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Monday, May 15, 2017


            Mr. I. B. Holder, born Ignatz Bertholemule Holder, Iggy, as his mother fondly called him, was for want of a better word, well let's just say it, not a handsome man.  Indeed, Iggy often said, "I'm just an ugly duckling with a no swan future."

            And yes, the face of Iggy was one, most did say only a mother could love.  Iggy's father had one day gone for a pack of cigarettes and vanished in smoke.  Iggy less often said, "The mirror image of his son, drove Dad to the other side of the mirror.  Wherever that is?"

            But Mrs. Holder loved him.  The best Mom could do was only exceeded by the more she did for Iggy.  "Thank you Lord, for a roof over our head and food to eat," twas familiar prayer at the Holder table.  But a roof over the head and food to eat left little for a school kids wardrobe.  Hand me downs and high water corduroy jeans became just one more excuse for classmates to clothe Iggy in the shame of ridicule.  "Ugly Iggy," they dubbed him, "the king of icky."

            The years passed by, and so had Mom.  But Mom had lived long enough to see Iggy start a tire repair service in an old feed store.  And as the town grew, so did Iggy's Tire Store from just repair to very successful sales also.  It seemed things had turned around for Iggy, especially since right before him stood a tire buyer, a new comer to town, one with blond flowing hair and skin so fair.  Molly she was and beautiful was her smile; for she liked the mild mannered and hard working man her 'eyes beheld.'  Sure he was six inches shorter than her, and kinda scrawny, and especially sweaty with all that hard work and all; but there was something about those big ears and buck teeth and silly bashful grin that just rocked her world.  Even at that very instant Molly fought the urge to hug him.  It would seem that ugly duckling destiny had found swan future.

            But lo, even alas, oh forsooth already, paradise interruptus:  a years of yore school bully walked through the door.  Four new tires he demanded, with yesterday his patience. But as clueless as the loud mouth was, even he picked up on the aroma of romance in Iggy's Tire Store.  "Well my oh my," he laughed, "Do my eyes deceive me?  Hot mama meets Ugly Iggy, the king of icky!  Can you imagine that?"

            Was it the disrespect to Molly? Was it the ridicule laughter?  Was it the life time of abandonment?  Was it the fact that this very bully was one in the same, who in school between each and every change of class room had wacked little Iggy's head with a textbook?  What ever it was... a tire tool found home in the right hand of Iggy.  And at high velocity that tire tool split air, halting only a fragment of an inch before the eye of the offensive beholder, who for a moment stood stiff, then stumbled backward, then fled out the door.

            Molly tried to comfort a trembling Iggy.  But he walked away into his office.  Molly followed, but the  door shut.  Molly heard the lock click.  Molly heard Iggy weep.  And Molly knew...

            The day was tomorrow.  The day was Sunday.  Iggy had found a pew.  And in Jesus name as Iggy prayed forgiveness for himself, his vanished dad, even the bully; the preacher said, "King David sang to the LORD in Psalm 17:8 & 15 KJ, 'Keep me as the apple of the eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings... As for me, I will behold thy face in righteousness: I shall be satisfied when I awake, with thy likeness." The preacher mused, "Who are righteous:  but the forgiven, who forgive.  How beautiful, the forgiven, are and shall be, in the eyes of The Great Beholder..."

            And with eyes still closed in prayer, Mr. I. B. Holder, Ugly Iggy the king of icky, felt next to him the pew cushion stir neath the weight of a swan; felt a soft hand take his; felt fair blond hair caress his cheek; beheld to his ear the touch of whispering lips, "You are beautiful to me."

                                            ...The LORD provides for the apple of his eye...

                                                           Psalm 34:15 & Luke 6:35-38

                              Please share:  "The Eye of the Beholder," with all you behold.



Saturday, April 29, 2017


            Cracked creek bed mud turned to dust neath rancher man's boot.  In that hell of drought, death lay all about.  Dehydrated skin stretched thin hid the dust of the dead within.  "In the outback, thirst knows no difference between cattle nor animal kin," said rancher man Slim.  And he wondered when 'the big dry' would ever end.  He was just about to pray again, when the corner of his eye caught movement.  Where had that movement been among the dead?  And there he saw it again.  The twitch of a tail.  From the pouch of a dead momma roo, the bent tail of a joey stirred life.  Without thought Slim pulled out that little bent tailed roo.  In his arms Slim saw the cause of it all; the bent tail told the tale; bore the canine marks of a dingo chew.  Slim said, "Bent like a boomerang, you poor little roo."  And as helpless as Slim was in the drought and all, he helped the helpless. Carried little bent tail roo back to the truck.  Put him in the seat.  And from his canteen, water little roo did sip.  

            And months came.  And months passed by in the one room home of Slim and roo.  Most nights Little Roo, as Slim called him, slept curled up in his bent tail on Slim's lap. Rocking away in that old homemade chair, Slim minded hardly at all.  For company in the outback, he had next to none at all.  Solitary life and no wife, such was Slim's life a boat in the desert, but his oars never gave up straining against the burning sand.  And as the 'the big dry' stirred dust, the heart of Slim stirred only closer to God above.  Many a night Little Roo listened to soft spoken Slim reading the Bible.  And Little Roo, although he understood not a word, still knew blessing, as he drifted off to hoppy land. 

            In the early morn and near sunset, Slim took care of barnyard chores.  There was Naomi to tend, the goat from who knows where, who had just shown up the week before Little Roo.  So as if part of God's plan, Slim had goats milk to milk.  Milk for Little Roo to be fed from the finger of a glove tied to the end of a bottle.  And there was Little Roo's rehabilitation.  Rehab mainly consisting of hopping away from Slim in a lopsided arc, due to the off balance of that bent tail, then hopping back in a curve.  And one such sunset evening Slim said, "The name Little Roo just will not do.  For you are a special bent tail roo, and though you hop away, you always return, not straight away, but in an arc like the boomerang do.  So do I dub thee, Boomerang Roo.  But just Roo for short will most times do."  And the newly dubbed Boomerang Roo stood  looking up to his adopted dad; tilted head from side to side; and by his new name he did abide.

            And late one night, Boomerang Roo in lap, the rocker slowed rocking. The voice of Slim in prayer grew tired.  The Bible slipped from his hands.  And Roo and Slim slept quiet... so quiet... they felt not the cool air roll slowly through their one room home.  Heard not the solitary ping on the tin roof above, followed in a moment by another, then another, till the rain fell spanking that tin to cry new born baby life.  Roo woke first.   In fear Roo leaped from lap bounding off furniture and round the walls.  Till Slim caught him or Roo caught Slim.  Round Slim's right leg Roo wrapped arms and legs and boomerang tail too.  Slim laughed and with Roo clinging on, shuffled up to and opened the porch door.  There the nose of Boomerang Roo krinkled, breathed in for the very first time... the smell of rain.  And standing in that porch door, Slim thanked the Lord, as the mist of living water washed over them.

            The sun rose.  With milk bucket in hand Slim made aim for the barn to visit Naomi the goat.  But something was missing, the shadow of Roo.  Slim just figured Roo didn't want mud on his paws.  For where had been dust now was mud galore.

             What possessed Roo to go out that morn on his own?  In a long arc Boomerang Roo hopped and he hopped and he hopped... over a hill.  And where Roo stopped, was where he stood.  Maybe it twas the gunning of the truck motor Roo heard, or maybe the spinning of mud slick tires; but for sure twas the will of One with higher power:  that Roo arrived at the very stuck truck of Ruth.  Ruth saw Roo, gave up the futile slinging of mud, and exited the truck.  And up to Ruth, Roo hopped.  Ruth stammered, "Wha-what a-a-a  cu-cu-cute little ra-ra-roo!"  To Ruth's surprise Roo tilted his head and, looking up at her, took her hand in paw.  Without thinking, Ruth was lead to the hill top, where down below she saw the house of Slim and the barn.  "Da-a-a-down hill fra-from here," to her new friend Ruth talked.

            And near the barn door, still holding Roo's paw, Ruth met Slim, carrying a pail of Naomi's milk.  "M-m-m-my na-na-name is Ruth!  I-I-I been la-la-lookin' fa-fa-for my ga-ga-ga-goa-goa-Naomi!!! She said.

            And Slim with smile sighed, "What few be about call me Slim, but my given name be Boaz."  He lifted up the pail of milk and added, "I might just know the whereabouts of that old goat."  And together Slim and Ruth and Roo walked hand in hand in paw; and entered the one room house called home...  Ruth never stuttered again...  And yes, the cows did come home, more than there were before...  And from hearts of dust a garden grew from rain anew...  And Slim praised the LORD!!!


            Isaiah 58:10-11 KJ, "And if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul; then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as the noon day:  And the LORD shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, and make fat thy bones: and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not."

            Please share "The Tail of Boomerang Roo," with all who need a tail straitening.  For a infinitely more awesome and true story, please read in the Bible the book of Ruth.  Only cause we love you.        








Thursday, April 20, 2017


                Lick Chickeners would a named their little flock Finger Lickin' Good, but state law forbade three word towns; so Lick Chicken it was.  And in small town Lick Chicken, Fat Pats was the place to be.  "Just about the only place to be," locals liked to say bout what most Lick Chickeners considered second home.

                "Like coffee with that cream?" Fat Pat giggled at Slim Jeno still a 4 am a dream with cream server a stuck a tilt. "Your cup runneth over, Hun." She giggled again at her dark haired Hungarian.

                "What?" Coffee ran off diner counter top onto his apron. "Well, that's one way to get caffeine." Slim Jeno mumbled.  As wife built napkin dam, he sat server down. Without stirring he bent over, mouth to coffee mug, slurped away coffee and cream surplus.

                "My aren't we a little piggy this morn?" Pat snickered, elbow nudged struggling to awake hubby.

                "Oink," Jeno punctuated with semi-giggle of his own.

                From the kitchen they heard clank of pans. "The faithful staff arrives." Fat Pat sighed.

                "Ah, faith, the substance of things hoped for; the evidence of that not seen," Slim Jeno quote, almost awoke.

                "Ah, and Biblical too this beautiful morning.  Was that Hebrews 11:1, King James no less?  Who is this husband of mine?" Pat smiled, drew strength, for the a hungered hordes, they were a coming.

                Jeno turned attention from morning brew.  Took time to drink in the beauty before him, "Freckles of auburn, matching eyes and curls of a girl with svelte curves, how I love you." Slim Jeno gave wife lips to lips peck, rose from seat, stretched eyes wide, sighed, "Time to roll out the old szilvas gomboc," and headed for kitchen door.

                As she did every morning, Fat Pat turned it over in her mind, and spilled out mouth one more time, "Szilvas gomboc, Hungarian plum dumplings, who knew?" She spoke of once struggling slapjack diner turned country wide sensation.  For even 20 miles away the szilvas gumboc a hungered big city folks due north were deterred not even by predawn dark. "Lord, thank you for my husband," Fat Pat a tad misty eyed sat, and added, "and thank You too for the good folks of Lick Chicken."

                Slim, not portly, local patrons had mis-dubbed Patricia Ann Foszakacs, Fat Pat.  Portly, not slim, Jeno Foszakas had received similar mis-nomer, Slim Jeno.  Perhaps the nicknames said more about the coiners than the recipients there of.  For you see the folks of Lick Chicken were a nest full of affable good good eggs near always on the verge of hatching local peep of small town adage; all be it a bit scrambled.

                "After all," so ran the oft misquoted Lick Chicken motto, "a licked chicken tastes better cooked." While the official town motto really twas, "A licked chicken tastes better tallow fried." Yet, even the for real town motto reflected name of Lick Chicken to be somewhat askew; seeing as how the areas main industry to be cattle and a tallow rendering plant. "Seems oft we ought trace the seams... of what seems to be..." Lick Chickeners were apt to often say.

                But we digress, for while the non-fat Fat Pat tended cash register setup and the hundred other details of dining area; in the kitchen, as morning tradition, the staff huddled round one round Slim Jeno.  Together they repeated morning prayer, "Dear Lord, in Jesus name we pray, the food we prepare this day, be blessed nourishment unto the least of these our bretheren." And with a big, "Amen," their hearts and hands sprang into action.

                In little more than an hour, thru kitchen door wafted doughy cinnamon and brown sugary sweet szilvas gomboc.  And no coincidence was it that in that same little more than an hour the first wave of a hungered hordes, well in they invaded. Some half asleep a mug of coffee needing to drain, some slapping old pal backs, more than a few greeted by crowd by name.  And the newbees, well the door barely hit them in the behind afore the no chicken lips Lick Chickeners gave shout out, "Newbee Welcome!" Sometimes they sang this welcome tradition in unison, sometimes they sang it in echo ripple, but everytime every person got good greeting.  For at Fat Pats, Lick Chickeners liked to say and do, "In Lick Chicken nobody... remains a nobody long..."

                And those special somebodies began their mornings at Fat Pats with healthy homemade food, not a usual cuisine for an establishment that had started as slapjack greasy spoon.  The menu and plates served abounded with fresh fruit and vegetables from garden green bean scrambled eggs to slapjacks fresh peach inlaid, and of course the number one requested Hungarian plum dumplings. The a hungered hordes ate that szilvas gomboc 'for here' and ordered 'for there' an extra dozen or two 'to go' for co-workers and family.  More than a few called ahead to place special orders over two dozen.

                 But the peculiar people of the peculiar Fat Pats, Lick Chickeners and newbee honorary Lick Chickeners alike, had one more peculiar tradition... At exactly 7 am each morning Monday thru Saturday, Slim Jeno and faithful staff emerged from kitchen... And all listened to what Slim Jeno had to say, "In Matthew 25: 35 KJ, our precious Jesus said, 'For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in..."

The meaning of this little story may be found in Matthew chapter 25 verses 31 thru 46, a parable by Jesus in the recipe of Life, the sweeter than honey Holy Bible.  Key words are, "...an hungered... and ...the least of these, my bretheren..."

And I wonder, just wonder, bout the symbolic significance of them small town Lick Chickeners and even that szilvas gomboc... I just wonder... Could it possibly, not so much by chance, have a little something to do with the heart of every dumpling being plum filled with fruit... (fruit: verses 5 & 8 of John 15:1 thru 12)

                                           ...Food not only for lips of flesh...


Wednesday, March 8, 2017


                Imagine if you will the fading in and out of restless melody a beat... from old stereo turn table stuck in repeat-peat-peat... Josie needed not imagine...    

                "The bell rang, by door of mind sang, reflection of when, less bright than then..." Josie poised qualm laden pen.  The bell of door rang.

                From desk Josie rose to the bell of call, passed from, "The scene of the crime," as she called her writers desk of late; passed thru dining room, thru the room of living, opened door of the great outside.  Josie squinted into early east light. "No one, here?" Josie rubbed eyes, the consequence of the write most of the night.  Thru yawn she sighed, "Time to go to bed," closed the door of the great outside.

                But instead of bed, called the qualm laden pen.  Josie lay not, but sat, and she wrote, "Awash in waves of pout, sinking in unworthy sea of doubt..." The bell of door rang.

                From desk Josie rose to the bell of call, passed from, "O' Sea of Doubt," as she contemplated so naming poem; passed thru dining room, thru the room of living, opened door of the great outside.  Josie looked and in the east light upon porch railing hopped hope. "A sparrow, here?" Josie eyes smiled an almost rewrite in the morning light.  But thru corner of lips a dip she sighed, "So cute, yet so alone," closed the door of the great outside.

                But instead of bed, called the qualm laden pen.  Josie lay not, but sat, and she wrote, "O' raging sea of doubt, to Jesus' shore spit me out..." The bell of door rang.

                From desk Josie rose to the bell of call, passed thru, "Foam of sea upon the sand," described her feet washed in living water, as she passed thru dining room, thru room of living, opened door of the great outside.  Josie eyes floated with light a breeze twixt wisteria leaves.  "The family, here?" Blue eyes wide, Josie saw the nest; Pa Pa and under Ma Ma wings three babys blessed.  Thru lips Josie breathed sweet sigh, "A sparrow, not alone."  And Josie no longer closed the door of the great outside.

Get out of the rut of doubt with Jesus... the door of the great outside... to God and His creation...

1) Door of the great outside: John 10:7&9 KJ, Jesus speaking, "Verily, verily, I say unto you, I am the door of the sheep.  I am the door; by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture." See also: the beautiful Psalm 23 with Psalm 24:1.

2) Josie in Hebrew and French means: May Jehovah Add... addition to family...

3) Psalm 84:3 says that even the sparrow and swallow are welcome to come and nest and raise their young in the Temple of God.  How happy are those singing to the Lord in his house.

4) Luke 12:6-7, Jesus says that You are of more value than many sparrows.

5) The time is near... Psalm 102:7 KJ, "I watch, and am as a sparrow alone upon the house top." Note: watch in Hebrew = sleepless lookout.

6) No time to waste... For in Matthew 24:27-31 KJ, because he loves us, Jesus warns, "For as the lightning comes out of the east..." Please read this all... God help us... be ready...

7) It's now or never... For as in the days of Noah's ark and the flood ... Matthew 24:37-39

                        ...Heaven would not be heaven, if evil were let in...

                               ...Jesus is the only way to be forgiven...

                                    ...The only way of salvation...

                                         ...Call upon Him now...


Thursday, February 23, 2017


            "You sure are rough on it, Grammie." Jen Jen giggled. "Let me try! Let me try!" Doe eyes wide, flour powdered palms on floral apron, like sun lit daisy a dance in end of spring breeze, Jen Jen swayed to AM radio polka-eeze.

            Next flour dusted counter top, with back of wrist Grammie dabbed forehead perspiration, took step aside.  A step filled by grandchild Jen Jen, who with back of wrist dabbed forehead perspiration.

            "A kolache just is not a kolache unless kneaded." Grammie smiled like a persimmon eatin' possum.

            "But why, Grammie?" Jen Jen doe eyed wondered. "Oooh, it's so soft, yet heavy." Jen Jen partly answered own question.

            "Cause the quality of the kolache lies in the texture of the dough." Grammie wiped hands on apron.

            "How, Grammie?" Jen Jen kneaded dough like a kitten kneading milk.

            "Kolaches is kind a like people.  The warmth we put in is the warmth we get out." As grace of life she did impart, Grammie loved watching her little shadow happily knead dough. "Remember the list of ingredients: 3 packages dry yeast with 1/2 cup warm water, 1 tsp sugar; and 2 sticks butter with 3/4 cup of sugar, 3 egg yolks, 2 3/4 cups scalded milk, a tad over 7 cups flour and 3 tsp salt?"

            "Like duh, I remember ever word you've ever said." Jen Jen kneaded merrily away.

            "Lord help me, I hope not." Grammie chuckled.

            "Every word, Grammie." Jen Jen tee-hee-ed.

            "Getting back to the ingredients." Grammie looked to heaven for that help.

            "Yeah, that's all good quality stuff." Jen Jen plowed a tad ahead of Grammie furrow of thought. "We get out what we put in.  I would have no kolache dough to knead, had we not used the right stuff.  And it takes effort." Jen Jen kind a trailed off into rhythm of kneading.

            "That's right! A kolache just is not a kolache un..." Grammie almost finished refinished sentence.

            "Unless kneaded." Jen Jen sneezed, kneaded and flour dusted her own pug nose with back of hand.

            "Bless you," Grammie reflex responded, but rolled eyes and added, "good thing we will bake out all those Jen Jen germs later in the oven."

            Jen Jen just giggled, rubbed nose again.

            "Sooo, how did we get here... to the kneading part?" Grammie schoolmarm prodded.

            "Well duh," Jen Jen kept on kneading, "first, in a tall glass we dessolved the 3 packets of yeast in 1/2 cup of warm water and sprinkled on top the tsp sugar, then set it aside to proof.  While that was bubbling, we then in a large bowl creamed the 2 sticks butter with 3/4 cup cup sugar, then added 3 egg yolks, 3 tsp salt and mixed well." Jen Jen took a breath. "Then, like double duh, we added in the yeast sugar water and put the electric mixer to work, slowly mixing all that good stuff together."

            "You amaze me. Grammie wishes she had your smarts." Grammie twern't a kidding.

            "Yeah, like triple duh." Jen Jen bobbled head, sighed. "Oh, but we were not kneading dough yet! Then it was add the milk and gradually add in the remaining flour as much as could be mixed with a wooden spoon.  Until, we be kneading this dough by hand on flour dusted counter top, til smooth and elastic, just like as in now."

            "There is a difference between being smart and being a smarty pants, little sneezy duh girl!" Grammie side eyed smiled.

            "Yeah, that's true.  But you love me anyway." Jen Jen giggled, added, "Duh! Or as in this case: Dough!" She giggled again.

            Grammie hugged her smirking shadow, asked, "So, like what's next?"

            "Well this is the part where you usually make some analogy, like following a recipe in the kitchen is like following the Bible in real life, if you want to do it right." Jen Jen wide eye grinned. "So the recipe says we place the dough in a butter coated bowl, flip it to coat the other side, then cover with cheese cloth and let rise somewhere between an hour and an hour and a half."

            "While that analogy is rising, we have time for some sweet tea sippin' in the swing outback." Grammie invited; under arm hugged that sweet little shadow again.

            Under the oak, the kolache creating two kept swing in sync with the breeze rustling leaves, until Jen Jen ground heels in turf. "What is Cooter cat doing? Is he about to eat one of Grammie's chickens?"

            Grammie chuckled. "Old black and white Cooter?" She chuckled again. "Those chickens are his sheep.  Years ago in this very swing I sat Cooter in my lap, pointed to the chickens at my feet, and told him these are Grammie's babies.  Watch over and protect them, I told him.  Cooter has been faithful in his duties ever since."

            "But he is crouching, as in cat attack?" Jen Jen still invisioned Cooter with mouth full of feathers.

            "No," Grammie smiled, "Cooter is lying down like a border collie tending his sheep.  But yes, he is ready to attack, attack any predator that messes with his chickens.  Just last fall Grammie walked out kitchen door and wondered why all the chickens were clustered close behind Cooter's butt."

            "You said butt." Jen Jen snickered like a cartoon hound.

            "Yes, they had clustered in a bunch behind Cooter, who ready to pounce stared straight ahead." Grammie looked into Jen Jen rapt doe brown eyes.

            "What did Cooter see?" Jen Jen wiggled in seat.

            "A huge evil stray gray, he was, an enormous tom cat with brain a itching for a poultry lyching." Grammie paused her story of paws, loved making her smarty pants duh girl squirm.

            "What happened?" Jen Jen slapped swing seat with both hands, shook shoulders, huffed. "Did Cooter fight the evil stray gray?  Was he hurt?  What happened!"

            "Grammie screamed!" Grammie did not try to hide sideways lips a smirk.

            "Tell me. Tell me!" Jen Jen whined.

            "Paw Paw heard me.  Came running out back door with broom in hand." Grammie took sweet ice tea sip.

            "Did Paw Paw swat the evil stray gray?"

            "Didn't get a swing.  When he ran out kitchen door it spooked the stray gray.  Cooter tore out after him hot on his tail.  Paw Paw couldn't swing the broom for fear of hitting Cooter.  So here they went, the three of them, one right after the other, running cross pasture toward the creek." Grammie took breath.

            "Breathe later Grammie! What happened?" Jen Jen blurted.

            "Do you want me to finish this story or not, smarty pants?  Grammie feigned irk.

            "Gotta love me." Jen Jen snuggled under Grammie arm. Gave her like the best doe eyed look ever.

            "You little twerp, God bless, I do love you." Grammie hugged Jen Jen. "I remember like it was tomorrow forever, when you were a baby, how when you spilled milk or potted in drawers, you'd point that cute little baby finger straight at pug nose and offer the most precious excuse, 'Bebe-Bebe! Bebe?'"

            "But you digress, Grammie.  Evil stray gray, Cooter, Paw Paw, broom, chasing?" Jen Jen reminded.

            "Oh, lucky for old Paw Paw the creek wasn't far or he'd a had a heart attack.  That stray gray ran down to the creek bank and made mighty leap, but the opposing bank was just too far.  Paw Paw said he would have splashed smack dab down in the middle accept fer..."

            "Did he swat the stray gray?  Did Paw Paw swat the stray gray in mid air?"

            "Never got the chance.  The stray gray landed square on the snout of a seventeen feet long  dirty gray-green gator.  City folks don't understand such is life on the ranch an every day struggle twixt the the eater and the eaten.  At times even the eater gets eaten."

            "That's really gross, Grammie.  But chickens were saved; justice was done." Jen Jen tittered twixt the icky and profound. "Tee-hee-ed," her way back to smirk city.

            Approximately one hour twenty-nine minutes, fifty nine seconds, 33.3 nano-seconds, and somewhat of a tad later, the tea sipping two rejoined kitchen.

            "Time to punch some dough!" Grammie might a been a tad too enthusiastic.

            "You sure got a violent streak, Grammie." Jen Jen laughed. "What did that dough ever do to you?"

            "Made me to buy bloomers two sizes bigger." Grammie snickered.

            Too much information!" Jen Jen arched left brow in Grammie direction. "How bout we administer some justice and punch down that dough.  Although I am wondering why?"

            "Remember we placed it in this greased bowl to let it rise.  But kolaches at this stage require a deflated dough.  So punch that dough little duh girl."

            Jen Jen let out a few tennis serve grunts, aced the dough punching, more like dough squishing.

            "Now we turn out our deflated dough onto lightly floured counter top," Grammie demonstrated, "then we pinch off egg sized pieces and using the palms of our hands roll them into balls, and then indent each one with thumb to make the heart of the kolache," Jen Jen copied Grammie, "and then we place each one on our butter coated baking pan."

            A tad latter, "Mission accomplished!" Jen Jen, like lunar landing astronaut, said.

            "Not quite, now my precious grandchild brushes dough tops with melted butter, then we cover again and let rise for about an hour."

            "Sure is a whole lotta risin' goin' on," Jen Jen sang.

            "That is one sad Elvis impression." Grammie chuckled like the cluckle of henhouse hen.

            "So Grammie, time for more swing, sweet tea and a story?" Jen Jen wiggled like puppy dog tail.

            "Hey, are we going to make kolaches or what?"

            "There's more?" Jen Jen arched that left brow, raised right corner of lips, pointed her finger at own pug nose. "Bebe - Bebe!" Made excuse for break.

            "No time to give up when the finish line, the poppy seed filling, is in sight." Grammie encouraged.

            "I'm just a tired widdle girl." Jen Jen morphed doe eyes wide into liquid pools of soul.

            "Kolaches done done in my little helper?" Grammie nearly caved, hugged her, kissed her forehead.

            "Yeah, but I think I might be more hungry than tired.  So what do we do with this bag of poopy seed?" Jen Jen tee-hee-ed.

            "Poppy seed, not poopy seed, you little scamp!" Grammie giggled. Hugged Jen Jen gain.

            "No time for hugging, Grammie.  My tummy is growling.  The recipe says we need 1 1/2 cup poppy seeds, 1 cup sugar, 2 cups milk, 1 tbsp flour, 2 tbsp butter.  Let's do it!"

            So they did: combine the poppy seeds, milk and sugar and cook till early thickening; then added the butter, then the dissolved in a bit of water flour.  Grammie and Jen Jen took turns stirring as needed for near 30 minutes.

            "Done?" Jen Jen sighed, hoped.

            "Will be as soon as it cools a bit." Grammie sat it aside.

            Jen Jen retrieved and set up Paw Paws desk fan from his study to expedite cooling.

            "Smart girl." Grammie complemented.

            "Starved girl." Jen Jen tummy g-r-r-r-gled.

            In a tad of a while Grammie lifted cheese cloth, unveiled risen kolaches. "Ah the heart of the kolache needs filling.  Just like all us little kolaches need Jesus."

            "You fill my heart Grammie, but I may have to ask Jesus to feed me." Jen Jen almost was not kidding.

           "You fill the hearts while Grammie prepares the posypka topping and we will get to the oven sooner." Grammie turned on the oven to preheat to 425 degrees.

            While filling kolache hearts with poppy seed filling, Jen Jen kept learning eye on the Grammie-a-nator in fast forward.

            "Let's see, 1 cup sugar, 1/2 cup flour, heaping tsp cinnamon, 2 tbsp butter, mix till resembling coarse meal.  Viola, posypka!" Grammie eyes grew wide. "Oops, one little thingy."

            "Let's bake 'em!" Jen Jen was one hungry critter.

            "Just one more little thingy." Grammie smirked.

            "Noooo! No more one little thingies! Bake 'em. Please bake 'em." Jen Jen wound down as if from lack of energy.

            "But we must baptize the kolache poppy seed heart with posypka. Takes just a sec." Grammie sprinkled with zest, while Jen Jen clutching baking pan danced impatient polka. The sec Grammie ran out of posypka, Jen Jen almost got open oven door to pop kolaches laden pan in, when...

            "Needs 20 minutes rising." Grammie apologetically explained, "The sugar in the posypka reactivates the yeast."

            Jen Jen froze, eyes crossed, along with her legs.

            "Are you ok?"

            "Sweet tea on the swing!" Jen Jen sat down baking pan, hopped like a roo round kitchen corner to loo.

            After the river rapids of time whizzed by, Jen Jen had barely re-entered kitchen, when pug nose went to twitchin' and she spied on kitchen table, "Oh yeah, freshly nuked leftover Czech goulash, praha heaven. Thank you Grammie.  You are the best Grammie like ever."

             "Maybe this will elevate Grammie to sainthood." Grammie glowed, as she sat down tall glass of cold milk on kitchen table; while gathering memories to savor forever.

            In a tad less than a while Jen Jen had scarfed down the praha and, "Mm-mmm good," ed thru milk mustache, when...

            Grammie interrupted, "Got time to pop these kolaches in the oven?"

            "Does a wild grandchild pee in the loo?" Jen Jen hopped from seat.

             "You scampered over here like a gerbil to cheese." Grammie smile sighed mixture of amusement and pure love.

            In both hands Jen Jen grasped kolache laden baking sheet,  Grammie opened oven.  Jen Jen sat in baking sheet. Grammie gently closed door.

            "How long?" Jen Jen still had that hungry squirrel drooling over an acorn look.

            "At 425 preheated degrees, about 12 to 15 minutes till we polka down the Posypka Road to Kolache Land." Grammie teased.

            Jen Jen groaned, took her arm, "Duh, your metaphors have slapped your similes silly, Grammie."

            14 minutes, 53 seconds later, Jen Jen opened oven, released intoxicating fresh baked kolache aroma,  Oven mitten clad Grammie reached in, pulled out, "Just a little bit of the promised land." She proclaimed. Jen Jen brushed on melted butter, then the mouth watering waiting to semi-cooling began.

            One eye on kolaches, the other tending clean-up, Jen Jen and Grammie polka-ed from flour dusted mess to sparkling kitchen land, while sharing tasty tid bits of family history:

            "You know it took your Mommy nine months to bake her little kolache in tummy oven."

            "Duh, and she stirred in a whole lotta sugar to make me." Jen Jen was in mid tee-hee, when...

            Screen door abruptly swung open, cap wearing head stuck in, "My kolache radar never fails."

            "If you mean by radar that big old Paw Paw snoozola of yours." Jen Jen squealed, ran into his arms, knocked cap off his head, squeezed till Paw Paw eyes near popped out.

            Jen Jen blessed his nose with kisses, hopped down, grabbed kolache in each hand, gave one to Paw Paw, one to Grammie, hopped back, grabbed two more and... took starving scarf out of each one. Poppy seed and posypka squished out mouth, ran down her chin.

            Grammie praised, "Serving Paw Paw and me first; Jen Jen, you are so preciously unselfish."

            "I'm no sailfish!" Jen Jen tee-hee-ed right into nother delicious kolache double bite.

            "Did you see?" Paw Paw lovingly kneaded Grammie shoulder and neck.

            "The kolache in each hand." Grammie felt it too.

            "Think the Lord is telling us to tell her?" Paw Paw tad more than wondered.

            "Tell me what?" Jen Jen took nother double bite.

            Grammie and Paw Paw into each others eyes looked; took turn of tee-hee all their own.

            "What?" Jen Jen mumbled thru mouthful of poppy seed posypka sweet kolache heart.

            Grammie patted flour dusted apron over swollen tummy, gave blessed answer, "You may be getting a new aunt or uncle soon."

            "Maybe one of each," Paw Paw eyes beamed.

            As Jen Jen's kolache munching slowed, so grew her doe eyes wide... into liquid pools of soul... Jen Jen hugged her Grammie, said, "I thought you were just getting fat!" The giggling ensued.

            "Lord help us all," Grammie laughed for joy, looked to heaven, "thank you Jesus."

            The sweet heart of pillow soft supple dough... the kolache filled with fruit...

            So should we be all... kneaded by the Creator... filled with Jesus...

            Where did the inspiration for this little story come from? In the Bible, the adventures of 100 year Abraham and 90 year old wife Sarah are totally true and like totally awesome. Why would Sarah knead meal to cake? Why would she laugh within her heart? Were they at advanced age to have a son named Isaac, whose name meant laughter? And why? And why, O'My!!!  Will you read and also laugh within your heart: Genesis 18:1-15; 21:1-5...

            And why, O'MY!!!   2000 years later a certain descendant of Abraham and Sarah would be blessed with child. That young lady was and is Mary, whose name in Hebrew means: Wished For Child... Thank you Jesus...

                                     ...No thing is too difficult for the LORD...      














Thursday, January 19, 2017


                "Grilled on the hot seat, frozen by cold shoulder, odd how hot and cold add seasoning to season?" Peche dug spoon in bowl, dug deeper into wife's irritation, took nother bite.

                "You got peach juice running down your chin!  I just sliced those up for the cobbler!" Georgia Perzik huffed, mumbled lament, "It 'was' marinating with cinnamon and nutmeg." From cupboard she retrieved flour, sat it beside milk on counter top.

                "But it tastes so good," Peche grinned as he munched away.  Heating up the wife in the kitchen was such fun.  My how he loved her petite yet plush Cornish hen figure, as she flounced fain ire.

                "Peche, you are a sneaky peach cobbler filling pilferer!" Georgia puffed at pony tail escaped strand of auburn.  She tried not to smile at husband's most recent shenanigan.

                "But I am the Peche," the near golden skin and too blond spiked hair of the Peche glowed in the sunlight framed by kitchen window.  He offered, "I tell you what.  The Peche will re-prepare the peaches.  You just tell me what to do and we do together."

                Atonement for bad behavior should be' so easy," Georgia no longer hid smile, "but you are forgiven." And blessing clung to her thoughts as she commanded, "So okay, real simple, slice up about four cups of those up river peaches that Jana and Daryll dropped off after church.  Then stir in a tad more than a dash or two of cinnamon, and a dash of nutmeg.  It needs to sit for a bit." Her smile grew. "Think you can handle that Mr. Peach Poacher?"

                "Chef Peche to the rescue." The Peche sidled up next wife, planted peach sticky kiss to the prize freckles of Georgia neck.

                "Get away," Georgia giggled, gave him elbow. "Save some of that energy for later this evening when Jana and Daryll bring their hand cranked ice cream maker.  I want this peach cobbler nice and hot to melt that homemade ice cream topping."

                "But," Peche tried snuggling closer.  Again elbow nudged ribs

                "Focus, old man!  Those peaches are not going to re-prepare themselves." Georgia smiled, gave the Peche peck on cheek.

                "Ahh, the Georgia peach peck, as in I love you but... work to be done." Peche sighed, from the basket next counter retrieved fresh orchard peaches, added, "Yet, so sweet is the work."

                "Meanwhile back at the ranch, er lavender ranch that is." Georgia rebooted, took pause, gazed thru kitchen window oer lavender field to the Pedernales River below; and thought out loud, "Thank you, Jesus."  And so refreshed, in mixing bowl she then added, "Let's see: 1 cup sugar... 1/4 tsp salt... 1 tsp baking powder... 3/4 cup flour... stir it up... and now beat in 3/4 cup of milk till all the lumpy lumps be gone."

                "My beautiful wife bout ready for these peaches?" Peche held forth tad over four cups bowl of re-prepared peaches.

                "Aah, my favorite lump of all is one swift peach slicing machine." Georgia finished batter beating.

                "Ready for the Peche to stir in for you these-a 'so sweet-a' sliced peaches?" A tad over eager Peche again asked, grasped wooden spoon, readied for action.

                "Give me that bowl." Georgia snatched it from him in the nick of premature mixing. "Step away from the batter, lump boy." She commanded, then sat bowl on counter top. "First we pull from the oven," she turned, opened oven door, "this two quart casserole dish with 1/4 pound melted butter in its belly.  Then... then we without stirring pour in the batter... a reminder: without stirring... then we spoon on the fresh sliced peaches over the top of the batter... and note: this too is a no stir zone. Then all we got to do is put it in the oven at 350 degrees for about 45 minutes, or until the top is light to medium brown..."

                The door bell rang... the wine enjoyed... the homemade french vanilla ice cream hand churned... and my oh my in the sweet by and by, that ice cream topped hot peach cobbler.  But before they supped, with hands joined, guests Jana and Daryll with hosts Georgia and the Peche stood at back porch railing; eyes set upon golden sunset oer the Pedernales River; as they sang thanks giving: "O taste and see that the Lord is good: blessed are they that trust in him."  Psalm 34:8

                Slow down... enjoy life... praise the One who giveth it... Father, Son, Holy Spirit...

                Note: In the Texas Hill Country lie the scenic rapids and falls of the Pedernales.  More than a tad are the peach orchards, wineries and lavender ranches that line river bank.  I think of it as: The Heart of God's Country.

                Our characters take a bow:

                Georgia - a Georgia peach transplanted to Texas

                The Peche - French for peach

                Last name Perzik - Dutch for peach

                Jana and Daryll - the neighbor peach orchard wranglers... Read their story, "Every Peach Has Its Pit" August 2015 in the menu at pawpawcorner.blogspot.com or just click the title top left of page...

                May God bless ya'll peaches, everyone... in Jesus precious name...                  






Saturday, December 31, 2016


                    Half past beady eyed midnight, in the pale moon light, mist kissed tendrils of twig epitaph, cast gnarled finger shadows down fallen leaf path.  White and silent running shoes beat in tune with ear bud blues; while rushing was the brushing of red shorts over dark leotard, as she passed by tombstone in the church graveyard.  And her pale pony tail swished, as she sincerely wished for an oasis of peace to still her storm of insomnia sea.

                    And all the way along the way, the windows to her soul saw hungry eyes in the bushes; made the skin of her flesh crawl in chill will rushes...

                    "At what point exactly did I decide this fix for insomnia to be good?" Cheryl past puff  rued in mid huff. "This jog half past beady eyed midnight, in the pale moon light, just might fix me for good."

                    And down the fallen leaf path green eyes aglow, as if in the know, hissed out and spat, "Meee-rrr-owww," a no pass warning to get back and scat, before the attack.

                    Cheryl ran faster.  Put black cat behind her.  And as her heart fluttered, she between breaths muttered, "Scared the pee, right outta me!"

                    And did her skin crawl, as still the more she saw, predator eyes gawking, at the prey they were stalking.  Til too late to stop in the cloaking mist, dead ahead loomed hulking figure hooded dressed.  And Cheryl's white shoes in unison screeched, as, "Jesus save me!" She beseeched.

                    Into his arms she slipped.  Into terror she slid.  And he held her tight, yet calmed her fright. "Young lady, tis a bit too late at night, to from insomnia take flight." And he said, as he took gently her right arm, "Come, calm your alarm.  You have past the eyes of yon graveyard.  You are now near the house of the Lord."

                    And the hooded figure guided her up the fallen leaf path, soon lit thru stained glass windows the mist by pure light bath.  And the hooded figure said, as he pulled back cowl, "So are the windows of His church... windows of the soul."

                    Looking up into his bearded face, Cheryl wondered was this the case, "Are you Jesus?"

                    And he smiled, and he said, "Thank you, I do try, but I too was just like you, in the dark letting predator eyes run me down... when the eyes I was running from were my own."

                    And the pastor opened the door... welcomed in another soul to Jesus' shore...

Psalm 17:8 KJ: "Keep me as the apple of the eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings."

John 8:12... the light of the world, Jesus... clothes us... Isaiah 61:10

Mark 4:35-41... Jesus stills the storm... brings safe to shore...

There are over 500 verses about the eyes in the Holy Bible...

Looking out or looking in... the eyes are windows to the soul...

The eyes are wired directly to the brain, what we seek and see physically, affects us spiritually...

What we seek and see spiritually, affects us physically...

Others see us...

God sees all... and will guide our sight, if we just ask Him in the name of His son... Jesus...

Psalm 119:105 KJ: "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light to my path."

John 1:1-4 with John 8:12 KJ explains exactly who the Word and the light and the life are... Jesus...

Eyes too wide open... like focus... Genesis 3:4-5 KJ (This lie appealed to self ego and led to sweat and toil under the sun and death.)

Seek and see... focus on God thru Jesus... have  abundant life... John 10:10-11

Thank you Mel...