Can you see it? That sign that makes young and old alike feel welcome?
Better duck, he's probably already got his rifle ready...........but you'll get that in a small town!
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Friday, April 12, 2013
It's Official
My dad used to tell us that when you first smell a skunk, that is the first sign that spring has arrived, but I saw one (and smelled it) along the highway awhile ago, and it sure didn't feel like spring outside. In fact, we had another foot of snow a week later.
I used to think that when I heard thunder from a storm, then, that was the sure sign that spring had arrived. Well, we had something very unusual this year, thunder snow. Weird..........and very deceiving.
We heard the reports from the far away country of Punxsutawney that spring was supposed to arrive early this year. Yeah, we wanted to skin us some groundhog, too.
No, I saw it just the other day. The first, real, sure sign that spring has arrived:
Yep, it's official! Spring has arrived. It has finally become warm enough that the tractors have been pulled out of the sheds, the farmers have emerged from their hibernation and the fields are buzzing with activity.
Can you smell it? Inhale deeply and drink in that fresh scent of newly turned up soil mingled with the essence of diesel and anhydrous ammonia. If you bottled it, you could probably sell it and call it "eau d' tractor". Ahhh, spring has officially arrived...........but you'll get that in a small town.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Small Town History
I love history. Seeing artifacts from another era and hearing the stories behind them is one of my favorite pastimes. Being able to hold something that was significant to someone 100 years ago and wonder how it affected their life is such a joy to me. So, when my husband and I were remodeling our 100+ year old home and found some artifacts in the wall, we were excited.
One of my favorite items is this book. It was perfectly preserved in the wall. It amazes me that it is almost 100 years old.
I love to look through it and peruse the pictures. It is so fascinating to see what things were like back in those days.
They even had an athletics program. This is a picture of their basketball team. My, how times have changed!!
Our small town is rich in history. There is one lady in our town who is the queen of Kahoka when it comes to its history. She has dedicated her time to collecting artifacts and data about the history of our little town. She owns a store front on the square and changes the window display often to show the many antiques, vintage clothing and memorabilia she has.
I was driving through a neighboring town recently and saw this:
One of my favorite items is this book. It was perfectly preserved in the wall. It amazes me that it is almost 100 years old.
I love to look through it and peruse the pictures. It is so fascinating to see what things were like back in those days.
It's neat to think that this tiny town was once considered a booming metropolis, big enough to have a high school where students could come and stay in dorms. In the opening pages of the bulletin, Kahoka is described as: "..a population of more than 1800 people... 'Queen of the prairie'...graced by an unusual number of prosperous business enterprises....such as the Missouri Condensed Milk Co.......". Wow, that's about what the population is now! I have heard that our little town even had a piano factory at one time!
The school held all grade levels through high school. The lists of alumni show approximately 8-10 graduates each year. They list such activities and classes as: Rhetoric, Ancient history, Algebra, Biology, Latin, German, Bookkeeping, and of course, Agriculture. They also list supplies each student needed for each grade, such items as pencils, paper, certain textbooks, and most importantly, one drinking cup.
Our small town is rich in history. There is one lady in our town who is the queen of Kahoka when it comes to its history. She has dedicated her time to collecting artifacts and data about the history of our little town. She owns a store front on the square and changes the window display often to show the many antiques, vintage clothing and memorabilia she has.
I was driving through a neighboring town recently and saw this:
Such a tiny little building. What could it possibly house?
Such a tiny little building, smaller than most bathrooms today, but just enough room to show the artifacts and memories of a people who love their town. The building is sufficient for the memorabilia, but way too small to hold the town's pride...............but you'll get that in a small town.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
The Country Parson
The local parson, you know, the guy that does the "marryin' and buryin'" in your neck of the woods. But, that occupation involves so much more than those two activities. He is the shepherd of the sheep, and even though his flock may be small, he tends them with love and care.
Well, it just so happens that I grew up in the home of a small town parson. I have many fond memories of life in a parson's home. My siblings and I never felt like the "fishbowl" family, though we knew that people were expecting more of us, just because we were the preacher's kids. We loved each and every congregation of which we were privileged to be a part.
Being the parson has some distinct perks. Of course, there is the parsonage: appropriately named to house the parson and his family. I believe that this is one of the few occupations where the employer also provides the housing for the employed. And provide, they do: whether a trailer parked out in the middle of a forest, or the "Old Manse" connected to the actual church building and readily accessible to the church members, or the old fire-trap that sat next to the church. I have lived in many such parsonages. My dad became an expert at making an old house look really nice with paint and wallpaper. The church congregation always made sure the house was in order when the new parson arrived. They would stock the pantry with cans of food to help welcome the family. I can remember a particular can of bamboo shoots that stayed in the pantry for the duration of our tenure, and we kindly left it for the next parson and his family. The church always felt like the parsonage belonged to them (and rightly so) and we always asked permission before making any changes on the house, or requested help when something needed repaired.
Because the congregations that we were privileged to minister to were small, the members became like family to us. I can name off the top of my head several sets of "adopted grandparents" who endeared themselves to our family and helped us to look forward to every Sunday. Whether it was being taken out to eat almost every Sunday, or sneaking us candy and cookies behind our mom's back during church, they made themselves a part of our lives. Of course, with any family, you get to know one another very well. When one person is missing, there is a hole. You are not just a face in the crowd in this congregation, but an integral part of the service. When one member is hurting, we all hurt along with them. We are a family of brothers and sisters.
And along with the family atmosphere, there can also be squabbles. Churches are steeped in their traditions, and when a new pastor comes along and wants to change something, there is often opposition. At one point in my dad's ministry, he was called a "young whippersnapper" by one of the board members, no doubt because he suggested something new. I can also remember a particular church secretary who would lock up the chalkboard chalk in the safe after Sunday School so we youngsters couldn't draw after church. There were aunts and uncles, and cousins, not really related to us, but closer than family could ever be.
The country parson can become an important part in the lives of those in the community. He is often the first one you call in case of emergency, and he even makes house calls. I recall in particular two elderly, widowed sisters who lived together in one small town. I was about 5 at the time, and I can remember being amazed when we would visit "Fran and Margaret" as they affectionately were called. Their house was immaculate, there were doilies pinned to the couch arms and backs. They wore gloves and hats to church on Sunday. They had the most amazing tulips I have ever seen. One memory that I have of them was a phone call that came in the middle of the night. A drunk had driven his car into their front parlor. The pastor was the only one they knew to call and so he went right over to comfort and help calm them. It was a major upset to their calm life, but the pastor was there in time of need. There is no doubt in my mind that they are in heaven now, pinning doilies to the couches and tending tulip beds.
The parson is also a member of the community in other areas as well. We have a picture of my dad placing the star on top of the community Christmas tree. We were part of many community functions and stood up for our little town in whatever ways we could. My dad was also a volunteer fire-fighter. However, this was back in the days when there were no cell phones or pagers. The only way to get the attention of the fire fighters was to ring the siren and they would come running. I recall one Sunday morning, right in the middle of a sermon, the fire siren went off. As many men stood to leave, my dad quipped, "I guess I'll have to miss this one." He still had to finish fighting that fire ...............but you'll get that in a small town.
Well, it just so happens that I grew up in the home of a small town parson. I have many fond memories of life in a parson's home. My siblings and I never felt like the "fishbowl" family, though we knew that people were expecting more of us, just because we were the preacher's kids. We loved each and every congregation of which we were privileged to be a part.
Being the parson has some distinct perks. Of course, there is the parsonage: appropriately named to house the parson and his family. I believe that this is one of the few occupations where the employer also provides the housing for the employed. And provide, they do: whether a trailer parked out in the middle of a forest, or the "Old Manse" connected to the actual church building and readily accessible to the church members, or the old fire-trap that sat next to the church. I have lived in many such parsonages. My dad became an expert at making an old house look really nice with paint and wallpaper. The church congregation always made sure the house was in order when the new parson arrived. They would stock the pantry with cans of food to help welcome the family. I can remember a particular can of bamboo shoots that stayed in the pantry for the duration of our tenure, and we kindly left it for the next parson and his family. The church always felt like the parsonage belonged to them (and rightly so) and we always asked permission before making any changes on the house, or requested help when something needed repaired.
Because the congregations that we were privileged to minister to were small, the members became like family to us. I can name off the top of my head several sets of "adopted grandparents" who endeared themselves to our family and helped us to look forward to every Sunday. Whether it was being taken out to eat almost every Sunday, or sneaking us candy and cookies behind our mom's back during church, they made themselves a part of our lives. Of course, with any family, you get to know one another very well. When one person is missing, there is a hole. You are not just a face in the crowd in this congregation, but an integral part of the service. When one member is hurting, we all hurt along with them. We are a family of brothers and sisters.
And along with the family atmosphere, there can also be squabbles. Churches are steeped in their traditions, and when a new pastor comes along and wants to change something, there is often opposition. At one point in my dad's ministry, he was called a "young whippersnapper" by one of the board members, no doubt because he suggested something new. I can also remember a particular church secretary who would lock up the chalkboard chalk in the safe after Sunday School so we youngsters couldn't draw after church. There were aunts and uncles, and cousins, not really related to us, but closer than family could ever be.
The country parson can become an important part in the lives of those in the community. He is often the first one you call in case of emergency, and he even makes house calls. I recall in particular two elderly, widowed sisters who lived together in one small town. I was about 5 at the time, and I can remember being amazed when we would visit "Fran and Margaret" as they affectionately were called. Their house was immaculate, there were doilies pinned to the couch arms and backs. They wore gloves and hats to church on Sunday. They had the most amazing tulips I have ever seen. One memory that I have of them was a phone call that came in the middle of the night. A drunk had driven his car into their front parlor. The pastor was the only one they knew to call and so he went right over to comfort and help calm them. It was a major upset to their calm life, but the pastor was there in time of need. There is no doubt in my mind that they are in heaven now, pinning doilies to the couches and tending tulip beds.
The parson is also a member of the community in other areas as well. We have a picture of my dad placing the star on top of the community Christmas tree. We were part of many community functions and stood up for our little town in whatever ways we could. My dad was also a volunteer fire-fighter. However, this was back in the days when there were no cell phones or pagers. The only way to get the attention of the fire fighters was to ring the siren and they would come running. I recall one Sunday morning, right in the middle of a sermon, the fire siren went off. As many men stood to leave, my dad quipped, "I guess I'll have to miss this one." He still had to finish fighting that fire ...............but you'll get that in a small town.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Morning Commute
Morning commute, the above picture is most likely what comes to mind for most city dwellers. A few weeks back I ran some errands early in the morning and wanted to share what a typical morning commute in our area involves.
As we headed out of town we encountered a country traffic jam, better know as a cold grain truck that couldn't get up to speed up a slight incline. Country traffic jams usually involve one or more farm vehicles holding up the general populace. With several hills in the area, the line of aggravated drivers often gets quite long between passing zones.
'Bet you don't see one of these warnings very often in the city. And, sure enough, soon after we saw this sign, we encountered this:
Of course, we had to wait for a passing zone to get around him. Is that "sharing" the road? Maybe there should be sign that shows a car stating "Share the road."
I love country roads. Notice the hoof prints in the center of the road.
I love old cars, too. No doubt we will see this one someday in the Old Settler's Day parade.....or all souped up and entered in the demolition derby!
I've always admired this old stone grain bin. I'm glad no one has torn it down
.
It has become somewhat of a fad for people to hang or paint a giant quilt block on their barn. I'm not sure how it got started, but it is a neat reminder of the old fashioned way.
My fellow traveller for the morning. She came along so we could legally drive in the commuter lane.
Her happy demeanor also makes the trip seem less like a chore........but you'll get that in a small town.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
GPS and Rural Roads
Of course, some of the problem may be that living the rural way of life means that we are cheap-skates and don't want to update our GPS. Especially since the update costs more than the little machine cost in the first place. As a result, I think our GPS must go into panic mode sometimes. There is a new bridge in our area and every time we cross it, the GPS screen makes it look like we are swimming the English channel. I can imagine that suave, British accent screaming out: "Turn around when possible, you are about to drown!"
I don't know if the man of your house is anything like mine, but according to him, the GPS is never wrong. A couple of years ago, when our GPS was brand new, we were travelling far from home sweet home one night. We were all exhausted. We had been travelling all day, looking forward to a stay in a hotel along our way. We kept seeing signs for hotels, but just felt the urge to keep going a little further. The head of household typed in "hotel" into the GPS and it navigated us to the nearest one. We got off the exit and there was a beautiful Holiday Inn all lit up and welcoming. However, the GPS was leading us into the nearby small town. So, of course, we had to follow the voice on the screen, instead of our instincts. Our instincts were right.
We like to keep our GPS set on the "Shortest route" setting. That means we often get to travel the scenic route. Here is an example of one such time. I had to take some supplies to my hard working man while he was on a job somewhere out in the country.He gave me the address and I typed it into the GPS. We had no trouble finding him and gave him the supplies. I decided to head over to a nearby rural village to pick up some things at the Mennonite bulk store. So, I typed in the name of the town and we took off. We drove along for awhile, enjoying the scenery, obeying the commands of the beautiful British voice. At one point, I hear, "turn left" and was suddenly grateful for 4-wheel drive. This was similar to the trail we ended up on. Of course, the screen made it look like a four-lane highway.
Our next turn brought us to a cow pasture. We received an unusual stare from the man in the feed truck, but smiled and gave him "the wave" as we passed. I'm sure that my mobile billboard emblazoned with "S & D Seamless Gutters" gave him all the explanation he needed. After leaving the cow pasture, we were relieved to be back on an actual gravel road and started to relax and enjoy the scenery again. As we came up over a hill, the GPS showed that we were to continue in a straight path, but this is what we saw:
I had to turn around. I kept hearing "Turn around when possible" and the arrow on the screen kept pointing straight ahead, but I wasn't going to follow. We eventually found a recalculated route that seemed to satisfy the "voice" and made it to where we were headed.
I don't know how a GPS is programmed or how they choose what roads to include, but obviously the programmer never travelled this way before! I guess next time I may have to employ the old fashioned GPS: stop and ask for directions... but you'll get that in a small town.
Friday, January 18, 2013
America's Coolest Small Towns
I just read about Budget Travels "Coolest Small Town Contest". So I had to head over to their website to check out their list. I was rather pleased to see one town that I lived near as a young teen and at least 3 others that I have actually been to visit! They list the populations of each place as well as tourist information. So, hop on over there and check it out and vote for your favorite! You may be surprised to find your favorite small town among the top 10!
http://www.budgettravel.com/contest/americas-coolest-small-towns-2013,14/#candidate-detail12247
Of course, if this sleepy little town were named among the "Coolest", it would be a rather big deal. Everyone in town would have voted by now, and there would have been a "results party" to see who won, and the mayor would have named a street after Budget Travel..........but you'll get that in a small town.
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