https://theconservativetreehouse.com/category/mailboxes-old-barns/

That link will take to you brief opening lines of all the MBOBs published in the last two and half years.

Would you mind using that as a source today?

I hope you might find one you may have missed earlier and enjoy reading it today.

You can either comment here or on any earlier-published post. Again my sincere apologies for the lapse.

Here’s a poem from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow about memories that sometimes move in and out of focus — and become part of the irretrievable past.  (more…)

Was it the publication of the book, simply having that task off my desk? Was it the journey upon which DH and I were launched on the same day the final sign off on the manuscript was in the works? I suppose it’s a combination of things that has made fresh writing a struggle for me over the past many months; in any case, I’m going to be taking a hiatus from the weekly MBOBs.
Sometimes we choose a season of life. sometimes it chooses us, and seasons sometimes come and go with little warning of either their arrival or  their departure.

Do you remember when you were headed west on the Oregon Trail and far off in the distance – finally – you spotted Chimney Rock in the middle of what is now Nebraska? That was proof that progress was being made, proof that you and your parents weren’t totally crazy to have entered the journey.
Then, some weeks after leaving Chimney Rock in your dusty past, there it is….the blurred afternoon shadow of the Rocky Mountains, the longed-for and massive obstacle that must be conquered. It was expected and yet a surprise. Day by day the range grew in significance and detail and finally, the wagon train was in the mountains – climbing toward the sunset at the end of every day. (more…)

Thank you to WeeWeed who is providing our MBOB post today – Sharon

If you live long enough, you have the dreaded (but normal) task of cleaning out a beloved family member’s personal items when they die.  Such was mine earlier this year when my beloved Momma left us. 

Lo and behold, when I cleaned out some files – teh Momma wrote poems, songs, and some stories of her life.  This is one of her MBOBs. 

Imagine my surprise when cleaning out her drawers – nearly all of the items in “Granny’s purse” were there, carefully and lovingly saved, as were Grandpa’s glasses and his “Fraternity Of” ring.

This is one of her stories and Sharon has been kind enough to share it. ~ W2

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When I was a little girl my grandparents sometimes had the questionable joy of keeping me for six weeks while my mother, a single parent, attended summer school sessions to keep her teaching certificate current.  Since they lived in the small village of Westbrook, TX, and we lived in metropolitan Pampa my social life was considerably curtailed.  Some of my best summer memories lie in that small Texas town.

“Land o’Goshen, all the water in the ocean wouldn’t get you clean today,” my grandma would say after an afternoon of making mudpies down by the barn.

“My stars n’ garters, you’ve got bird nests in your hair,” she’d say.  Guess SHE didn’t recognize a fairy princess when she saw one!

“Good grief ‘n little Ned, has there been a hippopotamus in this bed??” after my nights of dream filled slumbers.

“My land, child, have you got a hollow leg?” after my third peanut butter and jelly sandwich. (more…)

Today’s MBOB is a repeat from a year ago. It’s harvest time again and depending on when the rain finally stopped last spring, harvest has been under way since July in some areas.
1951 was a good year. Dad sold 3,686 bushels of our wheat to the local elevator – 3,000 from the 1950 crop and the remainder a portion of the 1951 crop.
He didn’t plat out the wheat acreage in his record book for that year so I don’t know how many acres contributed to the total, but if we estimate 200 acres (which would be a little less than half of what we had in cultivation, the rest being poor-quality pasture) that year’s production was a little over 18 bushels per acre. Not bad. Thirty bushels per acre was considered a good crop. Some fields gave us thirty-six bushes per acre one year.
Although we had 500 of our 1181 acres under cultivation, only half of that could be planted in any given year because of the poor quality of the soil and limited, random rain.  Strip-farming helped preserve the soil so the ribbons Dad had carved out from our 500 acres allowed for 250 or so to be in production each year. Not all of that would be wheat (which is why I used 200 in the previous paragraph to estimate production). We usually had at least one field of oats to provide grain for the milk cows.
The grain elevators at the railroad siding in every small town were a hub of activity in August as the first loads of wheat were brought in.  The reports of crop quality and bushels-per-acre traveled with the farmers and spread quickly around the community as sales and services were tallied up, some of the wheat going into the grain car waiting on the siding destined for St. Paul, Minnesota, and some into the elevators for storage in the hope of better prices in the winter or spring. (more…)

MBOBs take root downward and bear fruit upward — can’t be helped — those things are built into them.
There’s benefit for any who will linger in their shadow and gain strength for the journey.
I wrote this in early July:

Maybe there’s something wrong with me but I am noticing there’s some gentle humor in grief. No tears in the last forty-eight hours but some discoveries that sort of make me smile.
Here’s my giant discovery of this day, [my DH] was totally right about this:

~”You can’t get it all done at once”~

(more…)

Today’s MBOB is a repeat from two years ago and considering current situations, perhaps a good reminder. The immediate reason for doing a repeat is that I poured boiling rhubarb jam on my thumb yesterday as I was filling jars, using an awkward cup to pour because I couldn’t find the one I usually use. 🙁  so I can’t type so good. BTW, I’m the third admin this week to have personal experiences with the reality and pain of burns. Wanna speculate???? 😉
For some of you, I know this one is familiar ground: may I invite you to write some short story of one of your own MBOBs in the comments thread. Seriously – do it!
This MBOB  is a transcription of my mother’s travel notes from an 18-day trip to Copenhagen, Cairo, Beirut, Nicosea, Tel Aviv, Caesarea and Jerusalem in the spring of 1972.
Early in her planning, she asked each of her seven children if we thought it was a good idea for her to go on this trip.  We certainly did and were so glad she wanted to do it. Her notes reflect her own love of travel, made as they were ten years after Dad’s passing in March of 1962.  This was a significant “solo journey” for her, made with a tour sponsored by a Bible school in Seattle.
Her notes are evidence of her ability to maintain old friendships and enter into new ones; and they remind us that there is much extra-Biblical historical documentation of the journeys and works of Jesus, the Christ.  The Scripture references in the text were in her original notes. Every mention of a city or location is not bold, but the first mention and sometimes additional ones are, if it helps us to “see where we are.”  I have added a few  italicized notes for clarification.
This narrative brings into focus some detail about sites that are within the sounds of  today’s rocket attacks.
Many of the sites Mom saw in 1972 would certainly makes Hamas’ list of “Things To Blow Up.” (more…)

We finally got electricity in 1951. It was expected and though the poles had been installed for some time, the houses wired, and the wires strung, the promise of what was to come – didn’t. The impatience built and finally the older siblings thought it a stellar idea to just leave all of those switches in the house in the on position – just in case.
We came home from town one day and everything that could run was running. Everything that could light was lit. The juice was on!
Although it was an exciting moment my primary memory, as a seven year old, is how much it was simply taken in stride. We hadn’t missed it because we had never had it. Carrying the kerosene lamps up the stairs at bedtime and properly handling them so that we didn’t burn the house down was second nature and not considered a hardship. My mother’s sterling coffee pot and all of her pretty dresses did not fall short of anyone’s idea of living well. (more…)

Our older son called me just before Father’s Day to tell me of a gift he wants to give me in appreciation of my efforts to preserve our MBOBs.
He recently bought a new camera with lots of digital doo-dads and special features. The point-of-purchase goodies included this: the retailer from whom he purchased the equipment will produce a single copy of a full size, four color coffee table book featuring DS’s photography. It will always be a one-of-a-kind item.
He plans to photograph mailboxes and old barns that he finds in his work-related travel across Colorado, Nebraska and Wyoming. When the book (titled Mailboxes and Old Barns) is completed, it will be my keepsake, eventually to return to his hands.
He was just checking to see if that would be ok.  Oh, yes. That would be ok.
Concerned whether it constituted taking my idea. Oh, no. That’s not taking my idea – that’s blessing mom’s heart.

What love is it that puts into the hearts of our children some grotto of life that shelters the same heritage that holds our own hearts steady?

It doesn’t get much better than that. (more…)

Mailboxes along the roads and old barns set back in fields overgrown with weeds often served as landmarks that told us where we were and how far we had to go in the high dry prairie country of northeastern Montana where I grew up. Sometimes the mailboxes signaled “home” and the end of the road; at other times, barely visible through swirling snow, an old barn told us we had miles to go. When I started compiling word pictures of those times a few years back I realized they were like those mailboxes and old barns–still identifying important places along the road, still signaling where I am and how far I have to go.
There are mailboxes and old barns surrounding us now ...we don’t have to wait twenty years or fifty.
Breathe them in now. Touch them now. Think about them now. Let them encourage now. Talk about them now.

(more…)