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The Art of the “Mess”: A Lesson in Poke and Vernacular

A top-down view of a finished plate of Southern polk salad mixed with chopped boiled eggs, served as a traditional Arkansas meal.

In the South, we don’t just “prepare” a meal; we “fix” it. While some might find our word choices or pronunciations a bit informal, I see our language as an art form. There is a time for the proper precision of a doctoral dissertation, and there is also a time for the beauty of a culture to shine through its own unique vocabulary.

Take, for example, the word “mess.” To some, it sounds like a disaster, but in my family—in the South, really—it is also a measurement: an abundance of something good meant to be shared. And right now, I have a deep craving for a “mess of polk.”

A large white plastic bag overflowing with freshly harvested green polk salad leaves sitting on a kitchen floor.
A “haul” of fresh polk ready for the kitchen.

Whether you spell it Poke Salad, Poke Sallet, or Polk Salad (the way Elvis sang it), it’s about as Southern as it gets. Growing up, I spent many spring days wandering the woods with my Mother and Mam-ma. It always amazed me that they could look at a field of wild “weeds” and know exactly which ones were a delicious treat and which ones were best left alone.

One day, Daddy decided to surprise Mother by picking a “haul” of polk on a hot afternoon. He worked diligently until he had what he thought to be a massive sack full, and he was so proud to bring it home for her to fix for supper. (Keep in mind—Daddy had happily eaten a lot of polk, but he had never picked a lot of polk!)

When we sat down at the table, Daddy looked at the tiny portions on our plates with surprise and dismay and asked, “Where’s the rest of it?” We all laughed so hard that night. Anyone who has ever cooked polk knows the heartbreak: you can start with a bushel and end up with a bowlful! It is the ultimate disappearing act once it hits the boiling water. Daddy was so disappointed because he had worked so hard, but after that night, I think he appreciated polk salad a bit more every time it appeared on his plate.

Fresh green polk leaves being washed and soaked in a stainless steel kitchen sink to prepare for cooking.
The first step: washing and “looking” the greens carefully.

If you’re a newcomer to the “polk” world, it does require a bit of respect—the plant is actually poisonous if you don’t know how to prepare it. I remember as a little girl, my friends and I would use those dark purple berries to “paint” our fingernails, squeezing out the juice and staining our nails (and fingertips) a brilliant color. Mother’s voice would always warn: “Be careful not to get that in your mouth!” We listened, and we’re still here to tell the tale!

When I’ve carried on the tradition of fixing polk salad in my own kitchen, I fix it just like Mother did. You have to cut the leaves off the stalks, then wash and “look” the greens carefully. After that, you boil them really, really well to remove the toxins. (Some folks prefer to parboil them two or three times just to be sure!) Once they are boiled, you drain and rinse them well until all that “green” is out of the water and it runs clear.

A large skillet on a stovetop filled with cooked green polk salad being seasoned and stirred with a wooden spoon.
Seasoning with bacon grease, garlic salt, and a touch of sugar.

Next, I cook them in a skillet with bacon grease and season them with garlic salt and a little bit of sugar. Right at the end, I add the eggs. My cousin scrambles hers right in, but I prefer to boil mine separately and chop them up. Either way, they are delicious!

Mother even used to take the young, green stalks, peel them, and fry them up just like okra. I’ve never done that—I’m not even good at frying okra—but perhaps someday I’ll try it.

A family member was recently asked by her grandson what polk salad even was. (He had no idea.) I thought her description was spot on: “Well, it’s a plant that grows wild, and it’s kind of like a turnip green, but it tastes really completely different.” It’s actually a really good definition!

Last night, I had just sat down to enjoy a bowl of fresh strawberries with crust when she sent me pictures of the mess of polk she was working on. I’ve wanted some ever since. I may have to go on the hunt for some this weekend.

Whether we say “poke” or “polk,” “fix” or “prepare,” these words are a connection to the grit and wisdom of the women who came before us. They knew how to turn a wild plant into an absolutely delicious dish. It’s more than just a meal; it’s our history—and I really enjoy “fixing” these stories to pass down to the next generation.

I want to know how you say it in your family!

Are you a “fix supper” person or a “prepare dinner” person?

At noon, do you eat dinner or lunch?

In the evening, is it supper or dinner?

(I grew up eating dinner at noon and supper in the evening!)

And most importantly… are there eggs in YOUR poke salad? 🙂

#ThinkOnGoodThings #PolkSalad #PokeSalad #PolkSallet #PokeSallet #ArkansasHeritage #SouthernLanguage #MessOfGreens #FamilyLegacy #SouthernVernacular #ArkansasHistory #DinnerOrSupper

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The Shoulders We Stand On

This past Sunday, I made the familiar drive home to Conway County, and I am so very glad I did….

The first Sunday in May is always Decoration Day at Old Hickory Cemetery. For me, it’s more than just a cemetery – It is a landscape of my history as well as many blessed memories.

When I was a little girl, graves were built up for Decoration Days. Daddy would haul in dirt to put on top of his father’s (my grandfather’s) grave and use a shovel to carefully mound it up, then a rake to make it smooth and neat before we placed the flowers to decorate the grave. Today, the modern convenience of riding mowers requires flat surfaces, so the mounds are gone—but the love that shaped them remains. That kind of love never really dies; it just waits for us to come back and remember it. That’s part of what Decoration Days are about…..remembering.

It’s a beautiful, time-honored pattern. Family members and friends arrive on Saturday or early Sunday to clean and tend the graves. Then, on Sunday afternoon, everyone returns to walk the grounds, admire the colorful silk arrangements, and share stories. Eventually, we all gather under the shade trees to talk and laugh and connect and catch up. Decoration Days are also about building and maintaining connections.

This past weekend, the weather was a rare gift—temperatures were pleasant and a cool breeze was blowing instead of the May heat and humidity that is typical. It was a wonderful weekend for the event….but as I looked around, I noticed there were fewer in attendance than ever before. There were two children walking through the cemetery with their grandmother and listening eagerly as she pointed out names and shared her memories of long ago. I was glad to see it – and thankful that my family had walked me through this same cemetery so many times sharing our stories and history as well. They gave me a gift.

I feel sad to see these traditions wane, because I believe these ties to our past are so important. It’s our history. Our history gives us some of our “why.” When we know and understand the grit and the joy of those who came before us – we find a compass for our own lives…..and it can change our trajectory.

In a way, it is a privilege—one I don’t take for granted—to have so many direct ancestors in one spot. One of my friends recently told me that she doesn’t know who her ancestors were, much less where they are buried. Over 30 of mine are within a 25-mile radius of where I grew up. To have 14 direct ancestors buried within 50 yards of where I will one day lie, many many years from now… it is a priceless kind of heritage. I am grateful to my parents and family for sharing the stories with me and blessing me with the memories.

On the drive home, I turned off to head down the winding little dirt road toward the little community of Lost Corner, Arkansas to decorate the graves of my great-grandparents, Mama and Papa Scroggins, and my great-great-grandmother, Ida.

The first thing you see as you wind down the road is a neat little old building (now used as a church) that stands quiet in front of the cemetery. It serves as a church building now, but a long time ago it was a school. I have a picture of my Mam-ma, my great aunt Sylvia, and my great aunt Ethel – along with their classmates standing outside the school as children. When I’m there, I love to imagine the sights and sounds of them running and playing and wondering and growing up here.

Mama and Papa and their girls had a hard life – but also good. They worked hard – picking cotton to make a living. My Mam-ma and her sisters ran and played with the other children while their parents picked – until they were about seven years old…then they joined their parents in fields. It’s hard work. Pickers slung a cotton bag over their shoulder to drag behind them and fill with cotton as they moved down the row. My great-aunt Verna said that when she was a little girl she would pick and drag that bag until it was too heavy for her to move. Then, she would leave that row for Mama or Papa to finish while she started on a new one.

Even with all the hard work, Mama Scroggins found time for art and beauty. She was naturally clever and artistic, often cleverly repurposing things instead of throwing them away. I have two small candleholders on the piano in my living room that she made from used metal cans. She even created her own wedding ring out of a solid silver quarter. Pretty talented!

My great-aunt Verna told me that Mama Scroggins would save scraps of paper all year long. Every spring, neighbors would come asking her to make paper flowers to decorate family graves – and she would work to get them made for everyone. Think of that—in a time of such hard manual labor, she found time to be an artist. After the day’s work was done, she spent her evenings folding, twisting, and cutting “scraps” into flowers to decorate the graves at the little cemetery where she now lies. The flowers I had bought to place on her grave were silk—but maybe next year I will learn to make paper flowers just for her. I would like that. She left a legacy that I want to remember and carry with me.

We are always moving forward in this life – and that’s good – but taking the time to look back—to learn and remember and honor the people who came before us—is how we realize whose shoulders we are standing on. We didn’t get here on our own. The progress, every comfort, and the joys we enjoy today was provided to us, to some degree, by the hard work of those who picked the sharp bolls of cotton until their fingers bled, by the resourcefulness of silver-quarter rings, and the quiet beauty of paper-flower bouquets of yesterday. When we remember them, we ensure that their contributions continue to live through us.

Does your family have a “Decoration Day” tradition? Or perhaps you have a “Mama Scroggins” in your history who made something beautiful out of nothing? I would love to hear about the shoulders you stand on in the comments today.

#ThinkOnGoodThings #OldHickory #LostCorner #ConwayCounty #ArkansasHistory #DecorationDay #FamilyLegacy #MamaScroggins #Roots #BlessedMemories #StandingOnShoulders

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The Rhythm of Joy

The Rhythm of Joy

“Break bread with neighbors.”

That is the tagline at Neighbor’s Mill Bakery & Cafe in Harrison, Arkansas, and this morning, I saw them live up to it (as they always do). As I stood in line to place my breakfast order, I watched the gentleman at the counter take his time—true, unhurried time—visiting amicably with an out-of-town couple. When he told them, “Thanks for coming in!”, he truly sounded as if he meant it. In our world of “hurry up and go,” that extra minute of connection didn’t just make their day; it set the tone for mine.

But the real lesson came after I sat down.

I had just settled into my booth when I felt it: Clump. Clump-Clump.

My entire booth was shaking. I turned around to find the source and saw a beautiful little blonde girl with cute, messy curls, maybe three years old, sitting back-to-back with me while eating breakfast with her daddy. She was happily munching away, swinging her legs with pure toddler energy, her little feet rhythmically hitting the back of my seat.

I had a choice in that moment. I could have easily let it frustrate me. I could have let it ruin my quiet breakfast.

But instead, I chose to hear the sound of joy.

Every time I took a bite of my sandwich: Clump, clump-clump. Every time I took a sip of my iced tea: Clump-clump.

Instead of an irritation, those little kicks became a reminder of how wonderful it is to be small, happy, and out for breakfast with your daddy. That rhythmic “shaking” of my booth didn’t ruin my morning—in fact, it made it better.

It turns out that “breaking bread with neighbors” isn’t just about the person across the table; sometimes, it’s about the tiny little neighbor kicking the back of your seat and reminding you that life is meant to be swung with both feet.

Let’s all choose to have a good day.

Let’s swing those feet, Friends! 😊

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The Balcony and the Legend: A Lesson from Marshfield

Some stories don’t just entertain us; they settle into our bones and teach us how to stand up when the rest of the world remains seated.

This past week at the Missouri Cherry Blossom Festival, I had the honor of listening to Mary Badham speak. Most know her as ‘Scout,’ the fiery, curious, thoughtful little girl in overalls from the wonderful movie To Kill a Mockingbird. But listening to her, I wasn’t just thinking about a movie—I was thinking about the soul of a story that has shaped generations.

If you have never seen the film or read Harper Lee’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, you are missing a piece of the American heart. It is a story about a widower lawyer, Atticus Finch, defending an innocent man in the 1930s South, told through the eyes of his young daughter.

Many people point to the moment Scout whispers a greeting (“Hey, Boo!”) to a misunderstood neighbor as the heart of the film. But for me, the most poignant,  emotional moment happens in the heavy silence of a courtroom balcony.

The trial is over. The verdict is in. Atticus has done the impossible, the honorable, and the courageous—and yet, in a system where prejudice outweighed the truth, he has lost. He has to gather his papers and walk out of that room with the weight of defeat on his shoulders.

But as he walks down the aisle, alone in his immense grief for an innocent man, something deeply impactful and emotional happens. In the balcony above, the African American community—those who had the most to lose and the most reason to be embittered by the day’s events—begins to rise in a silent, unified show of respect.

Reverend Sykes, the kind and dignified minister sitting with the children, leans down to a confused Scout. He doesn’t focus on the loss; he focuses on the man. He whispers:

‘Miss Jean Louise, stand up. Your father’s passing.’

It is a line that brings me to tears every time. It’s a powerful reminder that our true stature isn’t measured by our victories, but by the courage we find to stand up for what is right—even when we stand in the wreckage of a defeat. In that moment, the balcony wasn’t just honoring an attorney; they were honoring the best in all of us. They were proving that even when we lose the battle, we never lose the dignity that comes from standing up for one another. It was a moment where grace outshined the darkness. It is a scene that calls us to look past our differences and find the grace to respect, support, and care for one another. Even when things feel divided, it reminds us that kindness is a bridge that can carry us through any storm.

I recorded this little clip of Mary (Scout herself!) sharing how she almost didn’t get the role. As you’ll hear her describe, her father originally said no—he wanted a quiet life for his daughter in Birmingham. If not for her mother’s intuition and a clever bit of persuasion to get her to that audition, movie history would look very different.

She also shared that Gregory Peck—the legendary actor who was the very embodiment of Hollywood’s Golden Age—wasn’t just ‘acting’ as Atticus. They grew close – and stayed that way for the rest of his life. During the five months of filming, Mary spent almost every weekend at the Pecks’ home, becoming part of their family. That bond remained until the very end, with Mary visiting him just weeks before he passed away.

In a time when things feel fast and often divided, returning to the lessons of Maycomb, Alabama, feels like coming home. We are so fortunate that the Missouri Cherry Blossom Festival brings these ‘moments’ to our doorstep. It’s more than entertainment; it’s a chance to sit in a church pew and listen to history tell us that kindness and courage never go out of style.

Harper Lee’s story, To Kill a Mockingbird, is wonderful. It’s why former First Lady Laura Bush has long cited this as one of her favorite books of all time. It’s why Oprah Winfrey once loved the story so much that she rushed to the library asking for ‘everything Harper Lee ever wrote’—only to find that this one perfect story was all the world truly needed.

If you haven’t seen the movie lately—or ever—do yourself a favor. Watch it. And when the man in the suit walks down that aisle, remember to stand up. Always, remember to stand up.

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The Recipes That Connect Us: A Full Circle Moment in Marshfield

The Recipes That Connect Us:

A Full Circle Moment in Marshfield

Since I was a child, I have loved to read stories about people. I can clearly see in my mind where the biographies section was shelved in the Berryville Elementary library back when I was in school. I couldn’t wait to read them all. There were stories about Booker T. Washington, Babe Didrickson, Chief Joseph, Betsy Ross, Dolley Madison, John F. Kennedy, John Paul Jones, the Wright Brothers, and so many more….

My Mother encouraged my love of reading by buying me books that I was interested in — books such as the Laura Ingalls Wilder series that I love dearly to this day. We couldn’t afford to buy the entire series at once — so Mother would get me one at a time…. buying most of them at the Bible bookstore that used to be on the northwest side of the Ozark Mall in Harrison. When she bought the last book in the series, she asked the store owner about the little cardboard box holder—the kind usually only available when you bought the entire set at once. Lo and behold, they had an extra for some reason, and my collection was finally complete. I still have that very well-worn treasured set today.

I was about 10 years old when I finished those “Little House” books, and the next time I went back to the Bible bookstore with Mother I searched for something new to read. It was always exciting to me to browse the books and anticipate the stories to be found in each one. That particular afternoon, I left the children’s books and wandered through the adult section where I spotted a book about our (then) First Lady, Mrs. Rosalynn Carter.

The picture on the cover was just beautiful. Mrs. Carter was wearing a stylish navy blue dress and looked so pretty with a lovely, warm smile on her face. When I told Mother that this was the book I wanted, she never hesitated. She didn’t tell me that this particular book was probably above my reading level or that it was a book intended for adults — she just bought me the book — and for that, I am grateful. I always thought I could do whatever I set out to do because my parents believed in me and encouraged me in my pursuits.

I have read so many books through the years. Some of them I have kept, some I haven’t…. but I still have that biography of Mrs. Carter.

Now let’s fast forward about…..50 years. (Goodness — that went by quickly! 🙂)

This week, I was fortunate to attend the 2026 Missouri Cherry Blossom Festival in Marshfield, Missouri. This festival is such a rich and intricate tapestry of history and community that it’s honestly hard to find the right words to do it justice. In fact, that’s a task for other posts soon to come!

In this story, I want to focus on one particular festival event — a cooking class.

For me, it was one of the highlights of the week — because I absolutely love to cook and I dearly love collecting great recipes with connections. Yes, on today’s internet you can search and find pretty much any recipe you like… but in my opinion, this is a loss instead of a gain. Recipes that are passed down throughout families, recipes that you get from friends and neighbors — are recipes with connections…. and those connections make not only the preparations but the meals so much more meaningful and enjoyable.

This was the second year I attended the Cherry Blossom cooking class, hosted by Andrew Och. Andrew is known as the “First Ladies’ Man” because he spent years traveling across the country, visiting the homes and hometowns of every single American First Lady to document their unique stories. This cooking class is a special event — and I wish you could have been there! Let me tell you about it and hopefully take you there with me through the story…

Conducted by Mrs. Allethea Wall (the sister of former First Lady Rosalynn Carter), her daughter, Julie Wall-Smith, and her daughter-in-law, Courtney Wall, it was a reminder of true Southern hospitality.

These ladies worked so hard to make every guest feel at home. At each table, we found a wonderful collection of “connections” to the place they still hold so dear—Plains, Georgia:

  • A flyer for “Butterfly Daze 2026“ — an annual celebration in Plains that honors the butterfly trail Mrs. Carter championed to protect the monarch butterfly.
  • A brochure for “Mother Allie’s House“ — Mrs Carter and Mrs. Wall’s childhood home that has been beautifully restored and is now available as a charming vacation rental. Wouldn’t that be memorable and fun?
  • A copy of Sumter County Living magazine, featuring a lovely article about Mrs. Wall (page 66! 🙂 )
  • Small packages of “Plains Peanuts“ (so delicious and completely addictive!)

The class was a beautiful picture of a family working together. Julie took the lead on demonstrating and preparing the dishes while Courtney assisted her, making sure everything was ready for each step. Mrs. Wall sat with them, the steady heart of the demonstration, providing her wisdom and a beautiful, welcoming smile.

This year, the stars of the show were three classic recipes: Cheese Straws, Rosalynn Carter’s Famous Cheese Ring, and a simple and delicious Peanut Butter Pie.

They shared their secrets while they worked — like how much grating your own extra-sharp cheese (not buying pre-grated!) makes recipes better and the importance of using only Duke’s mayonnaise. (I’m never without a jar of Duke’s in my own refrigerator — it truly is a staple! If you’ve never tried it, you are missing out!)

The real highlight came at the end, when we all sat down to enjoy the delicious cheese ring and cheese straws and peanut butter pies together.

After I left that day, I thought back to my 10-year-old self in the Bible bookstore holding the biography of Mrs. Carter. I realized that the real blessing of this class wasn’t just the food (though it was wonderful!) It was the connections.

We live in a world that can sometimes feel so divided, but in that room, surrounded by a recipe, a conversation, and the beautiful smiles of new friends, I was reminded that we really do all have so much in common. Sometimes, a simple recipe and a kind conversation can bridge the gap, can encourage us, and can remind us that things are still so good.

The best recipes aren’t just lists of ingredients… they are the ones that connect our past to our present, and our hearts to new friends.

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A Surprise Detour

Good day! If you’ve been reading here for a while, you know how much I love a good story—especially when it happens in real life.

A couple of years ago, a friend and I took a completely unexpected detour on our way home from Savannah. It turned out to be one of my favorite travel memories!

I’ve started writing about this adventure, the history we uncovered, and the charm of this little town over on my Facebook page. I’m telling the story in a few parts (for quick reads), and I’ve included some pictures to go along with it.

I hope you’ll “go” for a visit to this little “off the beaten path” town with me through my stories. It’s such a charming little place! I invite you to click the link below and join the fun. I so hope you enjoy it! More to come!

[Please click here to read Part 1 of the story!]

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I Liked Wearing Footies Today….

I liked wearing footie socks today. I know – that’s a strange opening line… Let me go back a bit and explain…..

My Mother and I used to trade clothes and shoes a lot. She would borrow from me, and I would borrow from her. We enjoyed it. It was something she had done with her mother (my Mam-ma) through the years and so we continued the tradition. It was fun! We “shopped” each other’s closets whenever we wanted something new or different to borrow for a bit. It worked pretty well…..well, mostly it did….except maybe sometimes when it came to shoes.

You see – I don’t like wearing socks….ever. I do wear them in the winter – because you’re supposed to….but I think they are bunchy and uncomfortable and hot….and I much prefer bare feet in my shoes whenever I can get away with it. BUT, Mother never wore shoes (except sandals of course) without socks because she believed it was better for the shoe (and she was right). SO, when I borrowed any of her shoes she had one request – I had to wear a pair of “footies”. (UGH!!!) To make it easy, she bought me footie socks to keep on hand so that I could wear them when needed….and I always complied. I might have tried to talk her out of it a time or two….but she stood firm and I finally accepted that it was a thing and I respectfully followed her request. But….I still didn’t like wearing them.

Mother even kept footies at her house for me – just in case I ever needed shoes while I was there and didn’t have the little footies with me…..in other words, she had the situation thoroughly covered! 🙂

Shoes were kind of a big thing for my Mother – she loved them and had several pairs of unique, pretty, colorful, blingy, and fun shoes. When she passed away, it was hard parting with them. They were so “her”…so, I kept a special pair – her red and gold tennis shoes – because they were some of her favorites and because every time I look at them they make me smile. I tucked them away as a remembrance – for the smiles and the sweet memories they bring when I see them.

I kept some of her other shoes as well – some of my favorites that we had traded back and forth, and some of her more everyday tennis shoes – to wear myself. One pair of gray Skechers has sat in my closet until today. I’m not really certain why I haven’t worn them until now – because Skechers are some of my absolute favorite shoes…..but for whatever reasons I had left them sitting there quietly undisturbed.

Getting ready for work this morning, I put on a soft gray pullover shirt with my jeans (It’s casual Friday!) and glanced over at that pair of gray Skechers. They’d be perfect with this outfit I thought…..so I took them off the shelf…..and then I paused. Can I be honest? I truthfully felt a tiny bit guilty for wearing the shoes without those required footie socks….. and I was wishing Mother were still here….I was thinking how completely happy I would be to wear those little socks for her today if only she were here to require it of me. I stopped and took a moment just to think and remember.

Then, as I bent down to put my shoes on I thought to myself, “Well Mother, I’m going to wear these shoes without the socks today.”

I stepped into the right shoe and pulled it onto my heel. When I put my toes into the left shoe – they hit something….something soft and familiar in the end of the shoe. I pulled my foot out, put my hand in….and pulled out a little pair of footie socks neatly tucked into the toe of the shoe. I almost laughed out loud. It almost felt like a little hug…a connection to what used to be…

Then what did I do??? I sat down with a smile on my face, took off my right shoe, pulled on the little socks and then my shoes and headed out the door for work.

I loved wearing footie socks today.

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The Natural Artistry of Frost Flowers: Frozen Ribbons on a Winter Morning

Last night was the first time this season that we have experienced freezing temperatures here in the Arkansas Ozarks….so I should have been thinking about frost flowers this morning…..but I wasn’t. It was Monday, and I was hurriedly getting around for work and the start of the week…and so my thoughts were distracted. Fortunately, my friend Beverly texted me a picture she had taken this morning – and her reminder put me eagerly on the lookout! (Thank you, Beverly!!!) Here’s what I delightedly discovered!

On the coldest, clearest mornings of late autumn and early winter, nature sometimes offers a truly amazing gift: delicate, almost unbelievable sculptures of ice that look like they’re blooming right out of the soil. They aren’t true flowers of course – they are “frost flowers”, also known as ice ribbons….and they are as beautiful as they are unusual!

You may have driven by them on the sides of the road on a cold morning in late fall – and never even knew that they were there. Believe it or not, from a distance these beautiful little intricate ice flowers can sometimes almost look like pieces of littered trash – until you slow down and look closer and see their extraordinary, delicate, detailed beauty.

Several things have to line up perfectly for frost flowers to exist. They require a perfect, but almost contradictory, mix of conditions:

  1. Air Temperature: The air absolutely has to be freezing.
  2. Soil Condition: This is the crucial part! The ground must still be relatively warm and moist, which lets the plant’s root system keep drinking water.
  3. The Plant Host: You’ll only spot this phenomenon on a few specific plant species whose stems can hang onto moisture and split nicely under stress.

The Science Behind the Magic: Water Pressure and Ice

The creation of a frost flower is a pretty cool demonstration of water pressure and physics in the botanical world of nature.

The unfrozen roots of the plant continually draw water up from the soil into the stem just like a straw sucking up a drink. When this water column hits the super-freezing air, it starts to turn to ice inside the plant’s little water tubes.

Here’s the kicker: when water turns solid, its volume increases by about 9% – in other words it gets bigger (that’s why frozen water bottles sometimes explode!). This internal pressure from the expanding ice puts immense stress on the plant’s hollow, vertical stem, forcing it to rupture and split open.

As more water gets pulled up, the pressure pushes the liquid right out through those new cracks. When it touches the freezing air, the water instantly freezes into thin, paper-like sheets. This continuous process of pushing out water and freezing it creates characteristicly thin, curly ribbons, forming flowers. It keeps going until the roots freeze solid or the morning sun ruins the party!

These specific requirements are what make finding a frost flower such a rare and delightful winter sighting!

Here Today, Gone by Noon: A Fleeting Work of Art

Because such precise conditions are needed for frost flowers to form and because they are so fragile, seeing a frost flower is rare and special. A brief touch or the first warm rays of the sun will make them vanish, often leaving behind just a trace of water on the cracked stem. Finding one is a moment of pure wonderment, a blessing from above, and a testament to the surprising and delicate artistry we are blessed with in the winter landscape.

So…be on the lookout the next time you step outside on a cold, still morning early in the changing of seasons. You might just catch nature in the act of painting with ice!

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Connections are Special

Being surrounded by family was normal for me when I was a little girl growing up in Conway County. The roots of all sides of my family are deep there, and I was blessed to grow up being loved by so many. I was only 8 years old (almost 9) when Mother and Daddy decided to move to Carroll County, and I remember what it felt like for the first time in my life to go to school, to church, to the grocery store, even to the park and not run into family or familiar friends. We were the only Carlons in Carroll County, and it felt unfamiliar and strange to have no connections. It seemed to me that my classmates knew everyone – that they had those local roots and connections that I was used to…. I wasn’t sad – it just felt….different, like something was missing.

When I started junior high, the halls on the high school wing of the building were lined with pictures of all the classes to ever graduate from Green Forest. Those pictures dated back to the late 1800’s. In addition, the sidewalks we walked on going to the cafeteria every day had the names of each of the classes recorded in the concrete. It all fascinated me – and I loved reading them – seeing the names of so many of my classmates’ siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, parents, and grandparents – I loved history and family and connections even then!

I remember how excited I was when I learned that my Great-Uncle Ira and Great-Aunt Oretha had lived in Green Forest at one time. I remember when Daddy told me – I was eager to find out where their house stood and when they had lived here. I was full of questions – wondering why I hadn’t been told this before! I was very excited to find out that their oldest daughter Sarah, my first cousin once removed, had graduated from Green Forest High School. It may sound silly, but it was almost comforting to know that I had a connection too. I remember eagerly searching for her name as I walked the sidewalks. Knowing that both she and I graduated from the same high school – the only members of our family to do so – has always made me feel a kindred connection to her.

Discovering connections and learning the stories of my family’s roots and the journey from long ago to today is important and enjoyable to me. I’ve been having such fun with my ancestry research….

A few weeks ago, I posted a story about my 6th great-grandfather, U.S. Brigadier General Levi Garrett Casey, a decorated hero of the Revolutionary War. My link to him runs through my great-grandmother, Maggie Beeson – and I have found his stories fascinating.

While researching great-grandfather Casey and his family – I found some information about his brother, Jesse, that revealed another interesting connection. Jesse was born in Maryland and later moved with his family to South Carolina. He had five sons, one named Aaron. Along with his father, his uncles, and his grandfather, Aaron fought in the Revolutionary War, serving under Colonel Benjamin Roebuck.

One of Aaron’s sons, Abner (named for his great-grandfather), married and in 1834 moved his family to Arkansas, settling on the Buffalo Fork of the White River in what is now Newton County. I was surprised to discover that his homestead was located 40 or 50 miles from the house I live in now. (I think that’s so cool!)

According to information found in the Springfield (MO) Greene County Library, Abner, a millwright, built one of the first water mills in the area. He also built one of the first Baptist church buildings. He and his wife Elizabeth lived the remainder of their lives on their Newton County farm and are buried near Parthenon.

Here’s where I think the story gets really interesting!

Abner and his wife Elizabeth had four sons. One was named Levi (presumably after his great great uncle). After living in Arkansas for several years, Levi moved his family to Taney County, Missouri and settled on a land grant on Swan Creek near present-day Forsyth. He cleared the land and built a cabin, living there many years for the remainder of his life. The cabin was loved and stayed in the family for many years….until the late 1940’s when Bull Shoals Dam was being built. The construction of the dam meant the property would need to be sold, so Levi’s great-granddaughter, Opal McHaffie Parnell, sold the land with the stipulation that she could relocate and keep the treasured family home.

Years later, the beloved relocated cabin is still standing – in fact I visited it recently….as I have done many, many times through the years – never knowing of the family connection. The beautiful old dog-trot cabin, built by Levi Casey (my 3rd cousin 4X removed), is the McHaffie Homestead located on the grounds of the Silver Dollar City theme park.

Ironically, it’s one of my favorite places to visit at the park! Through the years, I have sat on the porch of the old dog-trot cabin many times listening to the City’s storyteller – Judy Dockery Young, watching depictions and demonstrations of pioneer life, or enjoying the beautiful music of the “Homestead Pickers” band.

Now, each visit is going to be a little bit more fun.

Connections are special.

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The Story of Margrette

A little grave marker, nestled among the familiar names of my relatives, was how I first met Margrette Ruth Blasingame. It was an unexpected discovery in the quiet, peaceful grounds of Old Hickory Cemetery, a place where my family’s history is literally carved in stone. In 2021, my Mother and I made several trips to the cemetery – working on a project we had undertaken to clean and restore family gravestones. Many of the old headstones were darkened and overgrown with lichens, making them difficult to read…..but one little stone in the family plot was virtually unreadable. I remember tracing the stone with my finger trying to determine what it said….and failing. We completed the first treatment, then waited, returned, and completed the second……then repeated the process again.

Finally, the darkened stone was clean, and the rough surface of the old gravestone bore a name, with the brief dates of a life etched beneath:

Margrette Ruth Blasingame
Born July 21, 1926
Died March 27, 1929.

She was my first cousin, once removed – the second child of my Great-Aunt Zilby and her husband J.H. Blasingame…

I remember my Aunt Zilby —she taught me how to play Yahtzee when I visited her on a trip with my parents to California when I was six years old. She also gave me a beautiful blue glass vase – an unusual gift for a small child – but one that I have kept and treasured through the years because it came from her. It sits proudly in my guest room today.

Aunt Zilby married J.H. Blasingame in 1923 when she was just 16. Their first son was born the next year. Two years later, another baby was born – a daughter named Margrette Ruth. Two more years – and another son was born to the little family. Shortly after his birth, they left Hattieville and moved to the Little Rock area. Daddy used to tell me of a general mercantile store, possibly much like the one Aunt Zilby’s father (my great-grandfather) operated in Hattieville. The store they ran was located on Highway 10 – a country road outside of Little Rock that carried travelers to and from the capital city. Over the decades, the growing city has swallowed much of that countryside…and the location of the long-gone little store is now part of the busy city on Cantrell Road.

For the past few years, that little gravestone was all I had—a stark, poignant reminder of a life cut short at only 2 years, 8 months, and 6 days of age. I often wondered what kind of sudden tragedy had stolen a child so young, and I thought about how devastating it must have been for Aunt Zilby and J.H. to bear.

Some pieces of the puzzle were finally uncovered when I found Margrette Ruth’s death certificate on Ancestry.com. What I found was not the record of a sudden, instant loss, but of a drawn-out, painful struggle. Her small life didn’t succumb to an accident, but to an illness—one that was relentless and, in those times, unbeatable. Margrette Ruth did not die at home; she passed away at Little Rock’s General Hospital. The certificate shows that a physician attended to her illness from March 7, 1929, until her death on the 27th.

The official cause of death was listed as “pyemia.”

The word was new to me – I had to look it up. Pyemia is a severe form of blood poisoning, a widespread systemic infection—a type of sepsis—that spreads through the bloodstream, leading to abscesses and multiple organ failure.

In the year 1929, it was typically a death sentence.

As a great-niece looking back though the decades, I can only imagine the helplessness – the panic – the family must have felt. They endured three weeks of watching their child fight a relentless, unseen enemy in a hospital room, hoping against hope that the doctors could turn the tide. But in 1929, no effective treatment existed.

The reason is simple: the age of antibiotics, something we take for granted, had not yet dawned. Pyemia, contracted likely from a simple injury or untreated infection, was a death sentence. Hospitals were full of people—children and adults alike—dying from infections that today are routinely treatable.

The life-saving drug, penicillin, and the resulting antibiotic age were still more than a decade away. Before this discovery, a simple cut or scratch or common illness could lead to a deadly infection, filling hospitals with people suffering from maladies for which doctors could offer little hope. Pneumonia, rheumatic fever, and yes, pyemia, were often insurmountable foes. It wasn’t until mass production efforts began in the United States in the 1940s that penicillin and later other antibiotics became the widely available healing medicines we know today.

As I think about little Margrette Ruth suffering for weeks in a hospital, her young parents watching helplessly—I am struck by a profound and painful realization: had she been born just fifteen or twenty years later, a simple course of medicine could have saved her life. The medications that we now use routinely were then only a future reality that arrived tragically too late for my great aunt and uncle’s little girl.

My study into Margrette Ruth’s short life turned out to be a poignant lesson in medical history. It made the familiar comfort of a doctor’s visit, a course of medication, or a simple preventative measure feel like an incredible, life-saving blessing. We truly are blessed by the advances of modern medicine, as well as the scientists and researchers who are constantly working to develop new treatments and improve our health care. I carry with me a deep gratitude for the countless lives that are now saved—lives that, in Margrette Ruth Blasingame’s time, would have been lost.