Fair Haven

There is a church in Georgia that soothes my soul.

My parents were married here.

I was baptized here.

My Pa Pa is buried here.

In between, I’ve attended plenty of Sunday services here, listening to the beautiful music Miss Carolyn could coax from the old organ, to the hushed footsteps on the faded runner dividing the pews, to the creak of the old beams supporting the small steeple.

Fair Haven United Methodist Church was erected in 1846, before Jenkins County even existed.  It was Burke County, back then.  My grandparents’ farm is just a mile or two from Fair Haven.  Sherman cut a wide swath through this area on his infamous “March to the Sea,” but did not burn Fair Haven.

His soldiers took only a drop leaf table, but changed their minds, and the table was reunited with the church.  It lost a small drawer during its journey, and that drawer is still missing today.

Though I’ve struggled with faith since my brother died, I always feel at peace within the walls of Fair Haven.  This tiny church is, to me, everything that church should be, and when I think of it, a smile always comes to my face.

As a result, Honeydew and I recently had Maggie Rose baptized at Fair Haven.  And it felt so good.

The minister did a lovely job, and seemed to delight in Maggie.  She liked him, too.

My grandma Betty and Sissy had beautifully decorated the church, with hydrangeas on the doors and objects we are thankful for: cotton, and the beloved picture of Pa Pa and Howard hugging on Christmas morning.

Maggie enjoyed her introduction to Fair Haven.

Maggie’s Big Mama and Sissy, for whom she is named, gave a lovely brunch after the baptism.

And it was a wonderful day.  Thanks to everyone who made it so special.

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  Photo credits also to Wanda Winn and Charlie Stone.  All Rights Reserved.

 

summer help 2011

With a new baby and an extra semi of bees, we didn’t wax too much about our darling 2011 Summer Help, Keith and Chase, but now that summer is over, we want to thank them once more for their cheerful dispositions and unflinching work efforts.

We get a lot of inquiries each year about employment, and although I always tell potential employees that beekeeping is not as romantic as presented in The Secret Life of Bees, that in addition to being unable to escape from us (our employees live in camper trailers in front of the Warehome), there will be many days requiring work in the dark hours before dawn and after dusk, that some days the stings will make their heads throb, that they’ll be so tired of being sticky by the end of it they’ll swear off even eating honey, and that the wind will blow so hard they’ll feel the grooves forming on their faces, somehow, we end up with summer help anyway.  And thank goodness.

Enjoy your Glacier County Honey Co. Carhartts, boys.  Thanks so much for all your hard work this summer.

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.

 

27 years old

For weeks after Howard’s death, I knew how many hours I’d been without him.  For months, I could tell you the exact number of days.  For years, I referred to his death the way the parents of small children refer to their ages, in months and not years.  And that made sense, as the amount of change contained in such a period of 12 months is far more intense than in a “normal” year, whatever “normal” may be.

This morning is Howard’s birthday.

I laid in bed for a few minutes this morning, and did not know how many hours, days, or months I’d been without him.  Seven years, I thought.  Does that really mean that Howard would be 27 today?  I tried to do the math in my head, clumsily subtracting 1984 from 2011 sans calculator, which, if you know me, you know was difficult for me in more ways than one.

I determined that it was, indeed, Howard’s 27th birthday, and wallowed in the sheets for a moment, letting tears slide across my face.

And while most of the tears were for Howard, some of the tears were for myself, that I no longer knew the hours, days, months, or his age.  There is some joy in not knowing, but there is fear, too.

Fear of not honoring his memory properly, of not making him part of Maggie’s life, of not celebrating his joie de vivre, his enthusiasm, and his easy love for others.

 

And so this morning, I am thinking of Howard on his 27th birthday.  Oh, how I wonder who you’d be today.

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.

 

Pseudo Sista

Editing pictures this morning, I realized that we really don’t talk enough about Pseudo Sista.

At first, she was Brother Dear’s Friend, working at Johnson’s of St. Mary, more years ago than any of us cares to admit.

And then she was Superglue, the one who kept Hillstock/Hillhouseapalooza together from the very start.

Over the years, she came to Hillhouse with each season, loving this extreme corner of Montana as deeply as the rest of the Stone/Fullerton crowd does, going so far as to live in our barn during summers.

And then one day we started calling her Pseudo Sista.

Later, she became a Hot Bun and favored hiking companion.  Then she directed my weddin’ to Honeydew.  And later still, she also moved to this extreme corner of Montana, to her own little hobbit house about an hour south of here, though she still lives with us in summertime.

Summer is coming to an end, and I will cry when Pseudo Sista leaves.  I’ve never met anyone with a sunnier disposition.  She is, as Cap’n Call would say, “cheerful in all weathers,” and helpful in all endeavors.  And, most importantly, no one gets a smile out of Maggie quicker than Pseudo Sista.

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.

 

sneakin’ a cookie

Today marks the start of Hillstock/Hillhouseapalooza, the party we throw each summer in honor of Howard Hillhouse Stone, my youngest brother, who died too young, seven years ago.

Seven years ago.  Hardly seems real.

The above picture of Howard is one of my favorites – his mischievous streak would certainly have approved of Hillstock/Hillhouseapalooza, which generally involves tubing, dancing, Beer Olympics-ing, and most importantly, hiking together with a large group of those friends and family who love us best, in Howard’s honor.  I look forward to this week of the year all year, and my heart overflows with love for those friends and family who are here to say, silently, we haven’t forgotten.

Let the games begin!

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.

 

Mama Stone Guest Blogs: June 24, 1980

Thirty-one years ago today I became a mother for the first time.

Late on June 23 I thought I had indigestion from the BBQ ribs I had eaten for dinner.  But at midnight Charlie drove me to the hospital and barely two hours later, at 1:50 a.m., Ivey Courtney Stone was born.  When my doctor said, “It’s a girl!” I said, “are you sure?”  Then he said, “she’s beautiful but she doesn’t have her mother’s tan.”  Funny, the things you remember.

Overnight I was transformed from a 26 year old woman used to breaking down barriers as a female reporter in the male dominated newspaper business to fulltime, stay at home mom.  I never regretted my decision.

Courtney didn’t come with instructions so we learned together.  I never took a Lamazze class or bought Dr. Spock’s baby book (I was a little headstrong and stubborn … maybe a trait we share?).  I relied on instinct and advice from my Mom, sister-in-law, and best friend.  There were no internet baby forums or Mommy blogs or WebMD back then … just my precious baby daughter and I at home all day figuring it out together.

I didn’t know she was supposed to be swaddled or shushed or have tummy time.  So Courtney and I did all the things I liked to do: worked in the garden, played with our dogs, sat out on the porch to wait for Daddy to come home from work, read books, and played in the plastic baby pool.  I used cloth diapers and pureed her food and she wore the little smocked dressed that her grandmother sewed by hand.  We lived a simple life in the country.  She made my life complete in a way I never dreamed possible.

Now she is a mother.  And her love for her Maggie Rose is well documented on this blog.

Happy birthday darling daughter. Welcome to motherhood.

I love you,

Mom

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.

 

blood is not always thicker than water II

Sometimes I write about the the family that my family chose as our family.

They chose us back, and this is how it happened.

I think.

Two mischievous and beautiful young women became sorority sisters, and roommates, at the University of Georgia.

About the same time, these two strapping young gentlemen became roommates at the Washington & Lee School of Law.

And after graduation, the strapping young gentleman from West Virginia took a bride.

And at their wedding, the strapping young gentleman from Southwest Virginia met the bride’s college roommate from Georgia.

And a few months afterwards, the strapping young gentleman from Southwest Virginia and the Georgia Belle married, too.

And the pairs of roommates were very happy.

And they were made happier still by the additions of their firstborns, daughters destined to be great friends.

The daughters were very different.

One would grow to be a model of grace and discretion, the kind of friend one can whisper a secret to when one wants that secret to be taken to the grave.  The other would grow to launch a blog and blab incessantly about her life and the lives of others, including that of her classy and graceful friend.

But their differences didn’t thwart their deep friendship, and the pair would eventually sustain each other in the best of times – Jimmy Buffett concerts! – and the worst of times – Jimmy Buffett concerts!

They would hold each other’s bouquets as each was married.

The older would help the younger bury her brother.  The younger would help the older bury her mother.

In the spring of 2008, the older welcomed a son into the world, and she became a mother, and the younger became a godmother.

And in the spring of 2011, the pair both welcomed daughters, one of whom is named for the older’s mother, the irreplaceable, irresistible, Betsy Davis.

Welcome to the world, baby girl.  We loved your grandmother as much as we already love you, and we can’t adequately express our joy over your safe arrival!

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.

 

lap child

When I wrote about the storied family Highchair, I mentioned that there were no pictures of Brother Dear — Glacier County Honey’s Assistant in Chief — in it, because he was such a lap child.

But look at that face.  How could you ever say no?

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co. All Rights Reserved.

 

The Highchair

E-mail.  It’s taken over my life, it’s probably taken over yours, too.  But I love it.  I love that it doesn’t ring or vibrate, I love that I can rank it in my inbox by importance, I love that I can file it away without even having read it, I love that I can attend to it, reply to it, or trash it on my own sweet time.   I love that I don’t have to listen to it, nor write down important information from it.  I love that if the subject matter doesn’t interest me – insert any number of vitriolic forwards focusing on the various inadequacies of Barack Obama, George W. Bush, Barbara Streisand here – I can simply delete it without having to feign interest or without being drug into a conversation I don’t want to have.

And I really love how e-mail has brought my family closer together in a way that would have been difficult a generation ago.  My immediate family all lives in Montana these days, but that was not the case until last spring – prior to June, they were scattered around the Southeast, and I was in Montana.  My immediate extended family prefers to call Virginia, Georgia, and South Carolina home, but there have been times when beloved cousins have lived in exotic locales like Bahrain, Baghdad, and San Francisco.  E-mail enables us to reach out to each other as frequently or infrequently as we may desire, at relatively no cost.  E-mail even enables those of us who do not “e-mail” to receive e-mails from other family members through the phone lines, though replying in a similar fashion is impossible.  Sometimes I think those family members have it figured out – all the information, angst, and entertainment, without the pressure of replying with adequate pith, sympathy, or advice?   That simply sounds ideal!

Most recently, I’ve enjoyed an e-mail string related to a certain highchair.  No, I’ve not sought out recommendations on what best to feed It’ll in, when s/he reaches that delicious, messy stage in life.  Rather, on my dad’s side of the family, we’ve been discussing this particular highchair:

That’s me, in all my well-fed glory, enjoying learning about the finer points of dining in The Highchair.  Sidenote: it must have been water-the-plants-day at Blackstone Farms – my mother did not normally keep a small greenhouse in her kitchen sink.

You may remember that I am the eldest of three, and yet you may notice how well loved The Highchair already appears in this photograph.  As it turns out, my dad and his two brothers had already done a fine job breaking it in, during the ’50s.

And, as I further discovered in the e-mails regarding The Highchair, before I arrived on the scene, my darling cousins, Will and Tyler, had also spent some quality time in The Highchair.

Sidenote: Notice that I apparently enjoyed The Highchair so much that I even acquired rolls of fat on my feet.  Which may or may not be making a reappearance these days.

Here I am with my aunt Sissy and The Highchair.

Sidenote: Remember the post on the candlesticks I did awhile back?  There they are, long before they ever dreamed I might grow up to be a candlemaker and haul them to trade shows around the Mountain Standard Time Zone.  Appropriately, they appear to be fitted with beeswax candles.

And here, a couple of years later, is Howard, beginning his culinary training in The Highchair.

Sidenote: Over e-mail, my parents and I laughed over the fact that no pictures of Brother Dear in The Highchair appear to exist.  Ah, a classic Middle Child Moment!  Poor Brother Dear.  Though as my mom noted, Brother Dear never liked to be too far away from her, and probably never sat in The Highchair, but always on her lap.  He’s always been devoted to her.  And devotion is easy when you have a mama like ours.

Howard was a much cuter baby than I.  No foot fat rolls, either.

At any rate, why were we discussing The Highchair, no matter its longevity, functionality, or cute-now-antique decal?

Because my dear daddy spent a good portion of his Whitefish Winter refinishing The Highchair for It’ll.  And he did a mighty fine job – I must say that The Highchair looks far better now than it ever did when my brothers and I were tiny.  I’m sure The Highchair was recalled long ago, likely because the manufacturers figured out that it would actually last for multiple generations, and I’m looking forward to introducing It’ll to the delights of squash’n’onions, turnip greens, and yes, Honeydew, elk stew within its confines.

Thanks, Dad.  And I’ll be replying to that e-mail you sent me later today.

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.

 

preparation

Although I hate to admit this, I am … kind of a last-minute gal.  Never one to receive a term paper assignment and draft out a research calendar, dutifully lining 3 x 5 cards with advance notes, my skills shine brightest in a 2 a.m. library carrel, or on April 15, standing in line at the post office, taxes in hand.  Whatever I put my hands to, I give it my all, and I believe I know myself well enough to say with confidence that my last minute nature generally suits me, in that I work, and write, well under pressure.  When a deadline looms, I am not ignoring it as much as I am turning the problem over and over again in my mind, analyzing from it every angle before I begin the actual work involved.  I’m not saying this character trait is a virtue, but it likely explains why I was able to emerge from Georgia with a degree despite my attendance inadequacies, and why law schools exams came more easily for me than for others.  I rather like watching the 2nd hand tick towards a deadline, and was in fact a journalism major before switching my allegiances to the English department.

At any rate, in recent months, I’ve been befuddled with myself: I started working on It’ll’s nursery months before s/he is due to enter this beautiful world.  Months. Who am I?

Upon gazing at my belly, every person I share blood with or I’ve met in line at the grocery store has told me: your life will never be the same after It’ll arrives.  Yeah, yeah, yeah: got it already, thanks!  But do they really mean that life as I know it will change irrevocably even before It’ll’s birth?  Beyond the temporary dearth of wine, even?

Must be so.  What was once slated to become my private office in the warehome, and what had recently become a receptacle for anything-I-didn’t-know-where-to-put now looks like this:

Please ignore the curtain rod wedged haphazardly in the window, the lack of artwork on the walls, and the blue foamboard insulating the door against the -30 temperatures.  I didn’t say I had finished this project.

Various silver and pewter treasures – some were mine, some are It’ll’s.  Honeydew was so pleased to get visual confirmation that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth.

My old rocking horse.  Well, mine and my brothers’.

The most whimsically hilarious moose piggy bank ever, a gift from the gal who’s the closest thing I’ve got to a sister.  A basketful of handmade burp cloths.

A drawer in It’ll’s dresser, filled with 0-3 months “necessities.”  Calm down, Team Honeydew: there are Montana State onesies in the 3-6 months drawer!

My old cradle, filled with stuffed animals very old, and very new.

Wooden toys, old and new.  Do you remember Lincoln Logs?   Oh, how Brother Dear, Howard, and I loved them!

‘

An It’ll-sized rocking chair that was gifted to me upon my arrival, holding an old blanket of mine and the softest monkey and lion ever created, recent presents to It’ll.

The start to It’ll’s library – again, filled with books that my parents read to me, and new ones given to Honeydew and I to read to It’ll.

My rocking chair, and the sweetest quilt that my mom passed down to me.  Do you see the pouch sewn onto the mama duck, and the removable duckling inside?

Sleep Sheep!  I hear this baaaaaad boy is a godsend for 2011 babies: he plays soothing sounds like heartbeats and rainstorms.  And do you see that quilt behind him?

This gorgeous quilt was handmade for me by my darlin’ friend LA‘s equally darlin’ mama, using fabric that LA picked out.  She knows me quite well – warm, strong colors – squash yellow, kelly green, chocolate brown, burnt orange – with just a touch of honeybee.

And on the reverse, the quilt is finished in honeybee stitching.  Have y’all ever seen anything quite like it?  I plan to hang it on the wall and use it as the focal point of the nursery, and my inspiration for all future decorating.  If hanging it on the wall preserves it, I wonder if It’ll will one day unpack it when preparing his or her first nursery.  I wonder if he or she will do so in the 6th month of pregnancy, or the 9th.  I’m starting to wonder so much about what It’ll will be like.

All my love to Honeydew for coming home and helping me to get started on It’ll’s nursery.  And especially for reading the car seat manual, cover to cover, so I didn’t have to.

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co. All Rights Reserved.