Robin

 Gifford R. Hicks, 11.28.1912-11.30.1985

When our Dad died in a horrific crash, hit by a salt-water truck on an ice-covered highway intersection during the “Ice Bowl,” November 30, 1985, it is assumed he was killed instantly. The day was themed “Ice Bowl,” as University of Oklahoma and Oklahoma State University competed in the annual adversarial football phenomenon during a very heavy ice and snow-event. 

G. Rae, our sister, had fed Dad hot soup and scalding coffee (his favorites), and begged him to stay at her house overnight in Stillwater. He declined, got in his big yellow car, and drove away. 

After leaving our sister’s home in Stillwater, Oklahoma, Dad headed east on Highway 51 toward Tulsa, but then turned south on Highway 18 into Cushing. Being a man of few communications, we can only surmise that he might have been driving to his sister Deloris’ house in Cushing, one of his contacts in that area. Dad’s pet name for Deloris was “Diddle” or “Dot.” Or maybe he was just taking the route that would take him back home. 

And that was that. 

Dad’s grueling, instantaneous death is one for which I am now grateful, in that he didn’t lie suffering for days on end, in a hospital bed. He had indeed gone home. 

Dad’s pet name for me was, “Sugar.” That let me know he loved me even though I cannot recall a time when he said those “love” words in his, “Don’t cry!” world of existence.  

I did cry endlessly after his death was announced. He was not there in body to tell me not to cry. In fact, it seemed he cried with me in many of the years thereafter when I could often feel his presence in the big red/orange robin that flies in and lands from time to time on our back fence. (The meaning of seeing a robin: hope, courage, renewal.) 

—S. E. Killingworth

11.30.2023

Copyright 2023. S.E. Killingworth. All rights reserved. No portion of this writing may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author. Brief quotations are allowed in critical reviews or articles with appropriate reference notation. 

Christmas' Past

My mother's baking pans emerged today, as my sweet husband began making oven-baked bread for Christmas. Interesting how one little object can draw out so many distinct memories. I recall so vividly arriving home from school, jumping off the big yellow Yarbrough school bus driven by either Clifford or Ferry Taylor, and being drawn into the house by the smell of home-made bread. Oh, the delightful goodness of eating fresh-out-of-the-oven bread with butter melting on the top! More than the distinct smell coming from the house as we ran in for the snack, is the memory of belonging; the sheer value in knowing our Mom cared enough to have the bread ready for us at the exact time we arrived home from school. We are so fortunate!

Copyright 2014. S.E. Killingworth. All rights reserved. No portion of this writing may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author. Brief quotations are allowed in critical reviews or articles with appropriate reference notation. 

Pigeon-Speak

 10.20.2023

Pigeons- 

~Mate for life.

~Both parents care for young.

~Can fly up to 50 miles per hour.

~Can travel up to 500 miles per day.

~Oxford University study concluded that pigeons rely more on their knowledge of human transport routes than their own internal magnetic compasses. 

~Pigeons commit new images to memory at lightening speed.

~Categorize images mirroring the way that humans conceptualize thought processes.

~Are a symbol of peace and innocence.

S. E. Killingworth 

Copyright 2023. S.E. Killingworth. All rights reserved. No portion of this writing may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author. Brief quotations are allowed in critical reviews or articles with appropriate reference notation. 

S.E. Killingworth

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Blueberries

10.2024 Augusta, Maine:

Blueberries in Maine are harvested July through September. 

Fabulous uses for blueberries: Blueberry Mojitoes, Dasch Blueberry Hard Seltzer, Blueberry Margaritas, Lemon Waffles with blueberries and syrup. 

* Maine is the largest blueberry producer in the world, thanks to the naturally acidic soil found in mountainous regions that once housed ancient glaciers. Blueberries in Maine are “low bush”, also known as wild blueberries. 

* Maine produces 99% of all the blueberries in the country, making it the single largest producer of blueberries in the United States. Native Americans once called them "star berries," because the five points of blueberry blossoms make a star shape. Wild (lowbush) blueberries are not planted by farmers, but rather are managed on berry fields called "barrens". 

* A punnet is a small box or square basket for the gathering, transport and sale of fruit and vegetables, typically for small berries susceptible to bruising, spoiling and squashing that are therefore best kept in small rigid containers. Punnets serve also as a rough measure for a quantity of irregular sized fruits.

Copyright 2024. S.E. Killingworth. All rights reserved. No portion of this writing may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author. Brief quotations are allowed in critical reviews or articles with appropriate reference notation. 

Abenaki Native Americans

There is archeological evidence of indigenous people in what is today New Hampshire for at least 12,000 years.

In 1614, Thomas Hunt captured 24 Abenaki people, including Squanto (Tisquantum) and took them to Spain, where they were sold into slavery.

In 2002, the State of Vermont reported that the Abenaki people have not had a "continuous presence" in the state and had migrated north to Quebec by the end of the 17th century. Facing annihilation, many Abenaki had begun emigrating to Canada, then under French control, around 1669.

Nulhegan Band of the Coosuk Abenaki Nation, Koasek Abenaki Tribe, Elnu Abenaki Tribe, and the Missisquoi Abenaki Tribe are, as of 2011, all State-recognized tribes in the United States.

The Missisquoi Abenaki Tribe, a state-recognized tribe in Vermont.

Copyright 2024. S.E. Killingworth. All rights reserved. No portion of this writing may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author. Brief quotations are allowed in critical reviews or articles with appropriate reference notation. 

Connected Farm Buildings

What’s the theory behind the houses built in many sections? We’ve seen a lot of them throughout the northeast United States. 

A connected farm is an architectural design common in the New England region of the United States, and England and Wales in the United Kingdom. North American connected farms date back to the 17th century, while their British counterparts have also existed for several centuries. New England connected farms are characterized by a farm house, kitchen, barn, or other structures connected in a rambling fashion. This style evolved from carrying out farm work while remaining sheltered from winter weather. In the United Kingdom there are four distinct types of connected farmsteads, all dissimilar to the New England style.

Copyright 2024. S.E. Killingworth. All rights reserved. No portion of this writing may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author. Brief quotations are allowed in critical reviews or articles with appropriate reference notation. 

Devil’s Bowl Racetrack

We were fortunate enough to see the end of an era at Devil’s Bowl Racetrack. It was the very last blood-curdling, screaming race that those dirt turns will experience. Forever. 

After all the black and white checkered flags had been waved, all the fireworks celebrations spent, and every race team is packing up for the next travel destination, the “passionate one” gathered tacky mud from turn four of the actual racetrack. That race-fueled, clear-tear-off-covered, spectacular brown Mesquite, Texas bagged-up soil holds many stories within its 51-year-old history. It is a beautiful piece of the Sprint Car man’s soul.

S.E. Killingworth/Mesquite, Texas/10.21.2023

Copyright 2023. S.E. Killingworth. All rights reserved. No portion of this writing may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author. Brief quotations are allowed in critical reviews or articles with appropriate reference notation. 

The Cherry Tree

 The Cherry Tree

S.E. Killingworth

5.23.2023

Gifford had moved to Chandler, Oklahoma, out of the blue. It was 1977. I suppose he felt a stab of being left behind as all the children had grown, the older four children now off and married and in all parts of the world. 

The youngest two of Gifford’s six children left the panhandle also. Brother, also referred to as ‘Papa’s Baby Boy’ and ‘Teenie’ had flown the coop to Oklahoma State University (OSU). 

I (the youngest of the six) had also graduated high school and merged onto the superhighway of university life. I arrived at Southwestern Oklahoma State University (SWOSU), primarily because I had been awarded a music scholarship there. 

As the fall leaves arrived, both Wendell and I received a call to meetup with Gifford in Chandler at the old motor hotel. Our lives were incredibly busy! Neither of us necessarily wanted to go, given no information except the brief directive from our Dad, “Meet me there.”

Upon arrival, I was installed in a hotel room with the instructions, “Stay here.” No other explanation. I stayed and probably fumed again at being kept at bay from the iron-willed male world in which I existed. 

We later learned that Gifford was purchasing a sweet old house on about 1/3 of an acre right in the middle of town. If Gifford had hand-picked the place and ordered every detail, it couldn’t have been more perfect. 

The white clapboard home was surrounded by a sweet white picket fence, heralded by an extensive driveway, and full of established flora and fauna. 

An outer workshop proved to be splendid too, with its established wood-working table and even an indoor toilet. An extra room was possibly used for a bedroom or storage of some sort. 

Those were the best later years of Daddy’s life. He visited the coffee shop most mornings, chatting away with locals, enjoying his coffee and breakfast. The locals were so kind to him. They wanted to know about his day and his life. 

The tree:

As the next summer arrived at the quaint house in the middle of town, I went out to discover beautiful red cherries growing out on a tree in back of the house. I proceeded to go find a bucket, and pluck each gorgeous cherry off the tree. Surrounded by summer-emerged Daylily remnants, I would eat a cherry, enjoying every juicy morsel, then drop another cherry in the quickly filling old tin bucket. 

After spending some great nature time with the cherry tree, and basking in the task’s completion, I put the old rickety wooden ladder away, and carried the bucket to the kitchen. 

Dad asked, “What do you plan for the cherries, Sugar?” 

Without hesitation, I rinsed the cherries and began removing the delicate seed-pits in preparation for making something delectable. 

“I think I will prepare a cherry crumble, Daddy,” I answered in between thoughts. “Maybe we’ll eat it right out of the oven with some yummy vanilla ice cream,” I pleasingly offered. 

So, the pit removal proceeded. To my vast horror, I discovered a tiny worm in each and every cherry. I was aghast! How many worms had I consumed in the process of gathering all those cherries? 

I didn’t know whether to get physically sick or just move on with the process of removing both the cherry pits and the minuscule worms. Not being one to turn back once a project was in motion, I continued with the sorting process. 

Not that the cherry crumble was any less delicate and delightful, as my daddy scooped up every bite with no reserve, I just couldn’t bring myself to enjoy it very much. I think it was the “worms” that ruined it for me. 

All these fifty years later, Pistol Pete has given hours of time and much talent to the ever-important role as Pistol Pete Alumni. 

All these years later, the old but still sweet house in the middle of Chandler remains. The exterior has changed, the grounds remain somewhat the same. The park still exists across the drive where children emerge and play.

Maybe the old cherry tree remains as well. Possibly some young girl on the cusp of adulthood, grabs a rickety old ladder and climbs up to pluck juicy cherries. Maybe she tastes those fabulous red bites without remorse. Maybe she dreams a dream of making the world better even if she has to eat a few worms in the process. 

Copyright 2023 S.E. Killingworth. All rights reserved. No portion of this writing may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author. Brief quotations are allowed in critical reviews or articles with appropriate reference notation.