It seems that daisies call for the end of the school term, or is that the last few days of school call forth the daisies? They are blooming now, awaiting little girls and daisy chains, “he loves me, he loves me not,” and playhouses sprinkled with daisies.

I see my small granddaughter Taylor, and the great-granddaughters, Morgan and Molly, getting ready for summer. It brings back memories of warm summer days, play houses in the corn crib, and pounding the white liners out of zinc jar lids to use for dishes.

There was nothing like that sense of freedom that the last day of school brought. We would run down the hill from the school house with our shoes slung over our shoulder, carrying books, scattering papers and shouting, “No more lessons, no more books; no more teacher’s dirty looks!”

Oh, the pleasures that were waiting for us! There was the gray clay mud bank along the creek, better than any modeling clay ever made. The “Big Rock” was right beside it, where we molded our bowls, cups, and works of art. The hot sunshine would dry them to rock hard texture.

There was “Sleepy Holler” with its delicate ferns and mosses, cool shady nooks, and fallen tree that spanned the ravine. God smiled down upon us at play, and we were happy.

There was an echo of that sense of freedom last week as we left duties behind and headed for William’s River and a few days of camping. We were looking forward to our escape to the mountains and retreat from the problems of life. We agreed not to discuss any of our worries and concentrate on having a good time.

We were traveling up the interstate when a van passed us, honking their horn and waving their arms. “Someone must know us,” I told Criss. A few minutes later, we heard an ominous, thumping sound. “Oh no!” Criss exclaimed. “We’ve got a flat tire.”

We pulled off on the berm, and sure enough, a tire on the camper was flat as a flitter. It was the first time we had used the camper, and it was fairly new. The tires were new, and we hadn’t looked to see if the camper was equipped with a jack and wheel wrench. It wasn’t.

“What are we going to do?” Criss asked. “I think we’d better buy a cell phone,” I answered. “That won’t help us now,” Criss said shortly.

Vehicle after vehicle passed us, none heeding the anxious couple stranded by the wayside. Finally we moved on up the interstate (very carefully) and got off the exit. Criss got out, looking for help. I waited in the truck, watching a distant figure approach.

He walked wearily, carrying the weed eater he had been using. As he drew nearer, I saw it was a Good Samaritan in the form of Ronnie Shaffer. Bless his heart! He and his wife Linda came to our rescue, with the needed tools, a helping hand and comforting words. He even insisted on lending his tools for the remainder of our trip. He and his wife are precious people.

The rest of our trip was uneventful, although we kept an anxious ear open for the sound of another flat tire. It was late when we arrived and my sister Susie and her husband Charlie were fast asleep in their camper. We hurriedly made up the bed and with sincere thanks, fell into it.

We awoke to the sound of rushing water and trill of the songbirds. It was an idyllic week, restful and serene. Susie and I explored, and found wildflowers abounding. There were literally banks of deep purple violets growing below enormous rocks that overhung the road, and in the forest glades were Jack-in-the-pulpits, painted trilliums, masses of bluets, and wild blue phlox, which we always called Sweet Williams.

The boys caught some trout, and we fried potatoes over an open fire. The nights grew cooler, which made the glowing campfire more than welcome. I’ve always loved that part of the camping trip—sitting around the campfire at night and reminiscing. I came home feeling better than I had in a long time.

Now from our mail bag: Roger Hardway of Eleanor (formerly of Clay County) explains the word “brickle.” It comes from the root word relating to break or broken (horse broken to work or harness, or broken to ride.) So I suppose “work brickle” means that a person is broken to work.

He also offers the term “going sideways like a hog going to war,” meaning someone light-headed or unsteady on their feet.” Has anyone heard the phrase “string-haltered horse?”

Ilene Sizemore of Dixie is looking for some old-fashioned feed sacks, the kind that once contained stock feed or flour. A lot of us wore garments made from the patterned ones. Jo Ann Howard wants the words to the song, “Rank Stranger to Me.”

We’ve had several responses to the request for the lyrics to the song, “Red Wing.” We heard from Betty Thomas of Sutton, Polly Pickens of Eleanor, June Bennett of Dunbar, Joy Stone of Hinton, Janet Tucker and my cousin, Ellyn Dawn McLaughlin of Virginia. (Please remember Ellyn in prayer—she has been very sick.)




There once lived an Indian maid, a shy little prairie maid.
Who sang all day her long song gay,
As out on the plains she would while away the day;
She loved a warrior bold, this shy little maid of old.
‘Til brave one day, he rode away, to the battle far away.


Now the moon shines tonight on pretty Red Wind,
The breezes sighing; the night birds crying,
Far, far, far away her lover lies bleeding,
Poor Red Wing’s weeping her heart away.


She watched for him day and night,
And kept all the campfires bright,
While under the sky, each night she would lie,
And dream about his coming by and by,


But when the braves returned,
The heart of Red Wing yearned,
Far, far away her lover gay,
Had fallen bravely in the fray.

The Waynedale News Staff

Alyce Faye Bragg

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