I love potato chips. There, I admit it. I’ve said it out loud, announced it to all xangaland. I don’t just like them a lot; I have an ardent, flaming, passionate romance with the crispy morsels of yumminess. And like most aholics, I’m not picky. I love plain ones, smooth ones, wavy ones, barbecued, vinegared, cheesy, fried, baked, formed from who-knows-what, cheap, expensive, fresh or stale, imported or exported, New England-style, Southwestern style, any style that can be bought by a woman in need....I love them all!

Like so many adult issues, this unhealthy relationship goes back to my childhood. When my brothers and I were kids, Mom let us eat chips with our bologna sandwiches any old time we wanted to. She neglected to tell us of the facts of life....that there is absolutely no redeeming value to this particular food group and that eating them is quite habit-forming. I’m not blaming my mother, but she really did nothing to stop my growing (no pun intended) problem.

Through the years, there were others, either knowingly or unwittingly--I can’t really say-- who helped perpetuate my addiction. One person, in particular, was a certain baby-sitter who stayed with us from time to time. I won’t name names because it is dangerous to finger-point in a small town (who knows what she’d say about me?), but I’ll just say that this "Pam" taught me a fancy potato-chip trick or two, including the fact that there is more than one way to dip besides the traditional and always delectable sour-cream/onion mixture. A dollop of ketchup works really well in a pinch. Her serving dish of choice? A saucer: fill the circle in the middle with ketchup and then overlap the perfect little circles of salty, oily deliciousness all around the edge. What a pretty picture it made!

When I was about 11 and she was worldly-wise at 14, "Pam" and I sat out on my old front porch one day and talked about the deep meaning of life. Our discussion turned to food. "If you were stranded on a desert island and could have only one single thing to eat, what would you choose?" I asked her.

Without hesitation came "Pam’s" answer: "Potato chips!" And of course, I agreed whole-heartedly. They were already my number one choice of snack food, side dish and midnight treat; who would even think of living on an island without them? And since I idolized "Pam" with a pre-teen’s heroine-worship, in those two succinct words, she sealed my fate. I’d love potato chips forever if "Pam" loved them.

Years went by, and my addiction grew. I became a mother and, alas, failed to teach my own children of the harmful effects of indulging. They all grew up eating potato chips alongside their sandwiches, whatever the filling, and each one has in turn become somewhat of an addict, too. And now that there are grandchildren in the picture, this threatens to become a three-generation problem. When two-year-old Lucy was visiting last week, I could see the signs: she managed to open the pantry door all by herself and, passing over the Oreos, fruit snacks, and cereal bars, picked up the bag and proudly said, "Mimi, I need chips!" I’d forgotten to hide them in my usual secret place.

I’ve tried many times down through the years to give up potato chips. I’ve taken a vow in front of the mirror (after trying to zip up my jeans that suddenly seem to have shrunk), I’ve written in my journal about my determination, I’ve read everything I could find about the ill effects, and I’ve given myself pep talks as I walked down the chip aisle at the grocery store, (I will NOT buy chips today! I will NOT buy chips today!) But my feeble, half-hearted efforts have all been to no avail. So I think it is finally time to say that I cannot do this on my own.

Just where and when does PCEA meet????

  …a thunderstorm came through late Saturday night, scouring the atmosphere of last week’s haze and humidity.

Sunday morning reveals the gift of a clear sky, decorated only with a few wispy gossamer clouds, and cooler air. This day stands as an island in the middle of July; as we approached it, we sailed through rainy, stormy, wet weather, and when we get past it we’ll again paddle against the typical oppressive heat of midsummer. But just for a while, we’ll rest on this little oasis of an island, basking in its gifts.

(Above, lush maidenhair fern grows out of a bluff with cold spring water below)

Early morning is still, with not even a breeze to stir the canopy of leaves on the trees or the long-stemmed grasses in the meadow. In a remote and rugged place on the farm, one could stand and shout all day long and no one would hear. There is no sign of human existence, other than the ramshackle old house that sinks down, inch by inch, into the arms of the earth. An overwhelming silence pervades…

…until one stops to listen. With no radio or machinery or human voice to interfere, what seems, at first, like perfect silence soon turns into a cacophony of nature’s busyness.

Close by, the incessant buzzing of insects soon becomes apparent. Bees, wasps, all manner of bugs are hard at work, doing what insects do to survive. If one could hear with butterfly ears, one would know a raucous work day is in progress. Right at one’s feet, young yellow grasshoppers are feasting on a smorgasbord of foliage, chomping happily and hopping from stem to stem for the choicest morsels. Crickets chirping, cicadas fiddling in the nearby trees, a golden honeybee staking out his territory in a spread of large clover blossoms--imagine the energy that is being expended by all these tiny creatures!

Farther afield, crows are noisily scolding each other in a small grove of walnut trees. An Indian-head (pileated) woodpecker drums a rhythmic beat on the side of a dead oak tree. Warblers sing and call to each other, as they dart through the thickets. And behind all this racket, there is the soft ooh-wah, hoo-hoo-hooing of doves, sweetly providing a calming backdrop for all the twitter and chatter.

High overhead, a couple of buzzards are inscribing large circles in the sky as they search for breakfast. Rarely flapping their long, fringed wings, they are masters of conservation, floating effortlessly on air that seems to barely move. It is hypnotic to lean back and watch them drift, higher and higher, until they become but specks in the atmosphere.

Up on the ridge, mama cows lie in the tall grass in the shade of the trees, chewing and switching their tails against the flies. At the intrusion of humans, some of them bawl at their youngsters to come closer to home, but no one seems terribly excited. They are a pretty relaxed bunch.

The predominant color is green. With abundant rain this season, every tree, shrub and patch of grass is richly verdant and full.

Walnut trees that were barren last year are now pregnant, their branches weighted down with fall’s harvest.

                                                            Wild plums will soon ripen in the thicket.

Grapevines will hang heavy with fruit from the lush blossoming season.

Closer inspection of the meadow reveals a riot of the warm colors of summer’s flowers.

The paler, softer pastels of spring have given way to jewel tones: dark purples, deep yellows and vivid oranges. Butterflies tinted with variations of the same hues flit from flower to flower, drinking deeply, undisturbed by the footfalls of an ardent admirer.

Down the slope, at the foot of the hill, a clear, clean stream splashes over the rocks, providing a little more music for the soul.

Normally, by this time of year the flow would be reduced to a trickle, but rain has kept it running steadily this year.

                                                   Pollywogs (tadpoles),

           shiners (minnows--above, they're sunning and have their shiny side up)

                    crawdads (crayfish--isn't his camouflage good?),

pond skaters (water striders--the dark is his shadow...he is tiny and sits on top of the water),

                  and darning needles (dragon flies--one is sitting on the leaf)

unwittingly reveal the healthy ecosystem that exists in this place as they go about their business of simply living.

It is a morning to savor, this brief respite from summer’s usual fare. As I lift up my eyes unto these beloved Ozark hills, I know from whence comes this oasis of beauty and life. These are moments to savor.

...I’m takin' over this here writin’ column for a while. The Lady on the Hill is busy right now, doing somethin' she calls baby-settin’, so she asked me to take a shot at this bloggin’. I don’t know of any other roosters who blog, but then, I really don’t know any other roosters. Maybe I’m the first? And about that babysettin’: my gals set on eggs, but I sure hope that Lady don’t set on no baby.

Let me introduce myself. I’m Delbert and this here barnyard is my kingdom. That’s right, I’m the king of this place, and if you don’t believe me just ask any of these here gals. They know who’s in charge, and his name is Delbert!

Ain’t Delbert a grand name for a rooster? Funny thing is, I wasn’t always called Delbert. Way back when I first come to live in this here barnyard, she called me Della. Crazy, ain’t it? Seems the first thing the Lady did was start givin’ names to all of us. There was Bertha, Ollie, Arrie, Cleffie, Minnie, Mattie and Vergie...and me she called Della. Well, that went on for a while till I couldn’t stomach that Della business no longer, and I up and crowed right at her. Next thing you know, She was calling me Delbert. Boy, I showed her!

Them gals I just mentioned? Just so you know, they’re all mine. Yep, I got me quite a harem. These gals do as I say, anytime I say it, cause I rule this here roost. ‘Course, it ain’t all play and no work. I got to keep ‘em safe. They got bad habits, like wanderin’ away and scratchin’ for worms and bugs right out in the middle of the horse pasture. Seems like ever’time that happens, here comes a big old hawk, swoopin’ down and scatterin’ chickens all over the place. That’s when I go to work, gatherin’ ‘em up and chasin’em back into the bushes where it’s safe.

We’ve got lots a territory to cover around here. That Lady on the Hill made a fence to go around our house, but she wasn’t smart enough to know we’d just go under it. Then she spent a whole afternoon, drivin’ little stakes through the bottom edge to keep it down, but shucks, it wasn’t nothin’ to push those up. We’ve been out ever day of our lives, makin’ our ramble round this place. Me and the gals have got us a reg’lar routine.

The first thing we do is check to see what the horses didn’t eat. The Man feeds them every morning in their pasture, and sometimes they spill some of that good grain on the ground. Then we dig around in the hay and around the water tank, where we can usually find some good grubs.

By then it’s time for Bertha or one of the other gals to go lay an egg. They get back in the house, climb up in the nests and go to squawkin’, back and forth, encouragin’ each other like, till finally they get the job done and we can all get back to business. All I can say is, I’m glad I’m a rooster and don’t have to mess with layin’ no eggs.

We like to get our drinks from where the Lady waters her Dog and Cat. She has a big pan of water for us by the barn, but for some reason, it ain’t as good. The water up by the house is just better, so we go up and get us a good, long drink. Chickens can’t take in much at a time, so it takes us a while. We like to feel those drops run down the throat, nice and cool, especially on these hot summer days. And while we’re there, we check out the Dog and Cat dishes. Sometimes they might leave a little for us, if they’re feelin’ generous.

Now, this part may be a little delicate for some of you folks, so just plug up your ears if you don’t want to hear it. Right there on that nice brick patio is where we like to do our business, if you get my drift. Like humans, we like bein’ reg’lar as rain, and just after a good, deep drink is a fine time for us to relieve ourselves. Sometimes I think it must make the Lady mad, ‘cause she comes stormin’ out with her broom, but then sometimes I think she’s just a little tetched. After all, it’s just natural.

By now, me and the gals are about plumb tuckered, but we’ve got the finest nappin’ spot you ever saw! The Lady fixed it up just for us. It’s a shady little bed of flowers, all planted with hydrangeas and hostas and this little vine called a clematis that is so pretty. We get in that little bed and scratch us out some smooth little places and hunker down for a rest.

Every once in a while, the Lady forgets it is our place and she goes in there and plants some little flowers called impatiens all around, so we have to scratch those up and kick ‘em out into the yard. Then we have us quite a rodeo! That Lady comes out with that infernal broom again, hollerin’ and mad, tryin’ to sweep us outta our bed. I think she must really like that broom! But we just run off under the hill till she calms down and then we can go back and get our rest. We’ll have us one or two of those chases before she gives up and lets us have it to ourselves. It’s a mighty fine restin’ place, after all that hullabaloo.

We’ve got us another real good place the Lady lets us use; she calls it a garden and she spends a lot of time workin’ on it for us. Last week, she got out some big bales of straw, broke those up and scattered it all around the plants. But she forgot that we don’t like it too deep--that makes it hard to dig into the dirt and find worms and bugs. So we had us a mighty hard time of it, scratchin’ all that straw out into the yard. We knew it was gonna be a big job, so we got started soon as she quit and went back up the Hill. It took most of that afternoon, but the girls do what I say and they got it done. I kept tellin’ ‘em, Scratch! Scratch! and they did it. By evenin’, there was plenty of good, bare places opened back up for us.

But I’m here to tell you that Lady didn’t appreciate our efforts, not one bit! She came runnin’ down that hill, mad as an old hornet, and low and behold, if she didn’t grab up an old bucket and throw it right at me! Nearly hit me, too! Me and the gals had to duck and run for cover and stay hid in the ditch for a good, long while. Meanwhile, that Lady almost earned herself a new name. She was sputterin’ and spewin’ and said a few words that don’t really go with that Lady business.

But we’ve got our troubles all behind us now. The Lady seems to be all smiles and happy again, the reason bein’ that Bertha has gone to settin’. Yep, she’s plum broody, and I’m proudly makin’ the announcement here and now. Six nice big brown eggs are fixin’ to hatch, and soon there’ll be little peeps runnin’ all around the place.

But I’m here to tell you I surely hope we don’t have a repeat of what happened last year. Roosters can handle about any emergency that pokes its head in the henhouse, but there’s a few things that is just outta my control.

It was about this time last summer, and seems like it was Ollie settin’ then. The rest of us were workin’ away around the barn, when Mama set up a squawkin’ like you never heard in your life! I come a runnin’, with the other gals fast on my heels, but we stopped short at our little door. What we saw nearly struck me dumb! There was a big old black snake, all draped over the nestin’ boxes, trying to get Ollie to give up her babes. He’d already swallered two fresh eggs that a couple of the gals had laid, but that hadn’t satisfied him.

I found my voice, give the signal, and all of us went to hollerin’ and carryin’ on, squawkin’ and shriekin’ like the sky was fixin’ to fall. Some of the gals went to flutterin’, too. Lucky for Ollie and the peeps, the Lady was workin’ in her yard and heard us and come a runnin’. When she saw that monster, she commenced to squawkin’, too, and run up the Hill faster’n I ever seen her run before. Quick-like, here come the Man with a big stick in his hands, and before we could clear outta the way, BOOM, that big stick went off and scared that big blacksnake plumb to death.

It’s a pure wonder Ollie and her babies survived all the commotion, but they come outta those shells in a few days, fluffy and fine. Ollie did a good job being mama, but she had more than she could handle, so she turned one of the little ones over to Speckle, a newcomer from over Brixey way, who took right to the mama business.

Those little ones grew up to be mostly fine hens, but a couple of ‘em thought they’d horn in on my job, so they got sent to the neighbor’s. I don’t hear any crowin’ from up his way, and the gals have heard gossip about choppin’ blocks and wringin’ of necks, but I won’t tolerate that sort of speculation. It ain’t healthy.

Well, folks, I’ve got hens that need tendin’ to, so it’s time for Delbert to get back to work. I’m wonderin’ if they’d let me sign up for this here Xanga? If they do, I’ll call myself ozarksfarmchicken, ‘cause that’s surely what I am. It’s not been too hard for me to scratch out this little bit of writin’. I’ll be lettin’ you know when they’s more news from the farm yard. Y’all have yourselves a good old day, hear?