The simple pleasures of home shine brighter
when the spirit of God intertwines our hearts
with His gentle Joy.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

First Frost. . .

"When the Frost is on the Punkin"


Just last week we had our First Frost of the Fall Season! Record low of 32 degrees on the Prairie. 


These pumpkins remind me of heavy frost I vividly remember from my Youth! We lived in a two~story Victorian home with no heat in the upstairs! How well I remember sticking my head out from under the quilt and blowing . . . watching my breath as a ethereal existence float across the room meant I had better scurry down the stairs to the warmth of the furnace in the kitchen!




As the softer side of Autumn continues On Crooked Creek, I set up this beverage bar at the built~in buffet and china cabinet. Cooler evenings on the Prairie often find "Mr. Ed" and I enjoying a cup of tea or hot cocoa.




My preference, most any Season of the year, is hot tea in the evenings. I have, truly, enjoyed Apricot Tea this Autumn. Blended in my Tea Drop Tea Pot ~ with just a touch of sugar to bring out the sweetness of the fruit ~ is so fulfilling at the days end.




"Mr. Ed" is a true chocoholic! His favorite of choice is Swiss Miss Dark Chocolate! Either hot tea or hot chocolate served in these scalloped mugs makes one feel appreciated.




These "grubby" candles are softly scented with aromas of Autumn. I was thrilled when I realized they fit perfectly in my vintage bobbins.  Just a simple berry candle ring in cranberry hues competes an Autumnal  decor look.





I adore unique pumpkins! Although these two are of the same soft creamy ivory, almost ecru, hue; the differences in their shape gives them such a pleasing visual appeal.









Whether you choose hot cocoa. . .




                                                        or hot tea . . .


I hope you're enjoying the First Frost in your corner of Blog Land
as we On Crooked Creek are this evening. "Mr. Ed" and I want to leave you with this poem from our youth.




"When the Frost is on the Punkin"



by James Whitcomb Riley






WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,


And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,


And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,


And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;


O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,


With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,


As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,


When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.






They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere


When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here—


Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,


And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;


But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze


Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days


Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—


When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.






The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,


And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;


The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still


A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;


The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;


The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—


O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,


When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.





Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps


Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;


And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through


With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!...


I don't know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be


As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—


I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin' flock—


When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.



Until next time. . .
Post a Comment