At This Year's End

There’s a fire burning outside my window

With leaves of red, orange, and gold.

There’s a fire burning outside my window

That tells me the year has grown old.

There is a coldness in the morning air

Bare limbs mark the pale blue sky.

Fruits and flowers of the summer fair,

Have withered brown and finally died.

And I am melancholy, heart and soul

Paralyzed by this year’s regrets, mistakes.

I cannot shake their strong grip and hold

Mired down in doubt, with time too late.

But with Christmas and Christ’s sweet birth

Comes the chance to start all things anew.

With His forgiveness, love, and worth

The old year I can bid adieu.

Lord, do not leave me; hold me tight

And by Thy mercies guide my steps

Into this new year, dark as night

Made crystal clear by Your precepts.

And when the fire outside my window

Burns again at this year’s end

Help me with certainty to know

I was in your path, your purpose, dear Lord, Amen.

Love ya'll,

Shelli

Sweet Christmas Tradition

Everyone has Christmas traditions. My dear friend, Lisa Cheramie, bakes decorative iced cookies with her daughter, and now grandchildren, each year. Many families holiday traditions center around football games and tailgating. And then there are hunting, caroling, church services, and more. One of my favorite Christmas traditions is captured in Truman Capote's fruitcake saga, A Christmas Story.

My dad was recently invited to participate in a tradition held this time each year in his neck of the woods that echoed back to the old days....

Dad was instructed to meet friends at an area outside Florien, Louisiana known as Devil's Branch. Directions led him down to the end of Jungle Club Road to a field of freshly cut, stripped sugar cane.

Next to the field, a Christmas syrup-making tradition was in full swing. Modern technology, a riding lawnmower, had replaced the mules of yesteryear, but the process was still the same.

The cane was  ground down to fill two 55 gallon drums of juice. The juice was then poured into a metal cooking pan.

Wood had to be chopped to keep a steady fire burning. If the fire was too hot, the syrup would scorch; if the fire wasn't hot enough, the juice wouldn't thicken. During the cooking process, wood was constantly being added or removed from the fire to keep the syrup at the optimum temperature.The syrup made that day took about five hours to cook, which was about 1 1/2 hours longer than the day before because the weather was much cooler.

As the sugar cane juice began to boil, a foam formed on the surface and had to be skimmed from the top.

As time passed, the juice began to thicken and its color began to darken. Then it was time to pour the finished product into half-gallon jugs.

When Dad broke open the seal on one of the jugs, I was instantly transported to Grandma Wig's kitchen where butter was melting on a pan of her homemade biscuits that were about to be swimming in delicious pure cane syrup!

The best thing about this sweet Christmas tradition is that on Christmas morning we will all sit down to Oakdale biscuits, Pleasant Hill sausage, and Devil's Branch syrup. It doesn't get any better than that. Thanks, Tom!!

Love ya'll,

Shelli

Christmas....

that magic blanket that wraps itself about us,

that something so intangible that it is like a fragrance.

It may weave a spell of nostalgia.

Christmas may be a day of feasting,

or of prayer,

but always it will be a day of remembrance...

a day in which we think of everything we have ever loved.

-Agusta E. Rundell

Gardener's Night Before Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas at the gardener’s house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

Tulips bulbs were placed in the refrigerator with care

 To be planted in January that soon would be there.

The ferns and tropicals had been moved inside

So, that during a freeze they’d not wither and die.

The gardener removed gloves and worn, floppy hat

To settle down for a long winter’s nap.

When out in the flowerbed there arose such a clatter

The gardener sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

She threw on her jacket, torn and grimy from wear

And sturdy rubber boots to see what was going on out there!

When what to her wondering eyes should appear

But a miniature wheelbarrow pulled by eight tiny reindeer

With a little old driver, all dressed in tweed

She knew in a moment it must be St. Seed!

His eyes- how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!

As he unloaded holly bushes loaded with berries.

Daffodils, hyacinths, crocus, and more

He planted the yard with bushes and bulbs galore!

 

He pruned the summer’s muscadine vines

Curving them into festive twig wreaths divine.

Then out to the hothouse he ran in a rush

To clean the garden tools with a stiff wire brush.

From his wheelbarrow, he grabbed a bag of 10-10-10

And fertilized the whole yard with the strength of ten men!

He dug up azaleas that weren’t getting enough light

And moved them to a sunnier spot to bloom big and bright.

Out of his gift sack he pulled the best gift,

Two cold frames so large he could hardly lift!

He placed them on the south side, vegetables to hold

Where tender plants could grow despite the cold.

His work almost done down the chimney he slid

And into the gardener’s stocking he hid

Gardening catalogs filled with varieties of seeds

And everything else a gardener could need.

Then out of a pocket in his green tweed coat

He retrieved for the gardener a very special note.

“With every seed, be reminded of Jesus and His birth

A promise of new life for all who are on Earth.”

“We need earthly gardeners to spread the news far and wide

Gardeners to nurture the grace that God’s covenant provides.

Sow heavenly seeds among people everywhere;

The Savior is born and all sin He will bear!”

Then he sprang up the chimney, to his reindeer gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down on a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,

“Happy Gardening to all, and to all a good-night!”

We Gave Thanks!!

We had a fun Thanksgiving here at Turkey Creek Garden.

The weather was perfect

and

    we... 

Love ya'll,

Shelli