“My man! How I love him!”, Faye chimed as she bent over the bread board, punching down the bread dough for its’ second rise. Looking out the window above the iron sink, she laughed as she watched Merton, her husband now for a couple years, stand on the bank of the barn, hat in one hand and smoothing his thick hair with his other. The first year of marriage had given Faye much impatience at times. She would call her newly wedded mate to lunch or supper and then do her waiting, and in some cases, she would just put the food back in the ice-box or upground cooling water bath next to the house. Now, after 2 years of calling him in, she had realized it was just “his way” and she didn’t marry him to change him, but to enjoy him and work around or through differences.

Merton had chosen Faye to marry him after courting a few other girls in their local Brethren Church. He thought Faye to be a “specially fine” woman. “Faye, I live to love you!” was how he felt that day, standing on the bank of the newly built barn, admiring the flock of sheep that were munching on the feed he had given them for the rest of the prefect fall day. He was counting the number of fleece he would be able to take to market in the spring. “I better get to the kitchen before Faye puts my creamed potatoes back in the ice cooler!” he said to himself as he put his hat back on his thick brown hair and hiked down the slope of the barn entrance.

The dark green screen door slammed shut as Merton came in the back door. Faye had his hot, simple farmers’ lunch on the round oak table. Sweet baby Abby was content in her cradle by the big wood-fed iron stove. The fall day was a little crisp and called for a small continuing fire in the side oven. Faye bent over Mertons’ head and gave him a small kiss as he sat down to eat, following it with a comment, “Mert, you do remember we have a harvest day at Ma Browns’ tomorrow, don’t you?” Merton gave her a smile, bright with ornery looking blue eyes, as he caught her hand next to his side and give it a squeeze. “You know we would never miss a day of gathering for sharin’ and hope ,Faye” Satisfied, she went back to the kitchen sink to finish cleaning green beans for the meal tomorrow, humming Sweet Hour of Prayer, her most favorite hymn……..

The next evening, as Faye was reaching into the wagon box to gather baby Abby into her arms and to go back into the house after a fun but tiring day at Ma and Pa Browns she thought she heard a horse whinny.”Who could that be up our lane?”..she mused on in her thoughts, “the whole county must have their sausage now ready for the winter!!..” stuffing sausage links all day with the other young brides. Suddenly a fear gripped her heart as she turned to the lane. “There is a horse galloping at a fast speed, Merton.” she called as the horse came into clear sight. Again, fear tugged at her, but her hymn of the morning entered to cover over that dread…Sweet Hour of Prayer…was that it? .. “What need, Lord?” she quipped to herself  as  her younger brother Andy, out of breath as he brought his steed to a halt next to her Merton, who had his hands on the reins of the team. He was obviously horrified and frantic… “Faye, you have to come back right away, something happened to Ma!!” …Andys’ eyes were filling with tears and his words were halting…”I think Ma.. is dieing”……

Family stories that are shared from the heart never loose the life of their meaning. My Grandpa shared story after story as I grew up under his continual care. I was blessed to have him live across from us on Cherry Street, where I grew up…

…I will continue to share from time to time these family connections and old stories I have with a past that will never return…no simple horse and buggys pulling up our lane for a quilting bee these days, no bread to punch down a second time so I can go pay my bill at the dentist or local family doctor with that same bread or my fresh eggs. No, we live in a technical day..a day when most of us aren’t even close enough in miles with our grandchildren that we can tenderly add these old stories into the fibers of their lives day by day; like I was able to enjoy in my early years. The last of these great men are soon to pass from this earth, the last American soldier of WW1 is now 107 years young…..what a variety of life he must have had in this lifetime! For our Olde Glory…..

Have a Blessed Quilting Day! Rejoice in Olde Glory !! Kari