Tag Archives: indiana

weekenders

Posted in kiddie-do, love and happiness, Travels by

when i was a little girl my dad had an old knit hat he called his “weekender” that he would wear around the yard while working and doing chores.  i would tag along “helping” with some chores which pretty much consisted of me picking up all the tiny sticks all over the yard. well, now it’s darla’s turn to be the stick-picker-upper. this past one was definitely a “weekender” weekend, reminding me of saturdays and sundays long gone.

here’s our indiana-ing.

feeding the birdies with grandpa

our marshmallow ghosts. can you tell which ones darla did?

chasing bubbles with grandma

repurposing an old toilet paper roll as a peanut butter bird feeder

and oooohhhhh the leaf piles!

i didn’t take any pics of our wilderness trek but that was kinda the point. to just get back to investigating nature. we found a huge beaver dam! i haven’t seen one since i was a little girl. i love having those moments with my little girl. grandpa came too and he was able to pass on more information than mommy. he’s the real wilderness expert. i’m just a fake. other than that trek my favorite part of the weekend was right here:

i love sitting next to a fire, indoor or outdoor. especially with a cup of coffee with chocolate milk, bailey’s and whipped cream. or with a hocher schorr weiss.

i’ll try to get pics of our trick or treating up later today or early tomorrow. i know you are looking for them, hubster.

in honor of indiana autumn

Posted in love and happiness by

we’ve been reading spooky books and poems by candlelight. i thought i’d share my favorite fall poem, by james whitcomb riley, with everyone before we take off for hoosier heartland.

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and the gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’; of the guineys and the cluckin’ of the hens
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O it’s then the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock

They’s somethin kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here –
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny monring of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock –
When the frost is on the punkin and fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries – kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A preachin’ sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below – the clover overhead! –
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!
I don’t know how to tell it – but if sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me –
I’d want to ‘commodate ’em – all the whole-indurin’ flock –
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!