My Baptism Story for the Anthology of Southwest Central Church, Houston, TX 17 August 2025

 

My Great Grandparents, H.S. Calahan & Lala Shelby Calahan, 5th&6th from the right, at their baptism, probably in Louisiana, circa 1900.

I grew up in the Texas Panhandle the small farming community of South Plains that centered around a school with eight grades and a Baptist Church where my great-grandmother was a charter member and half the deacons were my great uncles. 

The church had two revival meetings every year: one in early spring before crops were planted and another in the Fall after the crops were “laid by” and before the harvest.  

Baptisms were routinely planned for the Sunday evening following “the meeting.” Our church building had no baptistry although it had a lovely painting of three crosses on a hillside and a flowing river which would one day hang above the baptistry of the new building that everyone dreamed of. My great grandparents, my grandparents and their siblings, and my father and his siblings had all been baptized in earthen stock tanks or sometimes spring-fed creeks.

During the Spring revival, a few months after my fifth birthday, while I was in the children’s “Booster Band” and seated away from my parents for the very first time, I ran up to our pastor during the invitation hymn and told him I wanted “to be saved.” I remember how Brother Spearman hugged me and reassured me that I didn’t need to be afraid. “Jesus loves little children. You’re safe,” and he sent me down the aisle to my parents whom I told, “He got talkin’ ‘bout the debil and that fire and I got scared.”

As a second grader, I tried again. This time I really did understand, but Brother Spearman and the congregation assumed  that I had just followed several of my older cousins.  This time Brother Spearman said a short prayer of blessing that I would continue to “grow in faith” and sent me back down the aisle to my parents.

After service dismissed, I was sitting on the steps that went down into the sanctuary, feeling forlorn and embarrassed, frustrated, and wondering how I was ever going to follow Jesus if they wouldn’t let me be baptized.
Grandaddy came back into the building to get his hat from the shelf where the men left Sunday-go-to-meeting Stetsons. He saw me sitting there and walked down the steps to join me. He wrapped an arm around me and said, “Hard time tonight. Tell me about it.”
He listened. We talked.

For the next year I got to spend some one-on-one time with him, often riding in his pick-up around the farm or walking the pasture with him to pull out undesirable weeds that could compromise the Jerseys’ milk. One day toward the end of summer, Grandaddy said that he was convinced that I did know what sin was, that I was sorry for all I’d done, that I understood what it meant to repent and surrender my life to the Lord. He said he was going to "speak" to Daddy and Mother and to Brother Spearman for me. He assured me that the next time I “was called” to walk down that aisle I would not be turned away. 
And so it was.

Following the Spring revival, a few months after my 9^th birthday, I walked down the aisle and professed faith in Jesus. Brother Spearman accepted my confession, and I was welcomed by the church membership.
The following Sunday evening, the South Plains Baptist Church and most of the community traveled to the larger town of Silverton where we had arranged to “borrow” their baptistry. All those who had “come forward” during the meeting—several adults, a couple of older teens, almost every 12-year-old in our church, and I—stood and affirmed our faith in Jesus Christ as the Son of God who had died on the cross for our salvation. We declared our intention to follow Him as a disciple and to “obey all things whatsoever He commanded.”
Then we all marched out to the hallway behind the baptistry, took off our shoes and socks, and waited in line to be baptized, one by one. Several of our Sunday School teachers and a few mothers went with us. We each carried a bath towel. Mother had given me one of our fluffy “company” towels.
Back in the sanctuary, my grandmother was seated beside her parents; she held a homemade quilt to wrap me because everyone went home still wet from the water. There were no robes, no head coverings. We all wore regular clothes. Brother Spearman had waders over his regular suit trousers. 
I remember the tears in Gran's eyes, the sweetness of her smile, and the extra warmth of her hug enwrapping me.

[In this photo, I’m on the left. Kathy Mulder was a 4^th grader and just a few months shy of her 12th birthday. She had been very ill with rheumatic fever (I think) and had missed a year of school. While she was recovering she and her mother, Letha, had read the New Testament together. They had been eagerly awaiting her baptism.
Kathy was baptized immediately before me, and I watched from the top of the steps. She was wearing a new bright yellow chiffon dress which floated up and ballooned around her when she was in the baptistry. She coughed a bit coming up from the water and then the most lovely, serene smile. I was so happy for her!]

 

My mother was standing beside me and handed me one of Daddy’s freshly ironed white cotton handkerchiefs to put over my nose and mouth. She had to give me her hand for the first couple of steps down into the water.
Then Brother Spearman took my hand and said, “I’m going to baptize you now in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
He led me a few steps deeper into the water, not too deep because if we got very far from the edge my feet wouldn’t be able to touch the bottom. I was on tiptoe.  Then he whispered, “Take a deep breath.”
Placing his hand over my hand that held Daddy’s handkerchief, he said, “Buried with Christ in baptism…” He tilted me back under the water. Then he lifted me out of the water, supporting me with his arm because I had no solid footing, saying, “Arise now to walk in newness of life, dead unto sin, but alive unto God through Jesus Christ our Lord.” [All phrases from the 6^th chapter of Romans, KJV. 

I remember it like it was yesterday!

The great joy!
The feeling of freedom.
The deep sense of belonging.

And that could be the end of the story, but it wasn’t.

When I was 14 years old and a freshman in high school, having been a faithful Christian for 7 years, I had a crisis of faith, "a dark night of the soul." I declared myself to be an atheist and, refusing to be a hypocrite, I stopped going to church.
A few months later, I repented all that non-sense and considered if I had perhaps been too young and if I needed to be baptized again. I talked with my parents, my favorite Sunday School teacher who remained my life-long mentor, and Grandaddy who said,
“Oh, Sweetheart, if ever'one had to be baptized ever' time we did anythin’ wrong or foolish, we’d all be jumpin’ in the crick ever' week.”

Since the memory of my baptism was still so vivid for me, I chose to walk down the aisle, publicly confess my sin, and rededicate my life to Christ.

And that could be the end of the story, but it wasn’t. 

The subject of baptism came up again 4 years later when I was a freshman at Rice. It was David’s and my first date... [this next part may sound familiar to those who heard Dee Pipes tell her baptismal story. If you're going to date one of Betty Pipes's son, the subject will come up.] ...David and I debated the meaning of Jesus’ words to Nicodemus: 
"except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God. That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit…. Ye must be born again.”

It was an oft repeated discussion until David acknowledged that in his view my childhood baptism was indeed valid and was affirmed by the faith and discipleship that I lived, and then he added “but I doubt my church and maybe my family will agree.”
For the record, my Baptist family was no happier than his Church of Christ one to see their pride and joy "unequally yoked, to marry outside the church.”  But, in fact, I had already left the Baptist Church over issues surrounding Communion which I believed should be weekly and open to all.

As the wedding date approached, there were whispering; several people asked, “Do you think she’d agree to be baptized again.” 
She would not.

My baptism remained fresh in my memory and was far too sacred to me. I felt that undergoing “an empty rite” would be a denial of Jesus and of the Spirit’s working in my life for well over a decade.

Since David and I agreed that unity in the home was a key value, we explored other options: I favored Lutheran or Disciples of Christ, or maybe even Episcopalian. David visited my favorite churches which I had been attending on Sunday mornings. I had been attending Sunday evening and Wednesday nights at Central with him for several years. In the end, our choice was that we would worship with Central Church of Christ and see how it went.
And so it was.

We had been married about 3 years, when Central's minister, Dan Anders, paid an unexpected visit to our apartment rather late at night. He’d come directly from a meeting of Central’s Eldership who wished to extend an invitation to me to be recognized as a “member of the body of Christ.” They affirmed my baptism and welcomed me into the congregation. A tiny + cross or plus sign was added beside my name in to the church directory, and I was soon asked to join the elementary teaching staff [Camille Dailey and Marjorie Bourland as well as David, Andrea, and at least two of Central's Elders--R. L. Sanders and Don Calendar, Sr.--and several others had been advocating on my behalf.

Once again, Great joy! 
A feeling of freedom.
A deep sense of belonging.

And so it was and is and has been for 51 years.

Baptism is individual; we are all baptized one by one.
Faith may be generational. We have a duty to teach those who follow us.
Both Baptism and Faith are always communal, happening in the context of a community, a communion.
I am most grateful to have lived my live in this beloved community that knows that love, not fear, is the motivation for baptism. A people who welcomes little children and listens to them and teaches them gently. A leadership that knows that we are all God’s children and that we gather at the Lord’s Table which is free and full of abundant grace for all who come.

Spirit calls to spirit. Churches that are Spirit- led recognize the work of the Spirit when we see it in others.
^“The Spirit testifies with our spirit that we are children of God… For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other… thing will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” [Romans 8:16a, 39]

Let us commune with God and with one another.

 

 

 

Victorian Flower Gems: My Feminist Brooch

My love of costume jewelry is well known to my friends. I am blessed to have several pieces that belonged to my grandmothers and at least one that belonged to a great grandmother. When I shop an antique store, a pawn shop, or an estate sale, I always browse the jewelry for something interesting or pretty. My collecting rule is simply that I must be able to afford it and I must like it. If I see something of intrinsic value that is under priced, I buy it. Once I told a pair of weeping sisters at their mother’s estate sale to reconsider selling a couple of sterling silver earrings bearing a well-known designer mark for $2.00 because I heard them talking about how their parents had honeymooned in Mexico and I knew those earrings to be of that vintage and that they were really worth at least several hundred dollars. Knowing that, they decided to keep them. I felt good about that. (I might have been less generous if I had liked the earrings better.)

I often grab up odds and ends, even broken jewelry that is cheap with good stones or interesting beads because I do a bit of beading and some jewelry repair. Many a friend has asked me to replace a missing stone in a treasured family heirloom or to go through the contents of her mother’s or grandmother’s treasure boxes to help decide what to keep, what to have appraised, what to sell, and what to discard. Some have brought me baggies of old jewelry because “no one wants these but I thought of you.” Such a haphazard collection is better described as an accumulation because few of my pieces have been cataloged or documented.

If I had more money, it is possible I’d collect the real thing but perhaps not. One of the things I love about this old jewelry is that it was the pride and joy of ordinary women who pinned it on their best dresses or coat lapels and wore it to town, to work, to parties, to weddings, to social and civic events, and to church. These sparkly items made those middle class or poor women feel pretty, rich, and valued. They contributed to their identities. These brooches and pins are the ones displayed in old photographs. Those pieces that are passed down through families become a connection to history that is both personal and cultural. Such women’s history is not always recorded elsewhere. There is something in me that says these things that have been so treasured are not (or should not be) rubbish.

Many of the pieces reflect the aesthetics of their time and may be considered works of art. I have several pieces that I never wear but display on my dresser top or enjoy as beautiful art that I can hold in the palm of my hand.

A couple of decades ago for my birthday, my sister-in-law gave me a vintage brooch. She had bought it at an estate sale from a mutual friend (who is a bit older than I) who thought it might have once belonged to her grandmother or one of her aunts. She had no memories associated with it and needed a bit of cash and to unclutter her house. My sister-in-law was very pleased at my delight upon unwrapping it, saying, “It looked like something you might like even if it is missing several stones. I thought about trying to clean it up a bit but decided you would prefer to do it yourself.”

She was right. I gently cleaned the brooch with a soft brush and some canned air. I decided not to risk unsetting the stones with a more vigorous or liquid based cleaning. I judged there to have been at least two previous attempts at repair. When one of those ordinary women has tried to repair a family piece, I see it as an indicator of the value attached to the piece by its owner. My advice is that unless you can pay a professional to do a repair, unless they or you have access to matching stones, don’t do anything. Consider the missing stone part of the history and charm of the piece, pin it on your shoulder or lapel and wear it with pride and joy as our foremothers did.

I wish I had taken a “before” picture.

An original “ruby” had been reset but poorly and there is visible glue residue that obscures the sparkle. A second “ruby” had also been replaced with a slightly smaller but well matched red glass stone and again I note glue residue. One of the “emeralds” had also been reset or replaced; that stone is a lighter color and perhaps just a bit smaller so it could be a near miss replacement. Since glue residue is again visible, it could be that the glue has damaged the foil backing of the green glass stone which would dull the color. Fearing I might damage those stones I left most of the glue residue in place.  I left all those stones in place since I thought they enhanced rather than detracted from the brooch and were a part of its history that I wished to honor.

There is one large pearl and its setting entirely missing which leaves a small gap in the lower left center of the brooch.

A poorly executed replacement had been attempted for the missing smaller pearl. I removed a simulated pearl glass bead that was too large for the setting with the hole in that bead distractingly visible. I may one day attempt a repair if/when I find a well-matched replacement pearl.

There were several odd beads stuck onto the ends of some of the prongs along the bottom of the pin. Wrong materials, wrong color, wrong style, and clearly not elements that were original to the brooch. I removed and discarded them. I suppose there might have been something on those prongs but I cannot imagine what, and this large brooch with multiple stones and settings is certainly enough. At that point I had a small, sculptural piece to lay on an antique handkerchief on the dresser in my flowers and lace over-the-top-Victorian bathroom in my previous house. I loved it there and had no intention to wear it.

  

Then one day a few years later, I saw a near identical piece with genuine gem stones in either a museum’s exhibition catalog (a reliable source) or a vendor’s catalog (a not so reliable source.)
For this blog post, I cannot find the citation and it’s possible it was among the notes I lost in a computer crash that I could not recover. (Yes, I know. I thought I was backed up. Early auto back-up technology failed me. Alas!)
If memory serves, the original was a 19^th Century brooch with emeralds, rubies, pearls, diamonds, amethysts, and smaller pearls in an 18-carat gold setting. The description named the original owner saying it had been custom made for her to proclaim her support for both Women’s Suffrage and Christian Temperance. My memory of the description of this original museum quality piece is that it dated to about 1850. The presence of three large diamonds could be indicative of a date after 1867 when South African diamonds were discovered and diamonds became more available.

A few other dates may be helpful in considering the dating of my brooch and the original upon which it is based.

The British Association for the Promotion of Temperance was established in 1835 and in 1884 the National Temperance Federation was founded.

The Earl of Carlyle introduced a bill for female suffrage in 1851, and Jacob Bright introduced a bill for woman suffrage in the House of Commons in 1870. In 1897 local British societies that were advocating women’s suffrage merged into the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies. In 1903 the more militant Suffragettes emerged.

The “language of flowers” expressed in fine jewelry was at its most popular in Victorian Britain between 1837 (or a bit earlier) and about 1850 and remained popular with the rising middle class and in America to 1880 or so.  
Late Victorian author Evelyn Whitaker (I archive books and ephemeral materials pertaining to her life and work) made extensive use of the language of flowers in her books, particularly in her novel Laddie. In 1876 Laddie was the prize story for the Christmas number of The Monthly Packet of Evening Readings for Members of the English Church. Its first book edition, published anonymously, was in 1879 by Walter Smith, London.

At first glance, my brooch appears to be a late 19^th or early 20^th Century (circa 1897) reproduction of the circa 1851 museum quality piece that once belonged to a wealthy woman who supported both Women’s Suffrage and Christian Temperance.

The brooch has a stamped brass filigree base with multiple adjustable settings connected to a second brass setting atop it that contains multiple settings for various floral elements and settings for stones and beads. The brooch is very 3 dimensional and mimics a floral gathering. The workmanship is excellent.
The aesthetic is pure 19^th Century but the locking C-clasp which appears to be original is a strong argument that my brooch may be a WWII era American Victorian Revival reproduction. The gem stones with the possible exception of the pearls are all imitation.

In any case, the meanings behind the stones and setting make this brooch a strong feminist statement and I wear it with pride and joy on appropriate occasions.

Now a close reading of the brooch:

A double infinity bow at the top indicates two things “tied together forever” a symbol of unity.

The ivy leaves scattered throughout the brooch’s setting symbolize fidelity, eternal faithfulness, and friendship.

The presence of a diamond, symbol of purity and eternity, is intended to bring the wearer strength.

3 Emeralds  Emeralds are the gemstone for Venus signifying womanhood as a giver of life.             In Christian symbology it is the color of the evergreen, eternally green and growing                         Eternal life.  Emeralds are believed to enable clear thinking about past, present, future.                   Suffragette green represented hope and spring, the season of new life.
The emeralds are in a 3-petal floral setting which I don’t recognize. The three petals could reinforce the idea of past, present, future.  If it is a stylized pansy, it would signify remembrance.

Given its location in the setting and its proximity to two of the rubies , this emerald element might say “Remember all life flows through women/mothers.”

3 Rubies    "Who can find a worthy woman, a woman of valor. Her value is greater than rubies.”  The image from  Proverbs 31 is a salute to wisdom, particularly feminine wisdom.  A ruby may also represent courage.

Each ruby is set in six-petal rosette, associated with Aphrodite and represents sexual energy, and femininity. Six is a perfect number. It is sometimes called the “Seed of Life” and represents Creation. 

Beside one of the ruby rosettes is a diamond to signify purity and strength.

Beside the second ruby rosette is a large pearl, “the pearl of great price” from the parables of Jesus. Pearls are sometimes viewed as symbols of purity and feminine wisdom.
The third ruby is flanked by a diamond and a large pearl which is missing in my brooch.

3 Amethysts     The purple amethyst is the symbol of royalty and political power.

The ancients thought it was formed from Dionysus’ drunken tears, a meaning that may be reinforced by the tear drop shape. Victorians often used seed pearls to symbolize tears but these seem a bit too big.

For the suffragette, purple is not only the color of royalty but of freedom and dignity. 

Amethysts also symbolize chastity, sobriety, and self-control.

5 pearls around each amethyst  Victorians often used seed pearls to symbolize tears but these seem a bit too big. I think they are again“the pearl of great price”  representing the thing of such value that it is worth pursuing at all costs.

For the suffragette, white is the color of purity in both private and public lives and pearls are often used in suffragette jewelry.

For the temperance advocate, the goal would be sobriety.

Five is a significant number in biblical numerology and indicates the grace of God.

"The goals of both Women's Suffrage and Christian Temperance are worth pursuing at all costs and are achievable by the grace of God."

Emeralds, Pearls, and Amethysts may represent the green (Give), white (Women), and violet (Votes) of the suffragette banners.

Rubies, Amethysts, Pearls, and Emeralds may also mean “for the sake of your dear mother/wife pledge yourself to sobriety and the pearl of great price, everlasting life.”

On Friday 20 January 2017, Inauguration Day I dressed in all black as a sign of mourning and I wore this brooch. I wore it again on Saturday. I couldn’t march but I did go to the Museum of Fine Arts Houston which one of my friends had suggested as an alternative activity to affirm support for the National Endowment for the Arts.

The other jewelry is this picture:

Birthstone amethyst earrings that belonged to my paternal grandmother, Oma Calahan Cummings.

The gold cross belonged to my mother, Dorthy Wieland Cummings, who bought it at a “junk shop” and wore it throughout her teen years as a profession of faith.

I beaded my necklace of natural garnets (my birth stone) and antique Czechoslovakian ruby glass beads. My mother loved it at first sight and also had a January birthday so I loaned it to her for a decade or so.

The pink stone and pearl pin ornamenting the hanger is one of my first pieces of jewelry. I've had the Victorian reproduction piece since about the seventh grade. The dress is the one I wore for my sister’s wedding as her matron of honor.

Do you know something about my brooch that I don’t?

Have you perhaps seen the original in a museum?

                                                                                                                                                                    Do you have a special piece of jewelry?

Name your favorite feminist/suffragette. Mine is whoever wore the original of my brooch. 

South Plains School

1925 photo of Sunset School, housed in a wooden building. 

I attended a rural school in Floyd County, Texas, and several years ago created a facebook group for  the South Plains School Alumni & Community.
Today one of the discussions took a bit of a  turn from remembering and honoring a community member who had died to a discussion of the school's history.
As it happened, a bit later in the day I came across an envelope of newspaper clippings from May 1988 when the school closed. It "was the last rural school in Floyd County and one of only seven in Texas." At one time there were 32 rural schools in Floyd County.
My family had attended South Plains School for three generations and we had family connections going back four.

The school  "opened in 1895 as Sunset

School, district number eight," in a one-room, wood frame building located 2 miles east of South Plains. Children walked, rode horseback, or came in buggies to attend. John Wilson, the oldest student of the school still living in Floyd County at its closing, started school at Sunset in 1914. They carried lunches (cold biscuit and sausage) in a syrup pail. He remembered "the big rain of 1919... which filled the draw west and south of Sunset from bank to bank." The teacher thought it unsafe for the students to cross the flood and sent them to nearby homes of Grigsby Milton, Sr., Charlie Wilson, and Mrs. Vera Snodgrass.


Top and bottom are views are 1927 photos of the brick Sunset School.
The middle view is the flat-roofed South Plains School,
rebuilt from those bricks. I attended that school
from the first through eighth grades.

"In 1926, a brick school building was erected one mile north (farther from that draw) from the original school. It was large for its days, containing eight rooms where an enrollment of 180 students studied. They ranged from primer to tenth grade." This new brick school building was I think located on the southeast corner of the half section homestead of my grandparents, Zach Carter and Oma Calahan Cummings. Her younger sisters and brothers attended the school. I think members of his family also attended Sunset School.
I think this building was also the first meeting place of the South Plains Baptist Church of which my great grandmother, Lala Delilah Shelby Calahan, was a member.
The location of new Sunset is marked by an electric substation on land still belonging to my family.
The Fort Worth and Denver Railroad arrived in 1927 and the town of South Plains was located platted on the railroad halfway between Floydada and Silverton, the county seats of Floyd and Briscoe counties, and an equal distance from Lockney. The Sunset community decided to "dismantle" and move its school to the new town. "Noel Deavenport, one of the students in all three schools--old Sunset, new Sunset, and South Plains--remembers helping clean the brick when the school was rebuilt." I can remember hearing my great uncles (Shelby and Junior Calahan) tell that same story. The South Plains school opened in the fall of 1929 with 133 students which would be the school's peak enrollment.
I have been gleaning information and quoting an article by Neta Marble and Jim Reynolds, The Floyd County Hesperian, Volume 92, Number 25, Thursday, June 23, 1988 published upon the closing of the school and its students going to either Lockney or Floydada.
Neta interviewed my father, Kendall K. Cummings, for that article. He attended ninth and tenth grades at South Plains School following the consolidation with Roseland School in 1935. (He had started school at Roseland. Yes, he rode a pony. Then attended school at Lone Star before moving back to Roseland. At that time South Plains offered only ten grades.
Quoting Daddy: "Well over a hundred students were enrolled. We had six rooms and there was somebody in every room." He adds that some students from Cedar Hill were also attending South Plains. "They were trying to get the school accredited with a full high school then, but it went the other way." Two years later, South Plains School "was cut back to nine grades."

After Daddy's graduation from South Plains in 1937 (we have the commencement program), he attended an additional year and graduated eleventh grade from Lockney High School in 1938. His younger brother, Sterling, and his sister, Delilah,  would follow in his footsteps.
The younger siblings, Mona, Jean, and Zach W.,  attended high school in Floydada.
By the time I attended South Plains School, it had only eight grades.


1988 photo Dallas Morning News, last days

It was cut down to six grades and had only twenty-seven students enrolled before it closed in 1988.
My brother's children, Kendall II and Victoria, had just finished the fifth and the second grades. She is the girl in pink on the left. He is the taller blond boy in the black and white shirt, at the back, fifth from the left.
There was a reunion-homecoming to mark the end of the era. I flew home for the party. We had one of those rare "big rains" and couldn't get there for all of the events. We were able to make the party for which my mother had baked dozens of cookies.

Newspaper articles were published in the Lubbock Avalanche-Journal, Saturday, May 28, 1988 and in The Dallas Morning News, Sunday, May 29, 1988. I think there was some TV  coverage.

My aunt, Margaret Calahan, painted a picture.

My mother wrote a poem:



On the closing of South Plains School
1928 - 1988
by Dorthy Wieland Cummings



Country school stands in a bed of weeds.
Time has come!
No school smell--glue and sweaty kids.
The walls listen and long for laughter.
Hallways, missing footsteps
      of boys and girls
          running through,
                 happy skips of young feet.
Dead silence.
Where are they? Oh, where?
Gone!
           No more!
                         Forever...
                                         Just
                                                 dead
                                                             silence.
Memories live.

Poppies

Photo by Linda Rucker Woodall. 2014

Today there are news stories about the 888,246 ceramic poppies at the Tower of London, "Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red" by Paul Cummins.  I showed the photos to my mother and was not at all surprised when she recited the John McCrae's poem.
I was surprised by an interesting variation in the wording. She replaced the line "to you from failing hands..." with "to you from foreign lands..."
Mother says she first read this poem sometime before she was nine years e.g. prior to 1936 in a booklet prepared to honor U.S. military from Leon County who had served in WWI,
She is unsure when she memorized the poem.
McCrae was a Canadian and his poem was used in both Canada and the USA to inspire enlistment in the military during WWII.
Was "foreign lands" a mere slip of her tongue or memory?
Or, was the poem slightly altered in the version she saw as a child or in versions she may have seen later as part of a campaign against American isolationism?

Link to several photos. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2822135/Don-t-away-incredible-Tower-London-poppies-people-chance-says-Boris-Johnson-plea-not-dismantle-display-week.html

Memoir: Daddy on a summer morning...

I've been putting in a new yard. When I started removing grass to prepare a new bed, I noticed that my hoe was dull. I remembered the countless mornings from the time school turned out in May until School started in September--yes, we pretty much kept to those dates because in a rural farming community children are labor--that began with "iron sharpening iron" as Daddy filed our hoes and the rising sun colored the eastern sky and tinted the land rose gold.
I could not find my file so I asked DMP to pick one up on the way home. He did and when I opened the package in the morning light to begin a day's work, I finally got the joke.
Daddy had brought home a new file and laid it carefully on the edge of front stoop as he began using the old file on our hoes. Mother came out and sat on the stoop with her coffee cup watching him. Hiding his smile under the wide brim of his hat, he said, "Dot, hand me that S.O.B."
She shot him a look of both shock and anger.
His blue eyes sparkled and he looked directly at her and said, "That's what it is; read the label."
She did; they laughed. She blew him a kiss and tossed him the file and we got on with our day.
Even at the time, I knew they had shared a joke, a private joke, one of the countless little ways they affirmed their love day in and day out.
My new file is a Nicholson 10" Black Diamond Single Cut Bastard.
"Single Cut Bastard." What a wonderful phrase!
It would make a good line for a poem or a title for a novel.

Air Force Tablecloth

Betty's "Air Force" tablecloth.

As mentioned in my last post, I have been adding a number of things that belong to my husband's family to our household. His dear mother, Betty, has downsized into an assisted living apartment. I've been working my way through a stack of linens and was delighted to discover a beautiful tablecloth that is so wonderful that my enthusiasm is undiminished. Even after a week of  working on a stain--gone! Even having spent the greater part of a day at the ironing board.

My friend, Bobbie H., asked if the tablecloth had "a history."  Today (Valentine's Day) DMP and I took his mother out to lunch and I asked her about the tablecloth.

In the Spring of 1957 the family went on a cruise from Puerto Rico--where they were stationed while Charles was flying SAC missions out of Ramey AFB and where Bryan was born--to Panama. Nine-year-old David learned to play chess during that cruise.

Betty bought the tablecloth in Panama. She said, "The Army/Navy tablecloths had been around a long time but they finally made one for the Air Force. I'm sure it was made in China as most were then."

Detail of the octagonal panel embroidery and cut work.

"China" in this context denotes Taiwan, the source of high quality linens in the mid-20th Century. Betty's cloth is all high end textile, no polyester, and appears to me to be hand sewn.

Similar antique and vintage tablecloths are usually called "Army/Navy" cloths. They are typically composed of alternating square panels of embroidered and cutwork linen and hand made filet lace, bordered in filet lace. All hand made of natural linen/cotton  and stitched together by hand, it is a tour de force of textile art. Examples have been found dating back to the Civil War. Some sources say it was the style of tablecloth used in the Army Navy Club in Washington, D.C.


My guess is that the octagonal shape is what distinguishes the Air Force cloth from the Army/Navy cloth.

A half-octagon is the rather stylized wing of the current USAF logo. That logo was not adopted until 1970 but the bottom section of the USAF shield is that a half octagon. The lower section of the Army shield is almost square; the Navy's, triangular.
Note also the repeated ^ ^^ shapes in the cut work and the filet lace which might also be a wing motif.



I especially like the rose embroidery and lace panel because it goes so perfectly with the Open Rose footed fruit bowl (Imperial Glass) which my mother bought in the late1970s from the old back room inventory when Brown's (or was it Baker's?) Store in Lockney went out of business.

I always keep a mirror under the bowl to reflect the light.

I love my table where friends and family gather but I do not ever plan to use this particular tablecloth during a meal. It is truly vintage collectible, now at least 57 years old.

Also, I am not eager to wash and iron it anytime soon.

Here is a link to a some good advice on caring for antique and vintage linens:
http://www.vintagetableclothsclub.com/stains.htm

Some things I collect are not books...

Moving empties all the closets. Bits and pieces packed carefully away are unpacked, looked at, shared with others, displayed, repacked, or discarded. Theoretically, skeletons may walk about. My mother-in-law, Betty Meggs Pipes, recently moved from the large family home into a much smaller assisted living apartment. These are a few treasures that have found a new home with David and me.

 The pottery we bought for David's mother, mostly in the late 1970s and 1980s during our vacations in NW New Mexico and SW Colorado, have moved from Betty's bookshelf to our entry.
When the Pipes family was stationed in Roswell, NM, where they lived when David started First Grade, Betty fell in love with the beautiful black on black Santa Clara Navajo pottery. A newly minted USAF captain with a growing family could not afford such luxuries, but David remembered her wishes and over the years we bought her three small Santa Clara pots:

larger pot by Hovenweep Navajo Manuel (Manual) or Janna (Yuana) "Morgan" AdaKai; 

pot with the turquoise by Johanna Herrera, Santa Clara,  our favorite although one notes the lesser quality of this pot in its wide, thick, unglazed opening;

the first piece we bought by the great Santanita Suazo, mother of Candeleria Suazo and Mae Tapia.

The small black and white "seed jar" is the very early work of the premier potter Robert Patricio, Acoma, NM.

The pot with the lovely colors is "Moving to Mesa" by Mountain Ute artist Norman Lansing.

My dining room table is piled with linens.
Some more lovely pillow cases which Betty bought

during her Asian travels. I had previously inherited some of those she gave to her mother. I love linens and have a number displayed in our guest bedroom.

I have been enchanted by the table linens and have spent a week working on stains in  a beautiful white on white embroidered panels and lace tablecloth. Finally succeeded. Cold water always. Finally, the last resort:  a long soak in dishwasher detergent, Cascade. The stain is gone. Now to iron. I seriously need to weed my collection of table linens and storing all these old/new additions will be an incentive, I hope.

Some things from Betty's house fit perfectly in mine. Some things will be a perfect fit soon: the Asian brass candlesticks that Charles had converted into lamps--need to be rewired and something done about the shades--are going to look great in our dining room. Some things are a bit more problematic like trains sets and bright red "sandbox" toys.

Not to mention the books.
So far no skeletons.

Pumpkin Soup...

I love the holiday season and for me it really does start with Halloween. I'm not fond of the overdone and expensive decorations--a pumpkin or two is sufficient--and I'm not much for the store-bought or rented costume. I like the old-fashioned Halloween of my childhood--a carnival at the country school we attended with simple games, a not-so-scary spook house, good food, and more candy than was good for us.

Our costumes were often made almost spur of the moment with whatever we had on hand. A farm family never has much money to waste on trifles. My mother always dressed as a gypsy and was a wonderful fortune teller. A burlap sack, braids made from laddered stockings, a headband with a feather, a corn cob doll for a prop--an Indian princess. Daddy's oversized padded cover-alls pulled up over the head with the neck stuffed with something, a pair of gloves and boots--a headless monster who needs a companion guide because the only view is through the button or zipper placket. A witch was usually easy. So was a pirate. A classic ghost was hard because even our old sheets were useful and we couldn't cut holes for eyes. But an old shower curtain or piece of fabric with a shower cap and a rubber mask... Grandma had found the mask in her yard the day after Halloween one year  and gave it to us... it appeared year after year. As far as I can remember that was the only "store bought" mask we had. We made masks out of cardboard and fabric scraps and bric-a-brac. We were limited only by our imaginations and what our crafty mother could help us make out of what we had. A big box could turn into almost anything--a TV set, a robot, a lamp table. A bunch of purple balloons to make a bunch of grapes. Raiding Mother's closet and dressing up in big hats and platform heels. Cross dressing was popular. The best Halloween trick was just the simple joke of a costume good enough to fool everyone into thinking that my brother was my sister.

One of the things I love about my church is that it offers one of those old-fashioned experiences to the children of our neighborhood. We started this year's festivities with a Pumpkin Festival last week. The kids got to decorate the pumpkins that will grace our fellowship hall and courtyard for the big party on Wednesday.
I made pumpkin soup and by popular demand the recipe follows:

K's Pumpkin Soup

In a large pot, whisk together and heat:

• 1 quart of homemade chicken stock (recipe below)
• 1 can Libby's pumpkin
• Add 1 teaspoon each garlic powder, onion powder, cinnamon, black pepper, sweet paprika.
• 1/2 teaspoon each chili powder and black pepper.

Bring just to a boil, reduce heat to low, simmer for 15 minutes.
Add

• 1 can (12 oz.) Carnation evaporated milk, simmer for a couple more minutes, stirring.

{At this point I ate a cup of soup for lunch--it was wonderful!--and put the rest in the fridge.}

A couple of hours before serving time, I put the soup in my slow cooker and added

• 2 quarts Imagine organic butternut soup  

Heat on high until hot, then turn down to warm and serve.

Served in cups with a bowl of roasted  and salted Austinut's pumpkin kernels to add if the diner desires.

 

Note: I often use the butternut squash soup as a base or an extender for my autumn soups. When I was making this soup for Southwest Central Church's Pumpkin Festival, I intended to serve it in cups as a warm beverage. Had I been serving it at home in bowls to be eaten with spoons. I would have started by sauteing a medium onion, finely chopped,  and a couple of cloves of garlic, minced,  in canola oil rather than using the dried spices. I might have prepared some spaghetti squash to mix with it.  I would have diced some wonderful apples (golden ginger or honey crisp) to put a little crunch in the bowls and garnished with a dollop of sour cream or yogurt with a bit of parsley and maybe some bacon bits. 

This pumpkin soup gathered compliments because of the homemade stock which I had in my freezer. It was the liquid left after I had poached chicken for chicken salad. Here is how I did it:

  

Poached Chicken for chicken salad and chicken stock 

• 10 sprigs parsley
• 2 sprigs fresh thyme
• 1 small onion, halved
• 1 small carrot, halved
• 1 stalk celery, halved
• 3 pounds chicken breasts halves, on the bone and fat trimmed
• 2 cans reduced sodium chicken broth
• 2 cups (half a bottle) of white wine

Put the parsley, thyme, onion, carrot, celery, and chicken breasts in a pot. Cover with the broth, and bring just to a boil. Lower the heat to very low and cover. Poach the chicken for 20 minutes or until firm to the touch. Remove the pan from the heat, uncover, cool the chicken in the liquid for 30 minutes.

Transfer the chicken to a cutting board and reserve the liquid. Bone and skin the chicken and cut the meat into 1 inch cubes. Discard the bones and skin.  Yield: cubed chicken or 4 to 6 servings
Use the chicken to make chicken salad.

Strain the broth and store, covered, in the refrigerator for 3 days or freeze for later use. Remove any fat from the surface of the broth before using or freezing. 

And, just because it's in the same file, here is my chicken salad recipe:

Chicken Salad

• 4 cups diced poached chicken, recipe follows
• 1 stalk celery, cut into 1/4-inch dice
• 4 scallions, trimmed and thinly sliced or 1/4 cup sweet onion cut into 1/4-inch dice
• 1 1/2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh tarragon or fresh dill
• 2 tablespoons finely chopped parsley
• 1 cup Hellman's mayonnaise
• 2 teaspoons strained freshly squeezed lemon juice
• 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
• 2 teaspoons kosher salt
• Freshly ground black pepper

In a mixing bowl, toss together the chicken, celery, scallions and herbs. Set aside.

In a small bowl, whisk together the mayonnaise, lemon juice, mustard, salt and pepper to taste. Add to the chicken and mix gently until combined. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

Cook's Note: Serve on a bed of lettuce with sliced tomatoes, in half an avocado or in a chicken club sandwich made with artisan's bread, crispy smoked bacon, vine-ripened tomatoes and lettuce.

For me, chicken salad with vine-ripened tomatoes is summer. I made many batches this year. Now I've got that wonderful frozen stock to use in my autumn soups. Happy holidays!

Distinguished Hope



Last Friday night DMP and I attended the Celebration of Champions, part of the Earth's Angels Conference 2012 celebrating 10 years of Encouragement, Mentoring, Leadership for Today's Teen Girl and Young Adult Women.   Link to the sponsoring church:  Internal Hope Fellowship. An important part of the program are college scholarships awarded to conference attendees and one of my favorite parts of the evening was the young women who came back to report their successes and express their gratitude.  In recent years the conference has become increasingly reflective of Houston's racial and ethnic diversity.  Five years ago the conference leadership recognized that many of the young women attending the conference "didn't know what a mature Christian woman looked like."  Every year since they have honored 2-4 women; this year I was one of the honorees.



It's been a challenging couple of months for me. To quote Dorothy Day: "Too much praise makes you feel you must be doing something terribly wrong."  It's always easy for me to see how far short I fall and Lent--well timed to come just when I realize the complete failure of my New Years' resolutions--always brings "missing the mark" even more clearly to mind.  I've been sick off and on since Christmas and have endured some pretty big disappointments and had begun to dread the evening.  The big night arrived with a huge blinding rain storm and this little West Texas girl is still a bit afraid of such blinding rain that goes on and on.

David and I had invited a table of ten friends and young women to attend but fates conspired and we were a small group. Despite my concerns the evening turned out to be very happy and fulfilling.  And the food was hot and delish for which the Hilton NASA Clear Lake deserves props since the rain delayed the start by well over half an hour.

Jo, Taylor, Ashley, Elana, me, and David looking great in a suit.
Jo and I both changed our wardrobe plans because it turned cold.
Our lovely young guests were probably chilly in their pretty Spring dresses.
Steve Sandifer took the pic and also drove the church van through that scary storm.
Hilton NASA Clear Lake would has beautiful views when it's clear.

David and I were moved to a special table as the festivities got underway.  The greatest honor of the evening was getting to share a table and a stage with Mrs. Mayme Canada Brown, born in 1920, graduated from Prairie View A&M in 1946, and began teaching school the year I was born--a truly remarkable woman.  There was a "seven degrees of separation" moment--except that it was more like five degrees.  Mrs. Canada-Brown's daughter Meredith had just spoken to her college roommate whose mother had died.  Willie Mae "Bill" Cummings Hale is another remarkable woman whom I just barely remember.  She would have celebrated her 100th birthday on July 1 and is my grandfather's cousin.  So, through Meredith, we are back in touch with the children of Grandaddy's Uncle Sid and Aunt Susie.  I'm looking forward to reading Bill's Biography being written by her daughter Janna.

Receiving the lovely statue from Earth's Angels' founder Kathy Burrell
with Pastor George E. Burrell, Sr.

Finally the big moment and because some of you asked the rest of this post is my short "teaching" as written, not as delivered with a few notes:
{I believe I began with a word of thanks and a comment that I had never thought my life was particularly remarkable.}

 It is wonderful encouragement to be here with you tonight.  I love seeing all the faces of you glorious, young women who have come this weekend for a noble purpose: to discover who “we are and what God calls us to do with our lives.” It may not have been easy for you to make time for this conference but it will be worth it.

“In a culture where the media shapes our values, goals, and dreams, it is important to escape the constant bombardment of ads and images” and to remember that all of us, that each of us, “is made for more.” We are “made in the image of God.”  {At this point I inserted some praise for the lovely dance presentations by V-star's ensemble and by Camisha Dixon.  I always enjoy dance when it is well done and these young women danced well without one hint of lewdness.  Delightful!}

I’m 63 years old. I’ve been a follower of Jesus for over half a century. {At this point I inserted a few sentences about fellow honoree Mayme Canada Brown.  One of my passions is racial healing and I wanted to offer the words of my heart in deep esteem and respect for the life and pioneering work of this woman who is 30 years my elder.}  I’ve learned one thing: From beginning to end, life is a journey. Each of us lives one day at a time, one step at a time. Each step along the way can move us closer to God and to the abundant, joyful life Christ wants for all of us.” It’s not easy but it is worth it.



{I think I omitted the following sentence.}  This journey “inward, upward, and outward... involves serious soul-searching and risk-taking, honest reflection and courageous action.”



It’s easy to say “just follow Jesus” but it’s not so easy to do when the road is long and hard. Some of you already know that. Doubt, fear, disappointment, pain, despair have more than once caused me to get lost. It’s hard to follow Jesus when I can’t see him.

{There was a lot of energy in the audience.  I've never spoken with a chorus of "Come on now" before.  I love the rhythmic cadence and audience involvement that one often finds in the black church.} 

The good news is: I didn’t have to make my life’s journey alone. I’ve walked the way with the people of God. When I couldn't see Jesus, I followed my grandparents and my aunts and my Sunday School teachers. When I didnn’t know which way to go, I walked beside the older, wiser women at my church. When I stumble my Christian friends help me get back on my feet and take the next step in the right direction. And somehow, even though it is hard, like every thing else it gets easier with practice.



Perhaps most important: Because I wanted to be a godly woman, I waited for and I married a godly man and we make each other stronger and better.  {And much to my surprise I got just a bit gushy about my husband.  I am proud of him.}

No one makes life’s journey alone. The first Psalm tells us that God “watches over the way of the righteous..."  God watches over the lives of His people.  Holy God, watch over us as we seek to walk the way of the righteous, to “live like Christ and... to find God’s image restored in our lives.” Amen. 

Thank you, Kathy Burrell and Earth’s Angels for this night of celebration, for these beautiful keepsakes, and most of all for the opportunity to have taken a step on life’s journey with each of you.



Most of the phrases in quotation marks are from my Lenten reading:

The Song Forever New:  Lent and Easter with Charles Wesley

by Paul Wesley Chilcote 

which I'm reading in the Kindle edition.