different areas, made a few mistakes, met many new people and found a job I love.
One of my biggest joys is when I am alone inside the cozy walls of Herbs & Things little home, and I experience an unexplained peace inside of me. It comes from knowing I’ve worked around the mistakes, I’ve done was I was told,( Build it….and soon they will come,) that I am still here and looking forward to reflecting again, one year from now, Oct 11th, 2010.
See you then.

My Field of Dreams…About taking a chance on a dream
http://coldensherbsandthings.blogspot.com/2008/11/my-field-of-dreams.html

Passion Real Or Imagined…My thoughts on what inspired me to open Herbs & Things
http://coldensherbsandthings.blogspot.com/2008/10/passion-real-or-imagined.html

Gone Fishing

by
Kellie M Shanley


My father, born in Scotland, sailed to the United States as a child in 1923 with his family. He was an opinionated, bull-headed man; rarely wrong about anything. It’s hard to accept sometimes that I’ve not fallen far from the tree, when I see things in myself I didn’t like in him. Especially the trait of having no problem telling people when they’re wrong. When someone suggests I might be mistaken though, the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and the almighty powers of evasion infiltrate my core.
Being alike, my father and I had a volatile relationship, and although we loved each other, many times we did not like each other. The love was hard to see through the conflicts and my mother telling the two of us to stop. Nevertheless, it was there, trawling the depths of our relationship.
I, the younger of two daughters, was an energetic child, always looking for things to do. I often pestered my dad, who owned an excavation business, to go with him on jobs. I regularly hung around in his garage while he repaired equipment with hopes that he would need my help. Occasionally he would protest and my mother would say, “So what she’s not a boy? I drive a dump truck with you, don’t I? Let her go with you. Guide her so she’ll someday be able to the same.”
Dad gave in to my mother’s words. From him I learned to drive a standard shift dump truck, plow snow, dig a ditch, and—as he explained to me from a man’s point of view—what a lady does or does not do. He taught me common sense, how to walk in high heels, and that having compassion for animals is good.
My father never expressed his love in words, freely gave hugs, or often told me “job well done.” Yet if someone asked him about me, his Scottish boasting ability appeared. One day, surprised, I heard him bragging about me. He never knew I heard. With my maturity came the knowledge that he respected me for who I was, in spite of our turbulent relationship and my inability to stay quiet when quiet would have been better.

One of my earliest recollections of his love was when he saved my life. I was about five and at his side. Instinctively, he shielded my face with his arm from what may have been a deadly kick from a horse. That kick tore the skin and muscle from his arm to the bone. He never got mad at me. His only concerned as he held his bleeding torn arm was if I was all right.
Another time his love came through his usually standoffish manner was when he grabbed my junior high school principal by the tie—and tightened. Such an aggressive gesture may have not been the correct thing to do, but it was a loving father’s gut reaction to the principal’s comment that “you and your daughter are mistaken” after we told him that a male teacher had slyly fondled me.
I told the principal that a couple of other girls said he did the same to them, but they were afraid to say anything. They thought no one would believe them. That’s why I told my parents; I knew they would believe me. My sister, who had come with us, explained that the teacher had done the same to her when she was in his class. This made no headway with the principal. Talking over me and ignoring my sister, the principal said he knew my dad worked a lot, so he tried to be a father figure to girls like me.
That remark set my father off. Like a cat hunting a rat, Dad lunged over the principal’s desk and, with a hand quicker than the eye, grabbed the principal’s tie and held it tight. Speaking about one inch from the principal’s face in a low voice, he growled, “A father, you #$%#% would not let someone touch his daughter or not believe her when she tells you something like that.”
At the time, of course, I did not realize it was love that made my father respond as he did. I chalked it up to his defiant Scottish nature because the principal insinuated he was not a good father and he might have been “wrong” to believe me.

A couple of years later, it was Thanksgiving recess; Dad and I were in his Jeep, plowing snow. We usually did not talk a lot on these journeys; we were just together. Sometimes he explained things, but mostly I watched and learned. Dad was not driving fast. His visibility was limited from heavy snow. Suddenly a pheasant flew in front of the Jeep, and we hit it.
I pleaded with Dad to stop, but he insisted there was no time. Driveways needed plowing, and the pheasant was probably dead. Not giving in to his first “no,” I asked him again to stop. After a moment, he sighed, did a three-point turn, and drove back.
Snow pelted us as we got out of the Jeep and walked toward the pheasant. From its colors, I could tell it was a male. Amazingly, the bird was still alive. As we approached, a little too close for its comfort, it mustered some strength and tried to get away. Agilely and gently, my father grabbed the pheasant on either side of its wings and held them against the body to keep it still.
Handing the pheasant to me, Dad said, “Here, hold him. Keep his wings under the palms of your hands to keep him quiet. Don’t squeeze hard; his wing is broken and I think his leg is, too.”
Holding the pheasant I had already named Grill, I admired its beautiful colors, while Dad trudged back to the Jeep and retrieved a burlap bag. He explained that we were going to put that pheasant in the bag to keep in quiet.
“Grill will suffocate in that thing and it’s so dark,” I protested.
Short and to the point, Dad explained that this thing would keep the pheasant quiet until we could fix it, and the bird would not suffocate. We carefully slid Grill into the sack, tied it with baling twine, and then laid him on the floor of the Jeep at my feet.
Dad plowed. We did not talk. I stared at the motionless burlap bag at my feet for five hours. As far as I could figure, Grill was dead.
By ten in the morning, Dad had almost finished plowing. The winds had died down, so he suggested it was a good time to go home and grab some breakfast. I stifled a smile when we pulled into the driveway at the barn first.
Getting out of the Jeep, Dad said, “Bring that pheasant. We will see what we can do.”
To my joy, Grill moved when I picked up the sack.
In the barn, there was a cabinet with first-aid items for the horses. Dad told me what we would need as he pulled an empty rabbit hutch from behind some fence posts. He brushed it off and fluffed hay inside it. Together, we took Grill from the bag and then spent an hour stabilizing his wing—all the while with Dad’s instructions: “Hold this here. Tie this. Hold him still; I can’t work on a moving target.”
After setting Grill’s wing, Dad suggested we leave the leg because it was not distorted and, if the pheasant lived, the break would heal.
“I understand,” I said, staring through the wire, knowing Grill would be okay.

On a sunny mid-winter day, Dad rested his hand on my shoulder and said, “It’s time to turn that pheasant loose. He needs to go to his home.” In silence, we let Grill go and watched him fly to the trees behind our house. Grill stayed there in his pine tree home for a while, coming in and out to get food.
Then one day he was gone.

Spring was budding and, to my surprise, who should come strutting from the pine trees with a female pheasant? Grill. I knew it was he, because one wing was a little lower than the other, and he had a slight limp.

“Dad!” I yelled, elated. “Dad, look! That pheasant we fixed up is in the backyard!”
My dad rushed to the window, looked out, and said, “It looks like we did a good job on Grill.”
It was the first time I had ever heard him mention our foundling “pet” by name.

Getting off the bus from high school one afternoon, I noticed a green-and-white Coleman cooler and my dad’s fishing pole near the doorway to the house. Curious, I opened the cooler. Staring back at me were six catfish, gills reaching, laboring in a desperate attempt to get air. I closed the lid and went in the house to have my after-school snack, which I could not eat, thinking about the tortuous death the fish were experiencing. I tried to tell myself, they are only fish.
Unable to finish my toast because of a grand idea, I filled the bathtub, running my fingers through the water to make sure the temperature was just right. I lugged the cooler into the bathroom and dumped the fish in. One floated to the top, belly up. With hopes of bringing it back to life, I pushed the fish under the water and swished it around. Its gills moved and it started to swim.
Of course, I had given no thought to how my mom would feel about fish in the same tub in which we bathe. Nor how dad will feel when he found his catch missing. Pleased with myself, I retrieved my toast from the kitchen and watched the happy fish swimming, splashing, and eating breadcrumbs that I broke off for them. Then I put the cooler back, thinking, Dad always told me to put things back where I found them.
I was uncertain about what to do now that the fish were in the bathtub. My mind wandered out to the pond behind our house. Time slowed as the fish mesmerized me; then I heard my mother call to me, wondering where I was and why I had not started dinner.
“I’m in here—in the bathroom,” Oh rats, I thought; Mom is not going to like these fish in the bathtub.
Seeing me sitting on the floor, with my arm over the edge of the bathtub, she asked what I was doing. Peering over, she gasped, “Kellie Marie—WHAT do you have in that bathtub?”
“Fish? I found them alive in the cooler, and I could not eat my snack knowing they were suffocating. Mo—om, I could not let them die.”
We stared at the six catfish, swimming in our tan bathtub, occasionally surfacing to grab a floating crumb. With a smirk on her face, she speculated on what Dad’s reaction would be. He had called her at work and told her about the fish; but had to do a job estimate before he was able to fillet them. Suddenly we heard Dad calling for us, wondering where his fish were. Mom covered her mouth and giggled.
Now, a little too late, I worried that Dad was going to be mad. Mom, meanwhile, glided out of the bathroom like one those fish swimming through the water to go talk to him
Straining my ears, I tried to hear what they said. Uh-oh, sounds like Dad is upset, I told myself. Oh boy what have I done? Reaching over the side of the tub, I let the catfish brush against my fingertips.
Hearing footsteps, I focused my attention closer on the fish, not wanting to look at the doorway. Fear gripped me as I envisioned Dad’s scowl. As he got closer, my heart beat faster. Finally, the footsteps stopped. The tile of the bathroom floor made that squeak it did when someone was standing on it. Still afraid to look up at him, I held my breath and swallowed. Why didn’t I think about this part before I put the fish in the tub?
My father’s deep voice echoed in the bathroom, “What have you done with my fish?”
With a sheepish smile, I finally looked up at him. He was handsome with his neatly combed black hair, pencil-thin mustache, tanned skin from working outside; his hands on his hips. I always thought he looked like Tennessee Ernie Ford. (I thought Tennessee handsome, too.) Frantically I explained I could not let the fish die in the cooler.
As I tried to explain myself out of trouble, his thin mustache moved into a small smile. He squatted down next to me and asked what I was going to do with the fish now; and reminded me that he had planned to have them for dinner.
My heart racing, fearing he still might net them out of there for dinner, I pleaded for him not to fillet them, explaining they were happy fish.
“So if I don’t fillet them, what are you going to do to make up for the loss of a fresh fish dinner?” he asked me.
Paint his boat? Clean the bulldozer? Straighten the garage? My eyebrows rose higher with every good idea.
He wasn’t sure about me straightening up the garage; he wanted to be able to find things. He then told me that one of his dump trucks needed the worn gasket scraped off and the inside of the head cleaned; I could do that.
I jumped at the chance, thinking I got the better end of the deal. I saved the fishes’ life.
“Now what are you going to do with the fish?” my dad asked me. “They can’t stay here in the tub.”
Shyly I suggest the pond behind the house.
“Good idea, we’ve never put catfish in the pond before.”
Excited, jumping up to go get the cooler without a word spoken, I gave my dad a kiss on the cheek—unexpected on both our parts. Running past him, I stopped and turned for a moment to say thank you. Instead, I said nothing.
He stood there, staring at the fish in the tub, with his hand on his cheek. Today, I thought, I love my father.
Both of us got wet gathering the fish, carrying them to the pond, and turning them loose. Standing at the edge of the pond, we watched them and meditated in a rare moment of father-daughter connection. Those fish lived and propagated a long time—long past my father’s death.


Standing at that pond’s edge, I think about my father, the day of the catfish rescue, the times we fished for blue gills (only to throw them back), plowed snow, and mended a pheasant. I commemorate those good times of our relationship and the memories we made.
Yes, our relationship was unpredictable and more often than not, we did not like each other. What’s more important, though, I know we loved each other. It was our relationship, done our way. I dare say we both could not have been wrong about that being the way it was supposed to be.
Knowing I am right, I grin with the reflection staring back at me—the refection of my father and me.



KMS © 2008

Small moment...big impact

It makes me sad, that so many people seem rude, angry, hurried and generally un-happy these days. I believe living life in this state of mind, hinders logical thinking towards the consequences rude or inconsiderate actions could have. I also believe bad moods sow bad moods.

Such as the other night, I went to visit my in-laws. In the short 30-minute drive there, numerous times I heard horns beeping intolerably towards other drivers. Tires squealing as a driver swerved around another in frustration, because the car in front of them did not make a right turn into a driveway quickly enough. I saw drivers gesturing to other drivers (not waving either) apparently upset with the way the other person was driving. Then there was the man in a car sitting at a red light, in front of me and a car was in front of him. We were waiting for our green light.

The light for the other side of traffic turned red. It was in those, few seconds of time when both sides are red; the person in front of me started beeping at the first person at the red light, while simultaneously waving their hands in disgust. Apparently, upset when that first person did not jump on the accelerator to go, before the light actually turned green.

Why was he beeping I wondered and why would he want that person to jump the red light? Didn’t he realize that fraction of a second could be the difference between life and death, that on the other side; there might someone like him giving no regards to the red light and run it? Of course not, he didn’t care he just wanted to go.

These acts of anger and impatience, make me wonder frequently what has caused this mindset we the human race have allowed to take over our lives. Why are we so angry all the time?

A few years ago, I found myself much like this. I was driving my truck, behind someone and upset they were going the speed limit, because They were—In my way. Amidst one of my vocal rants towards someone doing exactly what they should be, I realized I was wrong. I wasn’t going any where in particular, so I pulled over, stopped to think about what I was feeling, doing and why.

In those few moments of introspection, it came to me, I was angry with myself and we can’t hide from out heart. What’s in our heart eventually comes out in what we say or how we act towards others. The discontentment today seems higher now, then in the depression era when people had less. So does this mean, we have too much, and then get angry because our excess still does not make us happy? Are we to busy trying to do it all, and then get angry because we cannot? The latter was my case.

From that day, I decided to try harder (I’m somewhat of a workaholic) and do something I’d not done in a while and that’s occasionally stop and smell the roses. Look at the marvels around me, appreciate life and the people in it and listen to the little voice inside my head when it says, now is the time to do something nice.

September 12th, Herbs & Things was set up at Beaver Meadows Old Homestead Days. It was a nice cool day, music 1800’s style was being played. People were dressed the part of the civil war period and children were playing, giggling, and adding more music to the air. Everyone was smiling, friendly and having a good time. I heard no cell phones ringing, boom boxes playing, car horns beeping or cross- words spoken between people. No one seemed hurried and all were enjoying the day.

A couple came up to my booth. The woman was carrying a small dried bouquet of flowers. The bouquet caught my eye, because in its simple little arraignment profound beauty emulated. I expressed to the woman how beautiful they were and how cute a little bouquet like that would look on my table. I asked her where she got them. She told me from two tents down.

“I’ll have to go over there when I get a chance. They are so pretty,” I said.

We chatted for a while. They eyed the corn bread mix Herbs & Things sells and decided to buy one. My little voice inside my head spoke and told me to give them the mini Gilded Corn Bread cookbook to go with it. They were thrilled and asked, “Are you sure, its $3.00?”

“Yes” I told them.
I really wanted them to have it.

They left and about 2 minutes later, the woman hurriedly was walking back to my booth. I could tell she was on a mission of sorts, and to be honest expected her to be unhappy about their cornbread mix purchase.

When she got to my booth she smiled wide, stretched out her arm, and said, “Here these are for you” and handed me one of those beautiful bouquets of flowers. My heart leapt with joy and I told her thank you, thank you, cradling the flowers as if they were worth a million dollars. They were beautiful and to my heart, they were worth more than a million dollars.

I am sorry I didn’t get her name. I would have sent her a thank you card and let her know, that she made my day. In reality that moment and those flowers, made more than a days lasting impression. I have that small bouquet of flowers in my shop on my windowsill. Every day when I open the doors for the day, those flowers remind it only takes one simple act of kindness to grow a whole garden of good feelings.

September 12th, I received reconfirmation that even in today's hectic world of many not wanting to take the time to go out of their way for anyone that humanity still exists. In addition, more simple acts of kindness are what the world needs, because, they make the biggest impact.

Consequently this small moment in time made me happy in my heart for days, thus what was in my heart, came out of my mouth, and actions towards others. I am hoping someday this mode of thought will re-enter everyone’s life making life happier and less hectic.

So every day I try to pick a moment and show someone an unexpected act of kindness. Doing so, seeing the joy in their eyes, makes my heart happy and that happiness consequently comes out through MY mouth, and actions towards others.


Up date,
Two days ago, after writing this blog and before publishing it, the woman who gave me the beautiful bouquet of flowers, stopped at the Holland Farmers Market.
I spied her and might have embarrassed her when I said. “Its you!”
She smiled, “yes Beaver Meadows.”
I called to Marg the market coordinator, “This is the woman I was telling you about that gave me that bouquet of flowers.”
“OH my” Marg said, “You’re her…You made her day that day.”

Again, this woman brightened my day by taking the time to stop at the market. Now I can thank her properly, because I know her name.

Thank you Mary Ann!

What an email from Herbs & Things looks like

Hi Everyone;
I am going to be updating my blog hopefully Thursday, about a act of kindness I experienced at Beaver Meadows Old Homestead days and how it made my day.

But in the mean time, any one thinking about signing up for Herbs & Things email but hesitates...I thought it would be nice to give you an example of what Herbs & Things emails are like. I send them once a week.

Hello From Herbs & Things

A knowledge of the past prepares us for the crisis of the present and the challenge of the future.
John F Kennedy

Its 8:30 PM Tuesday evening, and I've just come in from brush hogging the hay field. Its dark and it was cold. I wasn't really dressed warm enough, but wanted to finish the section I had started so I zipped up my hooded sweat shirt as tight as it would go.
The cold air still found its way through to my tee shirted extremities, cooling them to goose bump flesh.
Hmm maybe a hot toddy, with little tea and lots of 'toddy' will warm me up:)

The Hot Toddy originated in Scotland.

My father was born in Motherwell Scotland so I learned at a young age how to make a hot toddy. I am so glad I did!
Not only is a Hot Toddy good as a warmer, but also helps you sleep and the honey helps when you have a cold.
I like mine with Seagram’s 7 or a light brandy.( you can use anything you like)

How to make a Hot Toddy

http://www.drinksmixer.com/drink4355.html

Mowing the hay field in the dark and cold this time of year, when leaves are starting to fall and the landscape is changing, gives it a different look. I knew I was in my field, but its amazing, and accelerating how different things are in the dark, seeing them through the headlights of the tractor and the mist of my breath. As the moisture hit the cool air while cutting the grasses, a fog rose and lazily wafted across the mown hay. It looked like it was in search of something, hovering, waiting, for what I'm not sure. Maybe the fog boogie man.

Tall grass stacks took on a new look the darker it got and the tractor headlights created images that weren't there before, taking my imagination for a ride. Occasionally a bug would fly too close to the tractors exhaust and be blown away in a fiery spark, adding to the almost eerie sensation I'd been transported to a different place. Isn't it these little experiences that make life great.



Old Homestead Days at Beaver Meadows was lots of fun.
I am glad I went. I've asked to be put back on the list for next year.
I got to meet, Abe Lincoln and Robert E Lee.
Actually, Robert was very handsome and his blue coat did him justice.

I don't think about the Civil War much, except when I look at my “The American Heritage” encyclopedia set, volumes 1-16, a Christmas present in 1963, when I was in grade school.

Being at the Old Homestead Days, made me ponder about the history of the civil war and living in that time.

So let’s go on an educational journey of the civil war...1861-1865

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Civil_War

Plus that day one simple act of kindness left me believing in today's hectic world of many not wanting to take the time,that humanity lives on in some that will take the time, just to be nice.
It was a small act with a huge impact that made my day.
I will have the experience on my blog hopefully by Thursday, check it out then.
http://coldensherbsandthings.blogspot.com/

Events Pending at Herbs & Things
Please let me know if you are interested in any of them

Baking something exquisite with Grace..Making Madeline's
(maybe before Christmas)

How to make a Tooth Brush Rug (some time after Christmas)

Writers Workshop given by Me...Kellie
It will not teach about writing, but the journey of getting where you want to be.
The work and dedication it takes if you want to be a writer.

Rabies..to fear or not to fear...Jennifer Mumford DVM

Candi Thornton Spirit Medium
Private Readings $40.00
Group Readings $25.00 (max people 8)



I've tried the
Roasted Garlic & Vidalia Onion Jalapeño Salsas from War Eagle Mill
The Roasted Garlic is good with a little spice
But the
Vidalia Onion Jalapeño....Yesssssire...Yummo. Its hot, spicy and tasty! LOVE IT!

Did you ever have a recipe that called for butter and a cup of buttermilk, and you can only find butter milk in a quart size. So you buy the quart, then wonder what to do with the rest of the buttermilk.
Well here's something I did, to get the best of both worlds.
You'll need a couple pints of Heavy whipping cream. One pint make almost a cup of buttermilk.
Whip it, (I use my stand up mixer) or shake it hard for about 10-15 minutes. The fat will separate and
Walla...you have butter and the left over liquid is the butter milk.
Make sure once the butter separates you wash the butter and squeeze it dry.
Then you add salt to it if desired and use the buttermilk for your recipe.
Here...this might help.
http://www.catalogs.com/info/kitchen/how-to-make-butter.html

Did you know
Robert E Lee was an engineer and a celebrated officer of the confederate army for 32 years.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_E_Lee
The civil war was fought 1861-1865
http://www.tms.riverview.wednet.edu/LRC/Civil%20War.htm

Abe Lincoln was the 16th president of the United Sates
http://www.whitehouse.gov/about/presidents/abrahamlincoln/

Cabbage is a good for you food
http://whfoods.org/genpage.php?tname=foodspice&dbid=19&utm_source=bulletin_click&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=bulletin_email#healthbenefits

New at Herbs & Things
Blackberry Pancake Syrup
Butter Pecan Pancake Syrup
Orange Marmalade 1/2 pint
Apricot Butter 1/2 pint
Strawberry Rhubarb Preserves 1/2 pint
Double berry Jam/ no sugar-pint
Apricot Spread/ no sugar-pint

Cranberry Spiced soy Candle
Macintosh Apple Candle
Happy Holiday Candle
Cinnamon Stick soy candle

Arriving soonCinnamon Sticks..(good for Hot Toddies)
Roasted Paprika
Organic Vanilla Beans...(good for making your own vanilla)
Fennel Seed
Thyme
Ginger Root Powder
Biscuit Mix
More Pumpkin Butter

Specials this weekGrilling Spice Blend...Reg $4.50 Sale $3.00
Candles in tumblers...Reg $15.00- Sale $9.00
Raspberry Vanilla Tea 20/bag...Reg. $5.00-Sale $4.00

Cabbage recipe
baked with tomatoes, caraway seed, onion, garlic and chicken broth
Cook Time: 40 minutes
Ingredients:
1 large head cabbage
3 medium tomatoes, diced
1 small white onion, chopped (minced onion found at Herbs & Things)
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder (Minced Garlic @ Herbs & Things)
1/2 teaspoon salt (yep Herbs & Things has it)
1 teaspoon black pepper (whole peppercorns at Herbs & Things)
1/4 teaspoon caraway seed (oh look Herbs & Things has this too)
1/8 cup water or chicken stock (this too):)
Preparation:
Preheat oven to 325°.
Quarter the cabbage and boil it in a large kettle or Dutch oven for 10 minutes. Remove cabbage sections; place in a shallow baking dish. Combine remaining ingredients in small bowl; pour over cabbage. Bake for 30 minutes, or until liquid is absorbed. Turn cabbage pieces about halfway through cooking time so wedges cook evenly.
Serves 4.

Till the next time
Be well
Laugh often
Love large
Dig in the dirt
Grow a garden
and may the sun light your way
Kellie
+
Herbs & Things
Where good things come in a small package
8441 Hayes Hollow Rd
Colden, NY 14033
716-861-4851
716-941-5627
FAX 761-941-5627
www.coldensherbsandthings.com

Follow My Blog
http://coldensherbsandthings.blogspot.com/

Herbs & Things is on Twitter
http://twitter.com/HerbsandThings

I am now on Facebook
http://www.facebook.com/people/Kellie-M-Shanley/1742558649?sid=4d4017f2086f205526cd31d9b75587cc&ref=search#/profile.php?id=1742558649&ref=name
Hours
T/W 10am-5:30pm
Thurs 10am-7pm
Friday 9am-3pm
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All sales continue at Farmers Market.


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Garden Revelations

Though its hard work I’ve always enjoyed my garden. For me, it’s a comforting place of birth, growth, renewal and revelations. This year however some of the enjoyment has diminished, due to the bad growing season. Which I’m sure has tested the most optimistic gardener’s peace of mind with a summer of too much rain and too many cold nights, for that perfect garden to grow.

Having a garden every year for a long time now, I understand how we gardeners feel about our tilled plots of soil. We sow our ideas when we first set the till to ground and take growing a garden personally. So often, our gardens success or failure, to us, represents what we did right or wrong. This makes me empathetic towards anyone who tried growing their first garden this year. However, I don’t believe this years success or failure, is about what any of us did right or wrong, it’s about the reminder of who’s really in control, and that is Mother Nature.

I was in the big garden trying to salvage 20 some tomato plants from the threat of blight and the ravages that this unpredictable growing season brought upon them. I usually love my garden. But this year, I’m not liking it much, especially this day, because there’s no saving my tomato plants.

This got me thinking of the days when a farmer did not grow a garden for fun or the luxury of a full pantry to save money over the winter. No, they grew their garden for food or income to sustain them over, usually, a long, hard winter.

So what would they have done in a growing season such as this? When hay is almost impossible to get in, tomatoes are dying on the vines, later potatoes are rotting in the ground and the slugs have demolished the beans. What and how did they live beyond the loss of their crops?

As I stood amongst my dying tomatoes and slug eaten beans, I had visions of tired farmers and livestock from years ago. Both whom worked long hours to grow corn to sell, vegetables to can, hay to feed livestock and wheat to grind into flours. Envisioning these almost defeated farmers standing amidst their non-producing fields wondering what their next step would be, I asked myself, what did they do when their lives depended on a good growing season that never came? How did they survive the wrath that Mother Nature can instill?

Then I pictured a chain reaction, of their inability to feed their family so the family did not have the stamina to work. Nor did they have enough feed to care for their livestock, so the cows stopped giving milk and the chickens stopped laying eggs. Maybe their livestock died or worse, they had to sell it because they could not feed them and or they needed money to feed their families. Ultimately leaving them with nothing to work their garden next year…except a single hand held hoe sitting propped in the corner of their barn.

After thinking of this my feelings of joylessness at my lack of a good garden turned to admiration to those who lived and worked the land before me. In the face of a bad season such as this, they still survived, picked themselves up and started again. They are the ones who in the face of diversity moved on and kept this country moving. They made the best of what they did get from an un-producing garden, planned ahead for next year, lived within their means for that season, hoping and praying that next year would be better, and then figured out where to start again.

They knew that with out that one small step to start again, they would not be able to finish, so they and their hand held hoe, start hoeing the earth the next season, with optimism of a good year. They hoed early crops, saved some and sold some to buy a new horse and plow. They planted potatoes, saved some, sold some to buy a new cow for milk and a couple of chickens for eggs. They sold their eggs to buy a new wagon to carry hay and wheat. They harvested their wheat, saved some, sold some that gave them money to buy what they needed next. Thus, the cycle of the garden and the gardener began again, a place of birth, growth, renewal and revelations, all with one-step into the new garden with that single hoe, thrown over the shoulder, ready to break ground.

Some Pictures

The Bear by my garden June 2009


Before he noticed me taking his picture





Me using up my film









From 2008


>

Philosophically Speaking

I received a welcomed call Saturday from my cousin Dave, a schoolteacher, who lives in Florida. His father and my father were twins, not identical but fraternal twins, yet identical in many ways. Dave and I have many of our fathers' characteristics, making us alike in some ways, yet very different in others.

Our conversations always vary in topics, and David a very intelligent person has a LARGE vocabulary, much larger than his country cousin does. Therefore, when he used the word existentialism in casual conversation, when talking about Herbs & Things E-mailing’s, I went silent for a second, as my mind searched for its meaning. Thinking too, it’s not only a word I wouldn’t, no wait—couldn’t— just throw around in conversation, but his use of it resurfaced the confusion the word always causes me.

Existentialism— what exactly does it mean?

For me, it’s one of those words, that has different meanings according to what you read, whom you talk with or what philosophical essay you encounter.
Consequently— my dilemma— figuring out—is it a good thing, or a bad thing to be an existentialist

With that said, my understanding of one of the philosophical meanings, or maybe it is what I want to think it means…is…
An existentialist practicing existentialism is philosophical in their thoughts of the how’s and whys of the world and they obtain the knack of making sense out of the confusing things life and the world throws at us at times. In addition, we carry the belief we are all here for a reason and purpose.
If that’s the case I welcome being an existentialist.

However if that’s not what it means…then I am in deep…VERY deep Dodo…and not sure if it’s a place I want to be.

Let me know what you think. Do the word and its meaning…s confuse you too…?

http://simple.wikipedia.org/wiki/Existentialism

http://www.answers.com/topic/existentialism

http://books.google.com/books?id=gFjA5oKG37sC&pg=PA74&lpg=PA74&dq=simpilfied+meaning+of+existentialism&source=bl&ots=LfDIq_CfCp&sig=Z_A9HxB7bVUr_LgKauRVQG0wu6c&hl=en&ei=a35tSs2RGtKJtgf_6vmIDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=10

What if?

What if—I had moved away from the valley I live in, when some scornfully questioned, why stay and stated the waters are too abundant. The clay soil will reap no garden. The sun goes behind the hill chilling the valley early making a garden take longer to grow and the winters you never know what they will bring.

What if I had moved and left the place I was born?
I would have missed a piece of destiny Thursday July 9th 2009 and all the other life-changing experiences before.

I’ve always felt there is something special about this old house and life in this valley, for human and animal. If someone asked me to explain the special, I am not sure I could. I guess my explanation would start with, this house. It holds a sense of calmness, harmony and a way of the world, between the open spaces of the plank walls. The dirt floor below preserves history untold, there for me to hear, if I choose to listen. The land is a place where the animals speak of souls from a time before, and offers teachings, that a simple life is better.

Some feel the abundance of water running off the hills filling the creeks, ponds and any crevasses to overflowing, is a curse. However, before electric came to the valley, the running water and the wealth of life it carried, were praised and welcomed. The clay soil preserves, furrowed deep, beautiful and sometimes hidden surprises to those patient enough to have waited.

Thursday July 9th started like most days. Waking at 3:30 am, after a cup of coffee, the dogs and I turned horses out early before the heat and flies were bothersome and tended to the gardens. I went about my other morning chores too, until it was time to open Herbs & Things doors.

Like clockwork, on a warm day, by 10 AM, the flies were bothering the horses and they were ready to come in. Leading them in, I noticed a white car pulling up to the driveway of Herbs & Things. It stayed for a moment then drove away. They must have been reading Herbs & Things sign, maybe they’ll be back later, I pondered as I closed the stall doors. Not much later, while gardening behind the house, the dogs started barking. I walked around front and was thrilled to find the white car had returned.

Inside the car were two elderly people. A man and a woman, the woman was driving. The man got out ducking his head to clear the doorframe. He stood about six feet four, was nice looking, aged, tan and fit. I surmised not a day over 75. I greeted them and asked how they were.
He replied that they were good, but that he was very frustrated and was hoping I could help him. I told him I’d do my best.
He asked how long I’ve lived here and his eye widened with hope when I told him almost fifty-five years.

His story began, 75 years ago, when he was a foster child. Pointing at my old house, he was almost sure he lived here around 1931. The reason for his uncertainty was, though the house looked like the house, at the time when he lived here he remembered a big barn sitting adjacent to the house, where my barn is now. The barn was big enough to stable cattle below, farm equipment above and a hayloft for hay above that,
I told him, yes, there was such a barn when my parents bought this place in 1950, and though they tore down the barn, leveled the drives going up to the barn, the floor from the big barn is still there, under my barn built in the 1960’s.


I learned that barn stabled 34 cattle and he had the chore of milking 15 by hand every day and each cow had their own watering cup. Because there was no electricity then, each water cup was spring fed, from water running off the hill piped to the barn from across the road.
He liked the fact, when I told him, some old pipes are still there, under the soil of this ‘new’ barn.
Turning and looking at the hill across the road, he questioned again if this was really the same house. Because the hill across the road, now over grown with 40-foot trees and brush, did not look like the hill that was clear land, he would ski and sled down. With excitement growing in my chest, I shared with him, as a child, I too with my sister would sled over there down tilled farmland and that cows grazed there too.

Asking him to hang on a moment, I ran into the house to retrieve, like a child wanting to show a prize procession, my only picture of when the barn was still standing, and the hill that was clear and tilled. I assume as he ran his fingers across the glass of the framed black and white aerial photo, he was finding memories.

He gazed at the house again, his eyes flickering with pictures of the past and told me it had no electricity then either. In detail he described the kitchen upon entering the house, where the other rooms inside are, and that his room was upstairs. He described the floor furnace that once burned coal, in the middle of the dining and living room. I told him that floor furnace still heats the house, but with natural gas, instead of coal.

He described the cistern in the basement that gathered water from the running waters across the road, supplying the house with water and the hand pump used to pump the water to the kitchen, which I told him my parents removed, after my dad dug a well for our ‘electric’ water supply and put modern plumbing in the house. However, the old pipes from across the road and cistern were still in the basement.

He told of the summer he worked and lived in the woods as a teenager, in Colden, cutting wood for someone. He walk to the corner store where an account had been opened for him, once a week for supplies then returned to his tent to continue his woodcutting. When that summer was over, he attended Springville high school. His eyes widen with amusement, when I told him I also attended Springville high school. Springville Griffith Institute? He questioned. “Yes” I said, “Graduate of 1972.” He did not graduate from there, he had only gone for one year, and then left this area.

Excited they had stopped, I asked where they were from and if they were visiting family. They looked at each other with understanding grins and told me they were from Arizona and they were not visiting family, but on a sentimental journey of his youth.
“I am 92 years old and not going to live forever”, he said, “ I’m visiting some of my roots before I die. We were here four years ago but did not stop.”
His wife then said, “But today…I told him, we ARE stopping.”
I said, “well I guess today was the right time for you—and— I.

The joy that’s filled my soul, will last a while, from participating in his journey to the past. Going back to a time when something thought to be a nuisance(the water) was blessed and loved and that someone loved this old house and the land around it as much as I.

What if—
I had ever moved. I would have missed a 92-year-old man (in the greatest shape) from Arizona, on a sentimental journey, visiting the house he lived in as a foster child.
What if—
I had ever moved, he would have missed me too, someone that could tell him that the things he remembers are for real.

Putting into words my sense of fulfillment from this simple but deep visit of a man on a quest, taking me on a journey through time, with a boy of 1931, is difficult. All I know is he shared a piece of himself, giving me the ability to visit the past, which filled my soul with riches of no monetary value.

I would have missed a chance too, had I not experience this, to answer a question people often ask.
Is time travel possible?
My answer is yes, —though not through the physics of a Quantum leap, but through the eyes of someone on a sentimental journey of his life.
I am glad I was—here— for this journey in time.

Guest Blog

Making Jam
By Patricia Crisafulli

It started in June with the first of the berries and lasted until the start of autumn when the pears ripened. All summer we picked and gathered; hulled, peeled, quartered, chopped, cooked, and canned. The fruits of our labor lined the wooden shelves in the unfinished basement, which we called the cellar, in my parents’ home in northern New York State: a long, deep row each of peaches and pears, and twice as many of stewed tomatoes. On the next set of shelves along the cement-block walls were the relishes, pickles, and jar after jar of jams and jellies capped with paraffin.

At the end of each batch, Mother would say the same thing. “This is going to taste mighty good in the middle of a long, cold winter.”

She canned and preserved not so much out of necessity, as habit. Then again, that’s what people did back then in rural areas in the 1960s. The home and lifestyle pages of the newspapers printed recipes for dill pickles and corn relish. Boxes of Mason jars were stacked in displays in the grocery store.

My two sisters and I never questioned it either. When Mother announced we were going strawberry, blueberry, or blackberry picking, that’s what we did. Summer after summer had taught us the drill. The picking was the hard part; our baskets never seemed to get full. Of course the ones that ended up in our stomachs didn’t help. Eventually, we’d be done: our fingers and the old clothes we wore stained with berry juice; our faces and bodies sweaty and dusty.

The real work came next, but I never minded this part as much. If we were making strawberry jam, we had to wash and hull the berries first and put them in a big kettle with sugar, to be cooked down to a pulp of the right consistency. Pectin was added for thickener, and finally—at the right moment—the sweet, sticky concoction was ladled into jars to be sealed with paraffin. It used to take all day, from picking first thing in the morning to the rows of jam that lined the kitchen counter in the evening. I don’t think we waited a day, although perhaps we did. Sadly, that’s one of the many small details I don’t remember so clearly anymore.

I haven’t made jam or pickles in many years; not since I moved away at age 21, although Mother kept it up until she died when I was 26. Her recipes written down in an old hard-covered Composition notebook with a black-and-white speckled cover are probably somewhere, but I don’t think any of us three sisters have followed them in quite a while. I know I never did; certainly not in a studio apartment in New York City or even in my home with a big kitchen and a finished basement outside Chicago. Having grown up with that legacy, I feel ashamed to admit that I buy my produce at the store, and the closest I get to a garden is the farmer’s market.

WhatI never fully understood in those days was that we were doing more than making jam and canning pickles. As we worked together, side-by-side, mother passed down to us girls her knowledge of taking care of a home and family, the way she knew best. None of us could see how different all of our lives would be; where choices and circumstances would take us, and the fact that—heaven forbid!—some of us would resort to store-bought jam later in life.

All we knew was that, week after week, the jars that had been emptied and the contents consumed over the previous months, were brought up from the basement, washed in scalding water, and then filled with whatever bounty we had just picked and cooked. Then down the jars would go: rows of gold and red and deep purple—a whole summer captured for the winter ahead.

We didn’t understand that at the time, and wouldn’t grasp it for many years until Mother was gone. It wasn’t in the recipe, but looking back, each one was sealed with love. The taste was unmistakable.

Patricia Crisafulli is a writer and published author who lives in suburban Chicago. She is the founder of www.FaithHopeandFiction.com, a free monthly e-literary magazine.

The best-laid plans are not always the ones intended for us to do.

Thursday June 18th, Herbs & Things hosted a True Circle event. The only requirements to participate are, the desire to know God, self and spirit, better. In this loving circle, one can experience the energies of awakening, education, messages needed to be heard and often healing of spirit.

This gathering of old and new friends was a great evening and I wanted to share. However, the coherency of words into nice neat paragraphs wouldn’t form. I thought my writing difficulty was because it is a sensitive or taboo subject. I’ve written about sensitive subjects before with no problem. Why was I having a problem? With help from a reliable source in a High place, I figured it out. Something else was coming my way to write about and the blog of the True Circle, would have to wait a while.


You love them, you like them, you don’t like them. They often annoy or embarrass you with the things they say and do. When you don’t want them to, they mind your business and don’t mind their own. Then when you don’t expect it, they act selflessly and or give unconditional support.

They are Family

My Mother and Father- in-law in the past year have had their share of difficulties. Forget just the past year, in 59 years of marriage they’ve experienced many ups and downs. With 13 children…yes I said 13 how could they not. But in spite of all those ups and downs, now in their 80’s with 36 grandchildren and 4 great grandchildren one of their greatest pleasures is to offer support to their children and their children’s spouses.

Shortly after opening Herbs & Things last year in October, my in-home business with a small shop outside that offers organic and natural products. Such as coffee, teas, soaps, spices and more, my mother-in-law Mabel wanted to come and visit. But the weather turned nasty and she was still recouping from a 3 month stay in the hospital and a 4-6 month recoup time at home. Doctors had overdosed her on medications.

My father- in-law, Dick, while Mabel was in the hospital, experienced problems with his health, his legs and had difficulty walking. However, he did not want to take care of it until Mabel was better. So finaly in May this year he had angioplasty done to his legs and 3 weeks ago a pace maker put in, which has helped his over all health enormously.

But of late, they’ve been worried. Not of their health, or that Dick needs to go back once more for his legs. Their worry—they have not been out to see Herbs & Things and do some shopping.

Writing this, I feel emotions rising in my chest like a wave hitting the shore. After all, they’ve been through, it was me and my new endeavor they were worried about.

Wednesday June 24th two elderly people, climbed in to their golden Buick and took a scenic road trip to Herbs & Things. They brought their reusable shopping bag to fill.
Mabel’s, “ohhhhh look at all the ‘Things’ you have in here.” after she entered the shop, prompted her to shooed me out of my own shop, telling me, “oh go outside, I am busy looking at everything and shopping,” was in there over an hour.

Dick and I sat at the picnic table as a nice breeze on a hot day, cooled us underneath the chestnut tree. We talked of his upcoming procedures. About Rick (their son, my husband) and I showed him pictures of the Eagle that visited my house May 21st and told him about the black bear in my garden last week. We had a nice time.

Finally, when Mabel had finished, it was Dicks turn to add to the growing pile of Herbs & Things merchandise. I felt funny taking their money; they live on a budget and they are family. However, with smiles on their faces and a bag full of Herbs & Things merchandise, they insisted it was strictly a business transaction and they wouldn’t have it any other way!

My eyes followed their car as they drove away very— very— slow, out the drive and down the road. They were taking their time, looking at everything. They stopped for a moment to look at my other garden across the road and then puttered on their way.
With a smile on my face, I thought of the times I happened to get behind a ‘sight seeing old couple going to slow’ and the annoyance I felt. Then it occurred to me, what if they were just leaving a new shop that someone they love had opened and they were giving their support.

Maybe now, both in their 80’s time passes too quick and they like to take things slow, enjoy the present moment and savor the moment before. If I was behind them and knew who they were, where they’d been and what they did, would I still be annoyed because they were going to slow, probably not.

So, the next time you get behind an elderly couple going to slow. Take a deep breath and think, it might be, they’ve been on a mission, supporting someone they love.

The afternoon of June 24th I participated in my own loving True Circle Event and experienced the energies of love, awakening, education, messages I needed to hear and healing of spirit.

Photos of Eagle that visited May 21st

If I choose to fly like an Eagle, the Eagle will fly with me

This was a message I sent out with my weekly Email for Herbs & Things.
If you'd like to join my email, go to my web and click sign me up.


It's wonderful when I experience a First Time, even at age 55
Thursday morning May 21, I was planting in the garden across the road. Occasionally I'd stop planting to watch the horses graze, the dogs play in the creek, and simply enjoy the serenity of the morning, when around 7am, an animal call I'd never heard before came from the woods. It didn't make me nervous, but curious.

After another call, I scanned the woods again and still saw nothing.
Walking back to the house suddenly I was in the shadow of something big. I looked up and saw a bird with a wingspan of 6-7 feet, over my head. At first glance I thought I was mistaken, when I saw gliding silently above a beautiful EAGLE.
But I wasn't mistaken, it was an EAGLE and it was visiting my little piece of the world. It landed and perched at the top of a poplar tree behind the house for about 4 hours.

Living here all my life and never seeing an Eagle grace this valley, I was elated and honored to witness this beauty.

I know Eagles are south and east not far from here, but in Colden?
Has any one ever seen an Eagle in the Colden? If so, let me know.
I feel like that moment was meant only for me. A sign that only I could read. It felt special and it was special...a great first time and I got the message.

If I choose to fly like an Eagle, the Eagle will fly with me!

NOTE:
In fear of making it fly away, I didn't get close enough with my little digital to get a good picture, but I took pictures with my 35 mm and zoom lens. I hope they turn out. When I get the 35 MM photos back I promise to share! (lets hope they turned out!)

Coincidence, a noun

Coincidence: the occurrence of events that happen at the same time by accident but seem to have some connection.

Coincidence, a noun, is an extraordinary word we use in the English language to help explain random events occurring at the same, or in a close frame of time, we cannot explain.

When this happens to me, it always confirms what I believe, that most things in life are not coincidence and more often than not ‘coincidences’ come in the form of small happenings. Small enough that if we don’t take a moment to step back and look at the whole picture we might miss or not get it.

I’ve had a Hobby Farm magazine, floating around in my Jeep for a while. I’d say a year, maybe longer. For some odd reason I didn’t feel comfortable removing it and always made sure it was neat and safe, sometimes wrapped in a towel, so the pages would not be torn or tattered.

Last Wednesday, my husband had to drop his semi off at Buffalo White Truck, to have some warranty work done. We’d made arraignments for me to pick him up. I arrived before him. I usually carry a book with me to read for, just in, cases like this. But this time I forgot. Looking for something to read, I reached in the back seat, retrieved that Hobby Farm Magazine, and started leafing through it.

Last year, as some people know, I opened a small business, Herbs & Things. I have organic and natural products. This year my garden plants are from organic seeds, planted in organic soil, and some are in biodegradable pots. Not one to want to use pesticides to keep my plants bug free, extreme excitement fill my senses when I opened the magazine to a page about Organic Pesticide for garden plants. I said to myself, oh see this is why this books been here, for me to eventually find this information about organic pesticides.

Below that article was another small article, titled “Wild On The Farm”. Pictured is a new fawn curled up in its ‘camouflage’ position. I read the article and was reminded how does will birth their young, then after cleaning, feeding and tending them will put them in various locations while she goes off into the woods to eat, drink and take care of herself. The fawns are wired to stay put until she comes back. When the fawns go into camouflage mode, they freeze, curl their body in a circle and flatten against the ground with their head extended.

Saturday morning the dogs and I went for a walk before I opened the shop. Partridge road is a nice patch of road, near my house, to get a good walk up a hill in a short amount of time. I was enjoying the sounds of the birds, watching them flit from tree and bush, building nests, preparing for the arrival of their young, when I noticed something red on the shoulder of the road in a patch of grass. My first thought, was oh no a dead fox, hit by a car. I found it funny though the dogs did not get a scent of it. As we got closer, I noticed spots…and with a bigger OH NO, a dead fawn, hit by a car, I tiptoed closer. Why I am not sure, it’s dead after all. But my human curiosity wanted me to look closer. The dogs still hadn’t notice it.

Close enough now to get a good look, I knew the fawn was lying in its camouflage mode. I wondered though, maybe it is dead, because I could not see it breathing, but its eyes looked alive. I decided to double check it on our way back. As we got beyond the fawn, I looked back to see it take a breath. This newborn fawn was doing what nature and its mother told it to do. Stay put, and freeze into camouflage mode, so nothing would noticed it.

I’ve grown up in the country and know to leave things alone when I come across something like that, but my curious human side wants to reach out, pet baby animals, pick them up, hug them and desperately hold the beautiful little creatures to feel their soft coat. The article I read three days before in the Hobby Farm magazine came immediately to mind, confirming I was doing the right thing when I told myself, DO NOT touch it. Mom will be back. Mother Nature knows how to take care of her own. Looking ahead as I continued walking up the hill, I saw a doe and a last years fawn walked across the road. Baby’s mom? Probably.

The fawn was still there when we walked back down the hill. The dogs still had not noticed it. I prayed a car would not pull off on the shoulder of the road there. About two hours later, I went back to check and sure enough, that fawn was gone. I breathed a sigh a relief.

I am a firm believer that—everything— happens for a reason, small and large. That each ‘what ever or who ever’ that crosses our path, whether a person, animal, event or words read, are put there, at a precise moment we need them to be there. It could be years or three days down the road, when what someone said, an event that we participated in or a paragraph we read, will give us the knowledge we need at a time when we need it, leaving nothing to coincidence.

It’s all about taking chances with a dream

A little over a week ago, I finished reading a book, given as a gift by Tricia Crisafulli, www.faithhopeandfiction.com., titled ‘Go Back and Be Happy’. It’s a true story told by Margaret McSweeny, about a woman’s, Julie Papievis, recovery from a traumatic brain stem injury, and her short visit in heaven. While there, she saw two of her grandmothers and God instructed her to ‘Go Back and Be Happy’.

I find it fascinating that Tricia chose this book as a gift for me, or as she told me, the book told her where it wanted to go. Tricia had no idea of the head injury I suffered as a child. Actually most people don’t. Its not until recently that I may explain to people my seemingly air headiness, and frequent forgetfulness, beyond what the average person forgets.

Julie’s journey started with an automobile accident, she goes to and returns from heaven, wakes from a coma, and finds she no longer is the person she used to be. She wonders why she was sent back and how could she ever be HAPPY living life in a body that did not work as it use to. Her ‘come back’ is remarkable and I think any one who reads this book, will look at their own life, see where they could work harder and attain their dreams.

My head injury occurred, when a horse threw me, and catapulted me in the air far above its 18-hand stance. Falling back towards the ground, I hit the back of my head at the base where it connects to the spine, on the top of a jumping post. (Yes, I was wearing a helmet.) I seemed ok, until I passed out the following day while jumping a horse again. My mother rushed me to Children’s Hospital in Buffalo NY. They looked into my dilated eyes, then the doctors rushed me in for x-rays, or some sort of imaging. I am not sure what they did I only remember the sound of the buzzing machines around my head.
I had a fractured skull, with a blot clot at the base of my brain and the brain was swelling. They could not believe that I did not have a headache or that I had not passed out earlier than that morning.

Back in the 60’s they knew less about head injuries than today, so their instructions for my parents were to take me home. Don’t give me aspirin or any pain medication, they did not want to chance thinning the blood. Monitor my speech and mobility and do not let me sleep for any longer than 2 hours at a time.
In the first two weeks of my one-year recovery, I had to go back to the hospital every day to be re-x-rayed. They wanted to make sure the clot was not breaking off, going places it shouldn’t and keep the swelling in the brain in check.

The doctors warned my parents about mood and personally changes. But they did not prepare them or me, a once A student, the problems with attention or remembering things I had read or written, I would have. Nor did they prepare us for the hours my mother would spend helping me to write legibly again or remembering what I had read.

I recall one day coming home from school and asking her in tears, “Why was I so smart and now I am so dumb?” She told me never to say or think that again.
For one year after the accident, I could not ride horse, a bike, an elevator, jump rope, or do anything that would ‘shake’ the brain and cause more injury.

My injury was nowhere near as traumatic as Julie’s. But a few years ago, when I started researching a little more about brain injuries, I realized how bad it could have really been and often wonder why was I spared, when others who’ve had less trauma to their heads, ended with more damage to their over all body function or the loss of a life. Conducting recent research, I found my head injury was closer to the brain stem than I ever realized. As Julie wondered and asked god frequently, I too wonder more since reading the book, what went right for me? Was it, and is it all part of Gods plan?

Go Back and Be Happy, made me look closer at my life, and my dreams, and reconfirmed taking chances with our dreams is the one and only way to make them work. What this book did, beyond making me feel normal about my life long struggle with memory malfunction, was reconfirming just how lucky I was, that it could have been much worse and what I’ve always believed, but like so many have a hard time doing, is… it is all about taking chances with our dreams.

How many times in a week or month, do you wake up and think about a dream, but your fear of the unknown sets you back on the same track you follow every day (Security in the known, fear in the unknown). If only there were a crystal ball, you say to your self, so you could see if taking the chance on your dream is what you should do. It’s easier to follow your dream when you have something to fall back on, but what if you don’t have anything, what will happen then?

Taking chances with our dreams is a big thing. Most of us are afraid to do so. We are afraid of ridicule. That we’ll look foolish or that we’ll loose everything. But mostly we are afraid of failure. However if we don’t pursue our dreams haven’t we lost something important already, our hopes. Hope of a new future, a new life, an experience taking us to new heights and following our dreams of we’ve been all that we can be.

Beside our fear of failure, often we hesitate to follow our dreams, because its hard work and does not come with out bumps and bruises. Like a child learning to walk, falling is part of the process. But that’s what we need to do, pursue our dreams like a child. A child does not care if they fall or what others will think, because fear of failure not yet instilled, allows them to get up and try again.

Reading of Julies journey of moving forwarding, falling, and getting back up, taught me, if you think your dream is not working, try a different approach. It’s not necessarily the dream that is wrong, just the approach. Sometimes to get it moving again, a different perspective is needed, whether from someone else or you changing your way of thinking.


There are two recent events where people pushed their fears aside and followed their dreams. They took a chance and their dreams came true.
One is the singing sensation, Susan Boyle. What would have happened if she did not take the chance of looking silly? What if, she had not chanced having her appearance criticized or let the sounds of people laughing at her stop her. What if, she didn’t throw all of those fleshly worries to the winds, she’d still be singing in her home. But she took the chance.

Then there is Mine That Bird, the two-year old Kentucky Derby winner.
What made them think this horse could win? Was it a dream they saw in him every time they watched him run that they packed up their against all odds horse, with no pomp and circumstance, concentrated on their dream and did something that most people would fear to do, put their dreams in the heart of a horse. Like winds that carry a leaf, Mine That Bird, carried their dreams over the finish line. Why because when all odds, 50-1, were against them, they trusted in what they saw instead of looking at the odds and followed their dreams.

Julie, tied in bed, wearing a diaper, not able to walk or talk, dreamt of running again. Though the odds were against her, that she’d never be normal, she allowed her dreams to lead the way.
So what does my accident have to do with following your dreams you might ask. My answer is, everything happens for a reason. It made me work for what I wanted. My first dreams, after the accident was to, at least, remember that I enjoyed a book I read. I wanted to be able to follow my dreams, and to do, and be anything that—I—chose.

Like most every one, I am afraid of the unknown or the uncertainty of where dreams will lead, but my accident made me less fear full of the fall. Because though it slowed me, it did not stop me. I had fallen, got back up and tried again.

With out taking the chance, our dreams are only what we dream of, instead of dreams that have come true and so what if the dream does not materialize, there are more where they came from. They are inside of you. Stop, listen and know—It Is— all about taking chances with a Dream.

Done with the Poem A Day challenge

Did I keep up?
Mostly. I missed two.
Prompt #28 Write a Sestina &
Prompt #29 Never (Blank) Fill in the blank
Although I can no longer post them on the poetry site
I will still do them and post them here on my blog later.
But here are the rest


Prompt #22 was to write about Work

Work
Is a necessity
we love to hate,
hate to love
and cannot live with out

Work
When not over done
keeps us healthy
the mind agile,
the body willing.

Work
Makes our troubles less
keeps us young at heart
and satisfied with who we are

Work
Gives us money to spend
Something to barter with
Or at least a since of accomplishment

Work
is what you make it.
it can be a chore,
or fact of life well done.


Prompt #23 Regret;

Regret

I have none

Yes, but what about the time you cried?
I’ve no regrets for those tears, they helped me grow.

But what about the time you lost your first love
I’ve no regrets, for that loss taught what it is
I do not want.

What about when someone said unkind and untrue things about you?
No regrets, it showed me who my friends are.

What about the time, you thought God had forsaken you.
No regrets, it was then,
I learned he was teaching me to fly.



Prompt #24 Write about travel
This is a poem I wrote a while back and revised

Open Butterfly Wings

One day a butterfly flitting on the breeze
Came upon and settled on the breast of me.
Words of wisdom it did carry on wings of softened beauty,
Mother Nature at her best.

It’s lexis of wisdom nearly lost on the breeze of Mother Nature’s breath.
Quietly, unwearied the butterfly in its beauty stayed upon my breast,
Waiting for the words of wisdom, it did carry to rest upon…
MY… life’s breathing breath.
Thus, when I did inhale the breath of life I need,
The words of wisdom it did carry
Became a part of me.

It told me of the beauty my life alone could have,
I must set aside my reservations…
Waltz the rhythmic amplification inside of me,
Dance…
Dance… with the earth as god intended it to be



Prompt #25 Write about an event and make that the title

It’s raining

Dark and gray
It’s raining
Drizzle—drizzle all of the day
It’s raining
The grass does grow
It’s raining
The birds still sing.

It’s raining
until days ends
It’s raining
A rainbow appears
It’s raining
the crops are not seared

It’s raining
Step in a puddle and smile
It’s raining
Tomorrow the sun will shine.


Prompt #26 write about Miscommunication

Miscommunications

Mary’s fed up with Bob’s performance
because he’s doing it again,
or more to the factual point…not doing it.
Repeatedly she urges him with her long legs,
yet, he is stone cold still, no action, no movement, no wanting.

She ponders tapping her fingers on her moist lips,
how to get him to fulfill her dreams.
He’ll like and enjoy it once he takes the first step, but
warming him up to the idea, will be a trick.

Whispering in his ear in her softest voice
“You’d think you’d want to do this for me.
I fix your meals, bath you, and massage your aching back
Still this one little thing you refuse to do.”

Bob would not
or could not
respond to Mary’s gentle touch and coaxing.
She speculates what to
do to get him over his shyness.
An idea she does contrive.

Bob watches motionless as she walks away
and disappears behind the sliding doors.
He ogles her with a new respect
eyes wide with skeptical anticipation
when she appears carrying a piece
of leather he’s never seen before.

“There that should do the trick”
Mary pats his long neck.
“You silly horse,
maybe soon
we'll be able to do a
flawless dressage pattern
without harness blinders.”


Prompt #27 write about Longing
another older poem pulled and revised

The Three Impish Thieves
By
Kellie M Shanley


I yearn for the days of yore,
when the three of us would seek and explore.
To laugh and giggle such follies we’d play, with
devilment, generating sparks in our eyes,
not a word thus spoken, we could surmise.
What one didn’t think of the other one would.
Only the three of us,
we shouldn’t,
we would.

The follies passed on memories for us to seek and explore,
memories of the three of us in retrospect no more.
The three impish thieves, not stealing a thing,
but a moment in time,
a laugh from the heart,
a giggle within.

The three playful thieves
Mother, sister and me
Two generations
of time too brief.

Prompt # 30 write about a farewell

Shall I ever walk this way again

I think not.
I marvel looking back… walking toward the future,
hesitant, with a vague desire to return.

Decisively
I focus ahead, though
daunting at times
to see beyond the bends and curves.
I slow a step
fear, I feel with its oppressive weight.

I cannot see in front of me
Go slow—don’t wait.
With each step forward, I gaze over my shoulder
I feel the weight.
Run— I cannot,
the purpose not visualized.
Merciless push and pull, so tedious to stay
Look back—look forward.

Shall I ever walk this way again

I think not
Ahead, doubtful curves, attainment of new sights
bends and curves retrospectively
behind the wake of me.
With no choice
I’m obligated to look ahead.

Shall I ever walk this way again

Kellie Shanley 2009