Spooky ol' Ghosts!

“Once upon a time there was a spooky ol’ ghost dressed all in black.”  That’s as far as she got!  The littlest Kinney had a question.  “If ghosts are just spirit.” She asked musingly, “Why do they need clothes at all?”  “Good question.” Admitted Laura contemplatively.  This line of thought peeked the children’s curiosity, resulting in several additional questions.  “If ghosts wear clothes,” asked another, “do they have to warsh ‘em?   Do ghosts get ring around the collar?” This resulted in an outburst of exuberant laughter, exacerbated by youthful enthusiasm.  Lidge perked up and his face shone with recognition of his opportunity to participate.  “I wonder,” he said, grinning with anticipation,  “If ghosts get lint in their belly-buttons.”   “Ghosts don’t have bellybuttons silly!” chimed the twins in unison, and the entire hollow rang with squeals of laughter.

    In the middle of this jocularity, the briars rustled and in stepped two more youngsters.  Mick and Sid O’Meara had overheard the ruckus from across the hollow and come to investigate the cause of all the merriment.  Mick seemed to sense the jovial mood of the assembly almost immediately.  He sprawled on the ground, rested his chin on his hands, and offered a yarn of his own. “You should have seen what happened at our house!  There’s a big ol’ alligator turtle in our pond. The McCauley’s cow was standin’ belly deep, coolin’ off the other day, when that ol’ snapper swum up and bit the end right out o’ one o’ her spickets!” The kids all groaned and grabbed their chests.  The response was spontaneous and only served to encourage the storyteller.  “‘Fore we could get a tourniquet on her,” he continued, “that ol’ cow leaked out three buckets o’ buttermilk!”

    “Oh, go on!” said Laura.  “That’s nothin’!” announced Lidge. “We had a big ol’ wolf trap set at our pond, tryin’ to catch a darned ol’ coon.  One o’ them big snappers got caught by the neck.  ‘Fore we could drag him out and give ‘im what fore, that rascal chewed his head off and got clean away!  A couple o’ days later he come draggin’ up the hill, fit as a fiddle and carryin’ his head in his mouth!” "Obie's Quest"

A Heartfelt Apology

A Heartfelt Apology

Poor Little Obie!

 I’ve taken the hopes & dreams, and doubts & fears, and triumphs & failures that we all have in common with those hearty souls who’ve preceded us, and created an affable, unpretentious character that young and old alike are likely to relate to on some level.  And then I’ve inflicted him with much of my own childhood, debilitating vulnerability, incomprehensible faith, some of our country’s most colorful and gut wrenching history, and a plethora of the ubiquitous maladies that plague us all! And I’ve cast him, nearly naked, into the world. God, consider my motives and forgive me.

 The Author

DEDICATION

Photo by S. T. Casebeer

TO MY BELOVED ANCESTORS,

AND THE FAITH AND FORTITUDE THAT DROVE THEM TO PURSUE THEIR DREAMS, THIS INNOCUOUS LITTLE PARABLE IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.

THE AUTHOR 

PLEASE ENJOY THE FOLLOWING EXCERPTS OF

"OBIE'S QUEST"

Obie's Quest

Cover by S. T. Casebeer

I painstakingly pecked out "Obie's Quest" during the early years of the current Millennium.  My historical novel  is comprised of over 110,000 words.  When one lacks proficiency as a typist, that's a lot of words! I am not an English major. I'm just a poverty-stricken, old hillbilly with a story.  I concentrated my efforts on telling that story, fully expecting that, at some point in time, the many facets of my innocuous little missive would be cut and polished by a professional editor who was equal to the task.  Suffice it to say, that didn't happen. Excuse the rough edges and I think you'll enjoy Obie's Quest.  STC

PROLOGUE

October 1844 would mark the end of a youthful journey and the beginning of a lifelong quest. We’d been at sea for three long months.  It was an hour or two before dawn and not a soul was stirring.  Have you ever had that feeling that you’re being watched? Right at that moment, I had that feeling in a powerful way.  I turned my head cautiously and glanced down the starboard side of the ship.  All at once something aft caught my attention.  I turned suddenly and had to squint and shield my eyes.  There, low on the eastern horizon, just below the sail, was the biggest, most extravagant moon I’d ever seen.  It was the same moon that had lit the skies over the Rhine valley during my youth, but it had always seemed distant and detached.  Now, thousands of miles from the only home I’d ever known, it was suddenly a comfort to see something so familiar.  It was the first time that a cold, lonely night had forced me to seek comfort and companionship in that ol’ moon.  It wouldn’t be the last.  My name is Obadiah Jeremiah Hezekiah Camp.  I know that’s a mighty big mouthful, but my folks were bound and determined to name me after all four of my great granddads.  You can call me Obie.  I was nine years old when my family and I left our ancestral home in Germany to sail for America. I didn’t realize it then, but the innocent, carefree days of my youth were rapidly drawing to a close.  Ahead lay inconceivable obstacles, incredible exploits, high adventure on the western frontier, and eventually contentment and an inner peace that many never find.

As I lay there on that hard wooden deck, staring into that starry stillness, the only sound was the groaning and squeaking of that old ships rigging, and the flapping of her canvas sails in response to an intermittent breeze.  I pulled the tarp up around my shoulders as a sudden gust of wind garnished the deck with a blanket of fog that stung my chapped face and glistened on the coil of rope that served as my pillow.  My brother Christoph lay on the deck at my side.  Christoph was thirteen.  He had serious doubts about this pilgrimage to America.  His apprenticeship to the Count’s brewmeister had been lucrative, and he’d been very hesitant to accompany his family on this risky and unnerving excursion.  He missed his home and friends, and had joined us reluctantly at the insistence of our father and the heartfelt pleadings of our mother.  

   

There would be no more sleep for me this night.  As the velvet black skies lightened to lavender in the east, a thin layer of scarlet became barely visible in the west.  It was land.  It was America.  Soon the melancholy stillness was replaced with hustle, bustle, and the excitement of preparation. The crewmen were busily pursuing their assigned tasks, and the passengers were crowding the decks in a frenzy of anticipation.  Yesterday, freedom, opportunity, and America had been only a well-worn, but very illusive dream.  This morning that impossible dream was palpable.  It lay on the horizon ahead of us, visible to the naked eye.  It was no longer just an incredible dream.  America was real.

Gettin' Excited!

Photo by S. T. Casebeer

The Ground Hog is with us; the geese are headed north, the Dewdrops and Crocus are blooming!  I’m not setting out tomato plants yet, but I’m gettin’ excited!

Autumn

Photo by C. M. Binkley, My Daughter :)

October passes quietly in a flourish of pastels.

Its brightest days are as special as they are brief.

Its touch is deep and long-lasting,

And its passing leaves us, as it does all of nature,

Grey, exposed and vulnerable.

When November comes the trees have dropped their leaves;

The sun is sluggish with the cold, and rides atop a sullen mist,

Just above the oak tops, to the south.

The breezes, like rowdy children, 

Toss the leaves in each other’s faces.

The rustling and the rattling is their laughter,

And the memory of their laughter is our joy.

STC

The Escarpment

Photo by S. T. Casebeer

Winter at the escarpment

Things are looking up!

Photo by S. T. Casebeer

Long Ago-

Photo by S. T. Casebeer

In a galaxy far, far away...

Summer Rain

Photo by S. T. Casebeer 

Oh how sweet that summer rain,
That stays but brief, then fades away in mist.
Oh how refreshed those graying fields,
That for a time forgot their grief as Heaven kissed them.
Oh how deeply must that interlude be felt,
When from the barren vastness where they knelt,
The grasses and the woodlands may renew,
However brief that ageless rendezvous,
To bathe our very souls in summer rain,
To be alive, and feel life’s worth again.

STC

A Freudian Slip!

Photo by S.T. Casebeer

Just rusting.  Oops! I mean resting!

Nature's Power

The vast immortal river flows,

Unchallenged through the halls,

That it has carved since time began

Creating ancient walls.

And through the space that’s left between

The canyon walls on high,

Cascading waters catch the light

Of brilliant summer sky.

A boat skims lightly at the point

Of fading rippled vees,

In passing, having less effect

Than cooling evening breeze.

The oars press firmly, slow and sure,

The oarsman deep in dreaming,

The oars repeat from fore to aft,

Then surface clean and gleaming.

From the shore the mountain peaks

It seems rise up forever,

As though the fleecy clouds above,

Their summits would dissever.

These slopes have weathered centuries,

And might forever stand,

But time like love will conquer all,

So some will turn to stand.

And from this sand a seed will sprout,

And from this sprout a flower,

So life anew will spring from death,

For this is nature’s power.

This power brings the mountains life.

Its source provides our hope.

It brings the peaks to river side

In gradual sandy slope.

And the river, flowing onward,

Ever onward to the sea,

Testifies to natures power

And God’s awesome majesty.

STC

The Cumulative Total

Remember always that no one day defines your life.  Good or bad, one single day is just that.  Your “life” is the cumulative total of all your days. Make today your priority and don’t live in the past, but temper each day with your best memories of yesterday.  Find new joy in old accomplishments, wisdom in past failures, encouragement in past successes, and fulfillment in each and every act of compassion.

Shannon T. Casebeer

February 15, 2011

The Ozarks

Photo by S.T. Casebeer

Beneath the ever-changing sky,

The Ozark Mountains stand.

They tug at fierce clouds passing by,

To quench the thirsty land,

While sharp rains whittle craggy bluffs,

And wash away the sand.

The rugged hills of greens and blues

Are beautiful and vast;

Each season’s ever-changing hues,

Here but brief, then past.

Their colors are inconstant,

But the Ozarks last and last.

As spring exiles the winter’s chill

Till next year’s early freeze,

The first faint call of Whippoorwill

Floats soft on evening breeze,

And echoes through the redbuds

And the Ozark’s flowering trees.

Deep in the Ozark bluffs and rocks

With old growth for a nest,

The Pileated Woodpecker taps and knocks

In rhythm with the rest,

And the passion of this ageless song,

Could never be expressed.

Beneath the ever-changing sky,

The old plateau insists,

That any pilgrim passer-by

Is drawn by Ozark mists.

And Whippoorwill will echo still,

As long as life exists.

STC

As And Ts

Let’s smile again at days gone by when wheels had wooden spokes,

When two bits bought a picture show and ten cents bought two cokes;

Those days when roads were either made of dust or seas of mud,

And cars were fueled with gasoline but ran on sweat and blood.

Remember Sundays, just for show, you’d crank her up and let her go.

You’d crank and crank, and when she’d start,

You’d get that flutter in your heart, and all the world was at your feet.

The drivers held each other dear, each a fellow pioneer,

And subscriber to the creed, just keep her running; don’t fret the speed.

Over the log, across the stream, all the way, the driver’s dream;

There was no challenge too extreme!

When the old gal got too hot, pull her off in a shady spot,

And luncheon on the running board, where all the family’s truck was stored,

And then be off again. From each home the people waved,

And if by chance you needed aid,

They were more than glad to help, and get her started up the grade.

Then with the wind upon your face, your toothy grin showed wide.

You’d check your spark and throttle, cruising down the other side.

The queen of all that she surveys, many stops but few delays,

If some repair is needed quick, some old haywire will do the trick.

The only stop that she requires, an occasional patch to those big balloon tires.

Now when your modern gas hog has got you feeling blue,

And she’s in the shop for thirty days, there’s one thing you can do:

Let’s smile again at days gone by, when wheels had wooden spokes,

When two bits bought a picture show and ten cents bought two cokes.

STC

Happy Valentines Day

Forever One

Long, quiet evenings,

Simple things enjoyed,

Chores and household tasks shared,

And through sharing, changed.

Changed from tedious, dreaded duties,

Into special times.

Times for loving and being close,

And building memories.

Taking time from mowing lawn,

For ice-tea in the cool shade,

Or a pillow-fight, before the bed is made.

Long walks when the sun is low,

Holding hands by the fire’s glow,

And sharing every joy and every doubt.

Sharing something everlasting,

In a world that’s ever-changing.

Being always ever hopeful,

Ever loving, ever true.

Being part of life, and living,

Truly caring, truly giving,

Individuals, and yet forever one.

STC

The Christmas Pumpkin

One spring Jared felt the need

To plant a bunch of pumpkin seed,

So late in May we broke some ground

And spread a little seed around.

The seeds all sprouted; the plants looked fine,

And little Jared’s eyes just shined!

All summer long we’d hoe and scratch

And manicure our pumpkin patch.

Come weekends we’d spend hours each day,

To clean the weeds and rocks away.

Little Jared thought it was worlds of fun

To work all day in the Ozark sun.

When Robin brought us lemonade

We’d sprawl in the cool of the Hickory’s shade.

We’d admire our work for an hour or more,

And recall the field as it looked before.

Soon one plant outgrew the rest,

And one big pumpkin was doing the best,

So Jared checked it every day,

To keep the weeds and the bugs away.

He couldn’t have budged it, had he tried,

But he loved that pumpkin with a farmer’s pride!

When harvest came we cut the stem,

And handled that pumpkin like a precious gem.

It was great to see the townsfolk stare

At Jared and his pumpkin at the County Fair,

And the tears of joy in Jared’s eyes,

When that old pumpkin took first prize!

It took two men to load it up and haul it off the grounds.

Its circumference measured six foot plus,

And it weighed one hundred pounds!

When we got it home I scratched my head.

“What do we do with it now?” I said!

And it began to worry me;

That pumpkin was part of our family!

Come Halloween it sat with pride

And glimmered by the fireside.

Little Jared would have give his life

To spare that pumpkin from the knife.

It looked real pretty, I have to say,

All shined up for Thanksgiving Day.

And we decked it out with a big red bow

And a little sprig of mistletoe,

Till it was quite a sight to see,

Beaming from under the Christmas tree.

Well finally it was spring once more,

And that pumpkin still sat on the dining room floor,

And looked for all the world to me

Like a permanent part of our family!

Then one day Jared felt the need

To plant a bunch of pumpkin seed.

We both let go with an Ozark shout,

As we rolled that big old pumpkin out,

Down to the field where it had grown,

And on that spot its seeds were sewn.

Now year after year those pumpkins grow,

And catch the sunlight row by row.

And each one meets their destiny,

Till our fields just glow with their progeny!

STC

Photos by S.T. Casebeer

Once Upon A Time...

“Once upon a time there was a spooky ol’ ghost dressed all in black.”  That’s as far as she got!  The littlest Kinney had a question.  “If ghosts are just spirit.” She asked musingly, “Why do they need clothes at all?”  “Good question.” Admitted Laura contemplatively.  This line of thought peeked the children’s curiosity, resulting in several additional questions.  “If ghosts wear clothes,” asked another, “do they have to warsh ‘em?   Do ghosts get ring around the collar?” This resulted in an outburst of exuberant laughter, exacerbated by youthful enthusiasm.  Lidge perked up and his face shone with recognition of his opportunity to participate.  “I wonder,” he said, grinning with anticipation,  “If ghosts get lint in their belly-buttons.”   “Ghosts don’t have bellybuttons silly!” chimed the twins in unison, and the entire hollow rang with squeals of laughter.

    In the middle of this jocularity, the briars rustled and in stepped two more youngsters.  Mick and Sid O’Meara had overheard the ruckus from across the hollow and come to investigate the cause of all the merriment.  Mick seemed to sense the jovial mood of the assembly almost immediately.  He sprawled on the ground, rested his chin on his hands, and offered a yarn of his own. “You should have seen what happened at our house!  There’s a big ol’ alligator turtle in our pond. The McCauley’s cow was standin’ belly deep, coolin’ off the other day, when that ol’ snapper swum up and bit the end right out o’ one o’ her spickets!” The kids all groaned and grabbed their chests.  The response was spontaneous and only served to encourage the storyteller.  “‘Fore we could get a tourniquet on her,” he continued, “that ol’ cow leaked out three buckets o’ buttermilk!”

    “Oh, go on!” said Laura.  “That’s nothin’!” announced Lidge. “We had a big ol’ wolf trap set at our pond, tryin’ to catch a darned ol’ coon.  One o’ them big snappers got caught by the neck.  ‘Fore we could drag him out and give ‘im what fore, that rascal chewed his head off and got clean away!  A couple o’ days later he come draggin’ up the hill, fit as a fiddle and carryin’ his head in his mouth!” "Obie's Quest"

"Requiem"

This photo was taken on a hilltop in Dad and Mom's back 40. This is where we spread Dad's ashes, just prior to Thanksgiving Day of 2010.  It was a small service, just immediate family.  Little was said; few could speak.  With what little voice I could muster, I gave The Lord's Prayer, and recited REQUIEM, by Robert Louis Stevenson.  And then we walked home to face life without my father

Under the wide and starry sky,

Dig the grave and let me lie.

Gladly did I live and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:

Here he lies where he longed to be,

Home is the sailor, home from the sea,

And the hunter home from the hill.

RLS

Am I Happy?

Am I happy?  Why, I’m happy as a bug on the bow of a boat!  Have ya ever watched a grasshopper at the bow of a boat, when the ol’ steamer is churning along at a good clip, the hull is pounding the cobalt blue water into a fine spray, and the shore is sailing by? And that old grasshopper is clinging to the railing for dear life, his little antennae are trailing in the wind, his molars are all catching sunlight, his eyes are glazed over and glistening in grateful satisfaction and the tobacco juice is streaming out the corners of his mouth and collecting in his whiskers and his ears?  Now that’s happy!  Obie’s Quest

"God Be With You"

Photo by S. T. Casebeer

During a twenty year period, from 1978 until 1998, I was a member of a small Baptist congregation which met faithfully, prayerfully and unpretentiously in a little rock church house in the Ozark Mountains of south central Missouri.  As was the case with many country churches of the time, it’s membership consisted largely of precious old souls who were the product of a time which is unfamiliar and unimaginable to those of us who were not ourselves ravaged by age at that time, or have glimpsed that singularly unique time in faded, dog-eared albums, or heard the wispy voices of those who were there and share their recollections.  It was a special time, a time never to be forgotten and unlikely to be repeated.  During the two remarkable decades that I was blessed to worship with these dear old saints, rarely did a service conclude without our congregation rising, hymnals in hand, to join voices in one particular old hymn that soon became one of my favorites.  From that time to this, that hymn has been my prayer. It’s my prayer now.

God be with you till we meet again,

By his counsel’s guide, uphold you,

With his sheep securely fold you,

God be with you till we meet again. 

Spelunk-elated!

Photo by, Shannon Thomas Casebeer

This Sunday's afternoon outing was an invigorating hike through the snow, followed by cave explorations along Spring creek's many bluffs.  Our quarry today was the illusive ice columns, which find refuge in these dark, secluded cracks and crannies during winter's chill.  Here is an entire nest of the timid creatures.  

Impressions

Photo by Jared Wayne Casebeer

Do not lament a moment past,

A fleeting moment made to share.

Do not feel it lost in passing,

For to be past, it need be there.

And in existing, only seconds,

Its donation subtly paid,

Enriches life and heart and soul,

With vast impressions it has made.

Foolish is the heart that lives one moment,

And its passing grieves,

For in the volume of our lives,

Each page must turn to reveal new leaves.

Each second gives us priceless life;

It also gives us age.

Take care my friend, as chapters end,

Don’t stop to mourn the page.

Read on and on; each second counts;

Each chapter grows more fine.

And often as not, what we fear is lost,

Is ahead just one more line.

STC

Fire And Ice

 Photo by Jared Wayne Casebeer

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if I had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

Robert frost

Morning Breaks Eternal, Bright And Fair

Photo by Jared Wayne Casebeer

"When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound, and time shall be no more, and the morning breaks eternal, bright and fair; When the saved of earth shall gather over on the other shore, And the roll is called up yonder, I'll be there."  J. Black

"Roughing It"

It is always very cold on that lake shore in the night, but we had plenty of blankets and were warm enough.  We never moved a muscle all night, but waked at early dawn in the original positions, and got up at once, thoroughly refreshed, free from soreness, and brimful of friskiness.  There is no end of wholesome medicine in such an experience. That morning we could have whipped ten such people as we were the day before-sick ones at any rate.  But the world is slow, and people will go to "water cures" and "movement cures" and to foreign lands for health. Three months of camp life on Lake Tahoe would restore an Egyptian mummy to his pristine vigor and give him an appetite like an alligator. I do not mean the oldest and driest mummies, of course, but the fresher ones.  Mark Twain

Hear the stars?

Photo by Jared Wayne Casebeer

"I've never experienced air fresher, shadows deeper, or a scene so extraordinarily quiet and pristine!  You'll laugh and think I'm crazy, but it seemed as though I could almost hear the stars." 
Obie's Quest 

Ladies In Waiting

Photo by Jared Wayne Casebeer

Ice cold Chevys. Get 'em while they're hot!

The Mask

     Photo by Shannon Thomas Casebeer

The Mask

If I were a tree as fall creeps in,

With summer dripping from his chin,

I think I’d see through falls disguise,

And linger not to eulogize.

For sure as summer days grow still

And find new ways to steal our will,

Right behind on summers heels,

Fall’s sniffing at persimmon peels.

Before the trees can shake the spells

Of buzzing bees and summer's smells,

Fall slithers in on morning mist,

And wipes his chin with an icy fist.

While weasel eyes and sharp goat’s feet,

Search cold fall skies for things to eat,

Summer’s gone without a trace,

And falls mask slips from winter's face. 

STC