Half Pint

“I am beginning to learn that it is the sweet, simple things of life which are the real ones after all.”
-Laura Ingalls Wilder

When we moved from the Phoenix Metro area to northeastern Arizona seven years ago, I didn't realize I would transform from City Girl back to my country roots. In fact, I didn't even realize I had country roots. Frankly, I had never thought to try to characterize the life I lived with Grandma and Grandpa Potts, up in Pottsville, all those years ago.  I didn't think it was country life; I thought it was just life with some hard work mixed in.

I didn't even particularly like the hard work -- we did it because Mom told us to help Grandma. By and large, we were pretty obedient kids and we certainly did what Mom told us to. That's just how it worked. So, we gardened, and fed the cow, and strained the milk, and stirred the cottage cheese, and dumped eggshells in compost, and weeded, and put clothes through the wringer, and picked green beans, and canned, and washed dishes. And canned. And washed dishes. And canned. And canned.

I didn't know that one day, when I was fumbling through learning to can by myself --and feeding chickens, and scattering straw, and trying my hand at gardening -- that I would feel connected to my girlhood. That I would pause and stand as still as possible in my garden on summer mornings, because it was as if Grandma was right there with me, and I didn't want to even whisper and lose the feeling.

I had no idea I was so connected to that part of my past. I didn't know how I had loved those years with Grandma and Grandpa. I just happily experienced them at the time, as kids do, and grumbled with my sister Lynda and my cousins when I felt we had just too much to do.

As a grown up now, though, I know there is something about these "close to the earth" ways that make my spirit sing. When I started gardening and canning and keeping chickens and making homemade bread after grinding the wheat fresh, my Aunt Carol told me that my Uncle Rich said something about my practicing "the old ways." I was touched by that statement more than I can ever express. I felt something deep in me stir, and I felt...honored. Like somehow, I was part of some wonderful, respected old tradition of hard working people who knew and passed down "the old ways."  I think I responded that way because I felt that Uncle Rich had meant it as a deep compliment (I don't know that for sure, and I don't think I'll ask, just in case he didn't mean much by it, in which case I'd feel foolish for tearing up every time I think of it, which would just rob the whole sentiment entirely, for heaven's sake.)  The reason I suspect it was a compliment, though, is because it wasn't long after Aunt Carol told me that until Uncle Rich dropped by one day with a quart jar of multi-colored dry beans. My heart actually caught for a moment; I knew immediately what those beans were, and tears sprang to my eyes. These were heirloom beans ... beans Uncle Rich cared for and nurtured each year in his tiny garden, carefully collecting and storing them because they came from our family farm in Kentucky and had been passed down by generations of Fraleys. How many generations, we don't know. When I asked him how long they'd been passed down, he only shrugged and said, "I don't know. I know Daddy said they'd been gathered and saved for years and years, but I don't know how long."

It didn't matter.

What mattered was knowing Grandpa Fraley had collected, and stored, and reseeded the forebears of the beans in Kentucky for decades that were now right there in a quart jar in my front yard, decades later, in northern Arizona.

Uncle Rich and I sat right down on the ground in front of my house as he began sorting through the beans. He pushed them to and fro, nudging them into separate piles that made no sense to me, but I know made perfect sense to him. I kept mostly quiet, letting him decide which ones he'd pass on to me and which ones he'd keep. I knew this hadn't been an easy decision, to let any of these treasured living things go. I know because I'd asked about the beans a time or two over the past few years and he'd looked decidedly reluctant to share, so I didn't push. To have him there, then, willing to part with them...willing to entrust me with our family heirlooms...was a surprisingly sacred moment for me. I don't know if he has any idea how much that little bit of time we spent visiting and sorting beans that day meant to me.

But, what it affirmed to me, was that his assessment of my taking part in "the old ways" had merit in his eyes.

Uncle Rich called it "the old ways"; my sister took an entirely different tack. When I'd tell her of some new venture I was up to...making homemade laundry soap, sitting on a stump watching my chickens for hours, taking in a stubborn goat...she'd roll her eyes and say, "OK, Half Pint."  Yep, she and my Mom had no desire to take part in any of my endeavors, with our industrious -- often messy -- country life having no appeal to them. And that's been just fine...I laugh at their disdain, and they laugh at me for my farminess and we all find each other ridiculous in our positions, which works well for us. There's not a lick of mean spiritedness about any of it.

Plus, for me, Half Pint isn't such a bad thing to be called. After all, it's what Pa called Laura Ingalls in her books, and I LOVED her books. When I read them as a little girl, I remember my tummy getting so excited reading about the bins of flours and dried goods in their pantry; hearing Laura detail all of the preparations they made for the winter -- the foods they would bottle, the meat they would hang to cure, the wood they would stack, their trips for salt and sugar...all of it enthralled me. It should have come as no surprise to me then, as an adult, that my happiest moments would be watching our pantry shelves fill up with the beautiful jars of tomatoes and apples and peaches we'd canned ourselves. Or seeing the rows of cans filled with wheat and flour and sugar and beans that provide security in our shed next to the house. Or knowing our eggs come from happy hens who are allowed to peck around our few acres; and that last year we got to the grapes for the first time, before the birds did. My delight at finding a tiny patch of asparagus left over from the old couple that had lived here, that I continue to nurture every year, should be no surprise at all; or my concern for keeping alive the lilac tree and honeysuckle bush that I believe must have brought Buelah, the old lady who lived here for decades, such joy.

I love that something of my past -- both of childhood and deep ancestry -- is stirred every time I take part in one of "the old ways" or share young Laura Ingalls' excitement at a well- stocked pantry. I'm grateful to be connected to the old traditions and practices and to remember my Grandma Potts here in Arizona, and Grandpa Fraley in Kentucky when I choose to walk in the old ways.

These "sweet, simple things of life" really are the real ones, after all.

Well said, Half Pint.

Love from the farm,
Teri

A Spooky Tale of Pottsville

Because it's Halloween and because I haven't spoken of Pottsville in a very long time, I figured I would share a spooky tale of Pottsville and kill two birds with one stone. Now, this isn't something spooky thing that happened in Pottsville, mind you, because in spite of there being only three lonely residences out in the middle of the boonies, far from anywhere, there really wasn't much spooky that happened there.

For those just joining us, Pottsville was a little homestead on a hill three miles off a dirt back road stretching between the hamlet of Woodruff and town of Snowflake.

Pottsville was founded by my Grandpa and Grandma Potts  in the early 1970s; then our little family of four joined them upon our move from Normal Town-Normal Life, Ohio in the late '70s. Finally, we were joined by my Aunt Barbara and her children Jack, Tawnya, David, John and Michelle (Shannon came later and was the only native-born Pottsvillian). We 13 people and assorted dogs, cats and the occasional milk cow, Shetland pony and pigs were the sum total of the inhabitants of Pottsville.

Grandpa and the other menfolk built a windmill that provided electricity for Grandpa's and Aunt Barbara's homes. We had a diesel generator down the lane, and we had Army field phones connected between the three homes. I kid you not. This was my life from nearly nine through age 13.

Ours was a very low key, if busy, existence. We gardened, cleaned, gardened, dusted, canned, did Grandma's laundry on a roller washer, gardened, made cheese, rendered lard, the works. The TV was only on while ironing one hour a week, we listened to a battery-operated radio and read by Coleman lantern in the evening. Again, I kid you not.

But this is not the spooky part of the story. No, that comes much later.

Let me finish painting this image of Pottsville. Grandma and Grandpa's place was at the bend in the road; Aunt Barbara's house was a matter of 50 to 100 yards, I guess, down the road from them; and we were 1/4 mile from Grandma's. There were no street lights, no sidewalks, no asphalt anywhere to be seen. There was a dirt road and we lived along it.

Flash forward about 22 or 23 years, when we had all long since moved from Pottsville to places with stop signs and forced air, and such. Grandma and Grandpa had passed away, I was living in the Phoenix metro area, my cousin John had just moved to southeastern Arizona and Aunt Barbara moved into a little rock house in Woodruff.

John and I had brought our kiddos home to Woodruff for Halloween, as we did every time Halloween fell on a weekend. We were chatting while our kids were trick or treating and I said, "Hey, I have to tell you about this weird recurring dream I've been having the past few years...." and I proceeded to tell him the following:

In my dream, we are up in Pottsville and I know it's sometime in the future, in the way you just seem to know these things in dreams. It's dark and a bunch of us from our family -- aunts, uncles, cousins, older grandkids -- are hurriedly packing belongings into the back of a truck that belongs to my Uncle Sam. Uncle Sam is there, along with John and me, and lots of others, and Uncle Sam says with his Georgia drawl coming through in a low, urgent tone, "Come on, guys, let's just get this packed and get out of here. Let's hurry up and get this done."

I instinctively know we are trying not to draw attention to ourselves.

This Pottsville looks nothing like our Pottsville of old. I know that's where we are, but it's transformed into a makeshift shanty town, with hastily thrown up lean-to kinds of dwellings, string lights strung haphazardly and unevenly from one dwelling to the next.

The dwellings look something like this, but without the water:

 

 

 

They're lining just one side of the street -- the side our family homes had been on -- and they extend from down where our house had been, up the road and around the bend in front of Grandma and Grandpa's place, then on down the road from their house about 1/8 of a mile.

 

The string lights (which look kinda like these):

 

 



 

aren't flickering, but they're swaying a little bit -- whether from all the bustling activity or a breeze, I'm not sure.

What I am sure of is that there is a menace in the air. I mean a menace. Anyone see "Escape from New York" with Kurt Russell and Adrienne Barbeau in the '80s? Yeah, that kind of menace. That "keep your head low, don't make eye contact, don't even breathe loud" kind of heavy franticness in the air. (I don't care if franticness isn't a word; it's what I mean.)

Trucks with all kinds of mean looking dudes go driving past, with threatening looking guys in the cabs and a few in the truck beds, holding rifles, for good measure. Dogs are weaving in and out of the action, moving through the groups of people. There's a droning noise - a mixture of idling engines, generators, and the trucks motoring by.

The mantra repeats in my head, "We gotta get outta here. We gotta go. Let's go, let's go." Even in your head, you muttered it low so no one could hear. I was tense and afraid and intent. And I knew so was every member of my family around me.

I had the sense that if we messed up, something like this would happen:

And that was it.

That was the sum total of the dream.

Where were we trying to go? Why had that little shanty town emerged up on our hill? Why did it feel like the whole world was in the same boat and that wherever we were heading wasn't necessarily going to be much better?

No clue.

As chilling as the dream was, and as unnerving as it was to have it over and over, over the years, the dream wasn't the spooky part.

This is the spooky part.

After I described the dream to John, expecting to elicit a witty quip or rash of questions from him, instead I noticed he'd gone a little slack jawed.

"What?" I asked.

Slack jawed wasn't what I'd anticipated.

"What?" I repeated.

Anyone who knows my cousin John knows he's a jokester and can understand why I was just waiting for his goofy rejoinder.

Instead, he said without a hint of humor, "I've been having that same dream."

There went my shave job.

Does that ever happen to you? You shave your legs, then you go and get goose bumps and out pop the little stubbies on your legs? Well, that's what happened to me in that moment. Instant stubbies.

I took a good look at him to see if he was pulling my leg, but he asked, "Who's in your dream?"

I rattle off the cast of recurring characters.

"That's the same as mine, except Grandpa and Uncle Bob are there, too."

Uncle Bob and Grandpa have been gone for years by the time we have this conversation.

Not knowing what to do with this creepy little turn of events, we changed the topic and didn't speak of it again -- to each other or anyone else.

Then, Halloween rolled around a year or two later, and John and I found ourselves at his mom's house where we were visiting while our kids bagged candy from the neighbors.

As we were sitting there I ventured, "Hey, Aunt Barbara, did John ever tell you about the weird dream about Pottsville we've both been having?"

Aunt Barbara is a no nonsense, doesn't-brook-fools kind of woman and I love her dearly for all her grumpy protestations when people are acting ridiculous. I honestly did not know how she would respond to our tale, but since it'd been a couple years since we talked about it and I wasn't as spooked anymore, I figured we'd give it a whirl.

So, we finish telling her about the dream, and without flapping an eyelid, she shrugs her shoulders and says, as cool as a cucumber, "I've been having that dream for the past 10 years."

We had no words.

Then Aunt Barbara added, "But in my dream, one of the dogs has short fur and I know it's cold,so I take a pair of flannel footsie pajamas that belong to one of Teri's babies -- because, Teri, I knew you wouldn't mind -- and I put them on the dog."

And we've never spoken of it to one another since.

What the heck does it mean to have three people dreaming the same dream over the years, with no shared knowledge of it and certainly without any basis in any kind of shared experience we'd ever had? Why would this happen?

I can tell you that since we had that conversation, I have not had the dream again. I haven't asked Aunt Barbara or John whether they have, either.

And that's my spooky Pottsville tale.

Happy Halloween from the farm,
Teri

What time is it?! It's CARPET TIME!!!

So, one time, when I was a teenager, Mom took us on one of our epic shopping adventures in the Valley. (That's Valley of the Sun, Phoenix Metropolitan Area for those of you not up on the Arizona lingo.) I didn't know it then, but I learned as an adult that those week-long shopping trips where we'd throw down bags in a hotel, then shop, eat and watch movies all through the Valley were actually Mom's lifeline while we were living our rustic little life in Pottsville.

You know, the one where we listened to a battery-operated radio, by the light of the Coleman lantern, while reading books or playing Backgammon, gathered around our dining room table, with the rest of the house in darkness, out in the desert, miles from a town, with only two other homes nearby? Belonging to Grandma & Grandpa Potts, and my Aunt Barbara?

Yes, well, apparently the shopping trips offset the hard work of cutting wood, building fires, hauling water from Grandma's occasionally, leaving a warm bed to run outside and start the generator in the morning.... In short, those trips are probably the reason Mom is still with us today.

For us girls, those trips meant shopping, dining out, swimming pools and movies...yes. But, they also meant TV, which we didn't get much of in Pottsville. We'd watch one hour a week of TV while Mom had the generator on to iron Dad's work shirts. And his jeans. Yes, he was THAT guy...the one with pressed jeans. We got exactly one channel on our TV in the boonies, and usually when Mom was ironing our program choice was Little House on the Prairie or Little House on the Prairie.

Which brings me to the purpose of this post.

On one of our shopping trips, I couldn't sleep. No matter what I did one night, I could not sleep. So, I settled in for a night of watching TV. It seemed a wonderful idea except for the fact that in this motel we were picking up very few channels for some reason, and one of them I flipped to had some stuff going on that I couldn't make heads or tails of, all I know is it made my stomach feel funny and I was glimpsing body parts I'd never seen before ...and the noises...Wow. I flipped away from the channel fast and didn't deviate from the remaining channel that was safe and not confusing and weird.

Only that channel, come about 1 a.m. played the same commercial over and over and over again. "What time is it?!?" shouts the announcer. "It's CARPET TIME!!!" shouted the happy crowd. Incessantly. Ad nauseum. Till I thought I would pull out my fingernails. Oh, how I longed for sleep. Alas, sleep did not come. Reruns of Starsky and Hutch, the Rockford Files and Barney Miller were interspersed among the stupid, happy carpet people that long, long night.

It's stayed with me lo these many years.

And do you know why I'm telling you this? Why I took ALL that time and all those words to tell you about it?

It's because around this time of year, every year I think, "What time is it? It's TIME TO PLANT THE GARLIC!!"

And, just as those stupid commercials didn't motivate me to go out and buy carpet, neither does repeating that silly mantra ever motivate me to get out and stick some darned cloves in the ground and get me some garlic overwintering.

And, every spring, I lament that I didn't get the garlic in in the fall.

Here's hoping this year is the year.

I'd really like to have fresh garlic next year.

And that's really all I had to say.

You can thank me later for getting that dang commercial stuck in your head. If that one isn't enough, let's throw in "It's time to make the donuts...." with images of that tired, balding baker for kicks. Remember that one? Is it playing over and over in your head now? Is it all rushing back?

Good. Sleep on that.

Heheheheheheh.....

Love from the farm,
Teri

Favorite Home & Cooking Discoveries

I've always loved to cook and do things around the kitchen, but it's only been in the last few years that I've really been able to concentrate any significant amount of time on all things homey.

Here are a few of my favorite discoveries:

• Rubbing your hands with a couple teaspoons of salt then running them under cold water will get rid of painful onion and aromatic garlic oils. Many a time my children have found me, mascara streaming down my cheeks, eyes clenched tight, furiously scrubbing my hands with salt. They've quit asking me if I'm OK; they know that within moments I'll be happily cooking again.
• You shouldn't add liquids to any dry good mixture containing baking powder until the last possible moment before mixing, so whatever you're cooking will have the perfect texture and height. This goes for your pancakes, quick breads, biscuits and any other item in which you include baking powder.
• Baking cornbread in a cast iron skillet. I don't know why I love this so much, but it makes me happy each and every time.
• Canning. Magical. It's hot, long hours, and don't even think about doing the cost analysis between the amount of time it took you to plant, grow and can the food compared to what it would have cost to go to the Piggly Wiggly and pluck it off the shelf. That's not what it's all about. It's about staring at the beautiful jars on your shelf, knowing YOU did that, knowing none of the goodness was cooked out - it's all sealed right up there in the jars; knowing there's nothing artificial or mysterious in those jars. It's love and health and security all gathered under a shiny, sealed tight lid.
• Using honey in place of sugar in cornbread, pancakes and homemade buttermilk syrup means your family will be calling out to you from the table, singing your praises with their mouths full, while you're still pulling the last batch of pancakes off the griddle before sitting down with them. Usually, we wait till we're all sitting down to bless the food, but this is one meal where we bless the food before I'm done cooking, because once the syrup is done and the plate is piling high with pancakes, my crew can't stand the suspense any longer.
• Grinding popcorn for cornmeal. It's beautiful, fresh and so full of flavor. And a cost saver: I never throw away ancient, half-used boxes of expensive cornmeal anymore. I buy regular popcorn, grind a small handful at a time and throw any extra - no matter how little is left - in a baggie and into the freezer. Then, I use the remnants for tossing on a baking stone before popping rustic bread or pizza pies into the oven.
• Oatmeal pancakes. They must be served with homemade syrup, which is easy to whip up while the pancakes are cooking. Served alongside bacon and perhaps fried eggs, it's the best breakfast ever. But you better get those kids off their tushies and engaged in some strenuous project right after they eat, or everyone will be heading off for naps following this carb-packed meal.

While I'm waiting for the cornbread to be done that I'm baking to go along with Mike's beans for work tonight, I'll share our favorite oatmeal pancake recipe. I'll include a buttermilk syrup recipe, too, but I have to confess, it is good but it isn't our favorite. I believe finding our favorite syrup recipe will be a reward the housecleaning fairies will bestow upon me for cleaning off the top of the refrigerator.

But first, my final favorite discovery - not one I learned in recent years, but from my Grandma Potts, when I was a little girl: drop a slice of homemade cornbread in a bowl, cover it in fresh cream or milk, and sprinkle with sugar. It's a ridiculously rustic, country little treat and I've never eaten it without being transported back to Grandma's little single-wide trailer up on the hill in Pottsville, sitting at the rickety table looking out the kitchen window at Grandpa's beloved roses.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Oatmeal Pancakes

1 C flour (we use 1/2 C wheat, 1/2 C white)
1 C quick oats
2 T honey (or sugar if you don't have honey)
2 T baking powder
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda

1.5 C buttermilk (I always just add a teaspoon or two of vinegar to regular milk and let it sit for a few minutes to sour)
1 egg
1/4 C oil

Sour milk and set aside. Mix dry ingredients in a medium bowl. Add buttermilk (or sour milk), eggs and oil (and honey, if you have it); mix well. Cook on a hot griddle or frying pan.

It'll Do Buttermilk Syrup
(this is good, but as soon as I find our favorite syrup recipe, I'll replace this)

2 C sugar
3 T honey (or white Karo syrup)
1/2 C butter
1 tsp baking soda
1 C buttermilk or sour milk (see above for how to sour milk)
1 tsp vanilla

Mix all ingredients in a large kettle or saucepan (think deep! The syrup boils up high). Bring to a rolling boil for 3 minutes. Stir frequently. Remove from heat and add vanilla. Serve over pancakes or French toast.

Tales of Pottsville: Is There Life Out There?

Ever the news junkie, I spend far too much time keeping up with current events. Which is how I stumbled across this important news item this week: it was reported in the honest-to-goodness free press that the Catholic church is looking to the heavens for signs of alien life. I breezed through the article and caught references to considering whether there's life in other parts of the universe, scientific studies and the like.

Oh, if only Grandma Potts were here to join in the conversation. See, Grandma firmly believed in life on other planets. She was wide open to discussions of green aliens and space ships. The Bible references other sheep that Jesus visited after he was resurrected; she didn't particularly care what the sheep looked like or where they lived. Grandma was unfailingly accepting in that way.

Grandma and Grandpa Potts (not sure he'd appreciate my bringing his name into it) diligently bought The Enquirer during the kinder, gentler days of the publication before celebrity exposes, when the magazine features were about 3-headed cows in Wisconsin, Elvis sightings, babies that could burp the alphabet at birth and, of course, alien sightings. Oh, and don't forget Nostradamus doomsday stories. Those Nostradamus predictions were pretty much weekly discussions. I could never read them - they scared the bejingles out of me.

When I say Grandma believed in aliens, I don't mean she only read about their adventures. Oh, no. She occasionally sought contact with them. And that was where the fun began.

See, Pottsville consisted of three homes: my Grandma and Grandpa Potts at the top, Aunt Barbara and the cousins in the middle, and our home at the bottom. (The landscape was actually pretty level; I'm not sure where I got the top and bottom perceptions, but kids are like that.) At the height of Grandma's alien adventures, Aunt Barbara hadn't even moved up on the hill yet, so it was just our two homes on 40 acres, surrounded by lots of high desert in all directions. We were 3 miles outside of town (town being an oversized title for a little pioneer settlement called Woodruff) and off the back road to Snowflake, which was 20+ miles to the southeast. Essentially, it was just us way out there in the desert. And, once the sun went down and we were all tucked into our homes after dark with our Coleman lanterns and battery operated radios (yeah, we'll delve into that more deeply at a later date), there wasn't all that much to do.

Which is why UFO hunting with Grandma was so stinkin' fun. See, Grandma would see something off in the distance - it could be unusual red lights on the horizon or flashing lights in the broad, black star-spangled sky - and that was all it took.

Into Grandpa's old green and white truck or the front seat of Mom and Dad's Oldsmobile we'd jump, and off we'd go, bumping across the dirt roads at night, chasing those lights. Mom wasn't entirely on board with Grandma's convictions that aliens were just a stone's throw away, but she did love to drive and the dark nights could be long, so she was game to join in. We'd drive for what seemed like hours, keyed up with anticipation, adrenaline pumping, desperately scanning the horizon to re-sight the suspicious lights if a mesa temporarily took them out of view. Mom would dodge the jackrabbits that were shocked to find us out in the wilds during their part of the night, and Grandma would keep a running commentary about just what she thought we might find at the end of our dash across the desert. See, Grandma wasn't intense and freaky about her conviction - just the opposite - she would light up and laugh heartily, eyes twinkling as she shared her wild ideas and findings. Grandma was a poet and a storyteller - she could keep the conversation moving along.

You'll be shocked to learn that we never quite caught up with the red lights or the flashes in the sky. I don't know how they evaded us, since Mom was quite the accomplished cross-country driver in her younger days. Somehow, even when we ultimately had to give up the chase and head home, the disappointment wasn't that great. Having the windows down, my sister Lynda and I would stick our faces out to feel the warm evening breezes, Grandma would point out the constellations - the Seven Sisters being my favorite to find - and there was that sense of getting away with something because everything was slightly off kilter: it was way past bedtime, glimpses of flashing eyes told us the desert night creatures were out with us, and the adults were acting so carefree.

I don't know if Grandma held her fascination with aliens right up until she left us. I can say she wasn't the only one around here who was open to the idea - it was just down the road about 30 - 40 miles or so that local Travis Walton of "Fire in the Sky" fame was said to have been abducted by aliens. Who knows. What I do know is Grandma's story weaving was captivating and the adventures were always colorful and big. Life in Pottsville was all a 9-yr-old could ever ask for. What a time we had.

Who knows what the Catholic church will find as they're looking heavenward. I can tell you, if nothing else, the quest for life out there could sure help while away a dark summer night.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Tales of Pottsville: sac⋅ro⋅sanct [sak-roh-sangkt]

from Dictionary.com:

Sac*ro*sanct

–adjective
1.
extremely sacred or inviolable: a sacrosanct chamber in the temple.
2.
not to be entered or trespassed upon
3.
above or beyond criticism, change, or interference: a manuscript deemed sacrosanct.

Use word in a sentence:

Paul Harvey broadcasts were sacrosanct in my grandparents' home.

It's true. Those twice-a-day radio shows were "extremely sacred" and "above or beyond criticism" and "not to be...trespassed upon."

It was after we moved to Arizona from Ohio, the July I turned 9 years old, that I first heard of Paul Harvey and his signature "rest of the stories." Every morning and afternoon, like clockwork, the teaser for the Paul Harvey show would come on the battery-operated radio in my Grandma and Grandpa Potts' home up on the hill in "Pottsville" where we lived. And, no matter what we were in the middle of, all activity would stop - or at least we'd better do whatever we were doing real quietly - and Grandpa would go sit in his big black leather-like armchair and listen to every story, every endorsement, every cliff-hanging moment of Paul Harvey's program that was piped through the airwaves on 1270 AM KDJI.

I was just getting to know Grandma and Grandpa Potts that first summer. They were still somewhat a mystery to me. We'd visited them over the years, of course, but I'd never spent any real time with them that I could remember and their way of life was a whole new world for me. Coming from a typical Midwestern, middle-class home with big leaf trees, redbirds, slugs, lawns you didn't water, Lake Erie just down the road, and electricity at the flip of a switch, I was fascinated by the mesas, plateaus and broad horizons surrounding Grandpa's home up on the hill, 3 miles away from the nearest town, which itself was actually a little hamlet of maybe 200 people.

It's not just where Grandma & Grandpa lived that was new and fascinating, it was how. They lived in a little trailer nestled among outbuildings, 3 gardens, a small orchard, and a nicely built little guest house that was inlaid with chunks of petrified wood my Grandpa had gathered from the surrounding desert. There was a wood cook stove in the kitchen next to a more familiar electric stove; a wood stove for heat in the front room, a diesel generator for electricity (that would later be supplemented by a windmill), and a wringer washing machine and clothesline outside. There was canning lard and making lye soap. There was Grandpa cussing over the lawn mower he counted on to groom the postage-stamp lawn out front. And there were Grandpa's roses.

Grandma was easy to get to know that first summer - she simply loved us, was full of smiles and stories, and cheerfully put us to work, never doubting we'd do the tasks she assigned. It didn't occur to us not to. Grandma was a soft place to land, squishy hugs, soft pats on the back and a comfort for homesick little girls waiting for our parents to pack up our Ohio life and join us in the Wild West.

Grandpa, though, he was a study in contradictions. I remember hanging back a little, peeking around corners and trying to figure out Grandpa. When I say that he would cuss over the lawnmower, I mean he would cuss. He used words I'd never heard before. Often. And, while you would think that if someone is calling someone else a "sonsabi*****gba***rd", it would mean they really didn't like that person, I learned that with Grandpa you had to consider the tone. Was he laughing when he called the guy that? Oh, then he liked him; he actually meant, "Oh, that little character!". Was he scowling and spitting a little bit when he said it? Then odds are, Grandpa really was calling the guy's parentage into question. I was fascinated and a little frightened by Grandpa. But, it was Grandpa's roses and Paul Harvey that hinted that there was more to this somewhat crotchety old man who I grew to adore, cherish and miss as the years went by.

More about the roses later and what they helped me understand about Grandpa. Let's stick with Paul Harvey for now.

So, Paul Harvey comes on the radio and Grandpa sits down. If Grandma didn't have us quietly working on something in the kitchen, we'd scramble up on the orange and brown plaid, rough "davenport" situated under the window. We'd listen to Paul Harvey's distinctive staccato cadence and ultra-enunciation, and his stories reminded me of the stories I'd read in the Reader's Digest, also a new discovery since coming to Grandma's house. Paul's stories were always unapologetically moralistic; either extolling the virtuous or heroic acts of a no-name, average Joe, or unraveling little-known stories of famous individuals. I was fascinated by his storytelling, waited impatiently over commercial breaks for the rest of the story, and, as most kids would, dreaded what seemed like endless endorsements. And, while I was looking around the room while listening to Paul's stories, I'd sneak glances at Grandpa in his big black chair.

It was during Paul Harvey time that I'd see him sitting still, listening intently, rather than my more typical images of this man who seemed to always be in motion, affording me only glimpses of the back of his old cap, plaid shirt and suspenders as he toiled away over the pump, the generator or some building repair. With Paul Harvey, he'd be so focused on the radio I could watch his every expression without him noticing my scrutiny. It was the sparkle in his eye at some merry story that let me see his sense of humor soften what I thought were hard edges; it was when he would throw his head back, reveal great big slightly yellowed teeth, crinkle his eyes and laugh a curiously silent laugh that was nonetheless full of mirth and unabashed enjoyment that I would feel a tingly contentment creep into my stomach, warming me towards this wiry old guy with the stern visage. And, sometimes, he would drift off for a short snooze near the end of the afternoon show, revealing the toll all that hard work that he never complained of doing was taking on an aging man with emphysema and diabetes.

Like clockwork, Paul Harvey would come on the radio - his twice daily show was part of the rhythm of my childhood and those precious years on the hill with Grandma and Grandpa. I loved listening to Paul Harvey not only because of his stories, but because of the time his shows gave me to swing my legs back and forth on the davenport, take a break from chores, and steal lots of glances at my Grandpa as he listened intently and laughed often.

As I grew older, I began to understand the nuances of Grandpa's personality and figured out he wasn't just the gruff old guy I first thought. I loved my Grandpa Potts, with his shock of black-streaked grey and white hair, that always looked slightly overgrown and kind of pokey-outy, like that of a 10-year-old boy's crew cut three days before summer vacation is over and he has to get his back-to-school buzzcut. I figured out Grandpa's quick sense of humor and the depth of his affection for the people in his life, and I knew he loved and adored me. Those realizations took some time, though, and that first summer when my life changed so radically and I needed to know I was in a safe place with kind people, I'm grateful that Paul Harvey revealed glimpses of my Grandpa's warm and laughing characteristics, and helped my anxious, fearful 9-year-old tummy calm down with every silent laugh and merry twinkle.

Love from the farm,
Teri