I’ve mentioned before that our garden is a Certified Monarch Waystation (monarchwatch.org). That means we purposely grow milkweed plants for their caterpillars. Plants in the Asclepias genus are the only ones monarch caterpillars eat and from the looks of things, they’re now chowing down in our garden. It’s the time of year that this final generation, perhaps the third or fourth of the season, will differ from the earlier ones in that they won’t mate and reproduce. Instead, they’ll soon begin their journey to the Oyamel fir forests of central Mexico, where they’ll make their home until next spring, when they’ll make the return trip north.

What fascinates me about this is that there’s nothing genetically different about this generation of monarch butterflies than the one that gave birth to them and the ones before them, earlier in the spring. So how do they know that they’re supposed to fly a couple thousand miles to a place they’ve never been before and how do they know the way? That’s been studied for decades and scientists don’t have all the answers to those questions either. It’s just one of the incredible miracles of nature.

Peak migration in our area is usually the middle of September. We happen to lie within a major monarch migration corridor so if you pay close attention, you might see large clusters of them roosting in a tree as dusk approaches and the temperatures drop. They can’t fly very well at temperatures below 50°F, so they huddle together in trees overnight to conserve energy and warmth, and then resume their journey in the morning as the sun warms things up. They will continue to feed on nectar from garden plants where they’re available.

When things don't make sense from your vantage point

By Jim Langham

A childhood vantage point that I enjoyed for more reason than one was that of being underneath a developing quilt during quilt day gatherings held at our house.

Several days a year, especially during the winter months, neighbors and families would be invited into our home to help put together a quilt, made usually from cut-up material that had been used to construct clothing, or rags that had been salvaged from various situations. I was also surprised when completed quilts emerged that I could spot shirts, scarves, tablecloths and other items from our house. I can still recall my grandma saying concerning an extra piece of material, “Let’s just stick that in the quilt bag.”

Often, I was called upon to cut and shape quilt blocks, probably an exercise in busyness to fill out the temptations afforded to a young boy who might have otherwise gotten in trouble, had he not been given other things to do.

One of the things I liked the most about quilting day was the food. Underneath the quilt frame and emerging masterpiece, there was plenty of room to play with toys, making houses with building blocks, constructing with Lincoln logs – and eating snacks that special hands would “sneak” under the table as I waited for goodies.

Somewhere in midmorning and again in mid-afternoon, someone would say, “Time for a snack,” and out came cookies, homemade candy, fudge and other country goodies. While I played, unknown to my mother, ladies around the table quilting would “treat me” to various goodies. I was so glad that it was not a coordinated effort, that the left hand didn’t know what the right hand was doing, that no one realized the sum total of goodies that were being handed down over a day’s time of work.

As time progressed, I began to appreciate the quilts themselves, their beauty on our beds and their representation of material we had around the house at that time.

Eventually things shifted around our place. Many of the quilts were given as gifts; in some cases, the deed would be reciprocated as another neighbor or family member would host the construction of another quilt in a quilting bee. Several stayed around our house, decorating various family member’s beds with former pieces of clothing and material wear.

One thing that amazed me from “underneath the quilt” was how different things looked than they did from the top. I would see those strings and knots hanging down and I would think, “How is this going to look like anything?”

One day, one of the quilters told me a story that stuck with a good “life lesson story” to this very day.

It seems that some ladies were quilting and a small boy, in the same fashion that I used to, kept looking at the threads and ravels. Finally he said to his grandmother, “Grandma, what are you making? It just looks like a bunch of strings and things hanging down.”

Wisely, the grandmother replied, “That’s because you are looking at things from underneath. Up here where I am, a beautiful pattern is unfolding.”

Wow, did I get that immediately, something I think about more these days as I watch things around me that don’t seem to make sense from “down here,” but in the eyes of the Creator, I continue to believe that, like the quilts the ladies were making years ago, a beautiful pattern is unfolding.

By Nancy Whitaker

DO YOU KNOW “THE OMAR MAN?”

Anybody who grew up in the 1950s is probably familiar with all the delivery men we had stopping at our homes.

Those were the days when you had a milk man, egg man, ice man, brush man, coal man and a bread man. Even though I was quite young, I still recall the ice man bringing the big chunk of ice that went into our ice box. It was always fun for the iceman to give us a chunk of ice to suck on.

Another delivery man we had was a milk man. He used to put bottles of milk on the porch and take the empty bottles. This service was very nice because it was difficult to get the grocery stores more than once a week. Some women did not drive and if they did there was usually just one car in the family to use.

By AMBER McMANUS

School days are back in session once again for the year. The nostalgia of summer fun being over and fall creeping back in with a new school year brings back so many memories, even though it’s been over a decade since I last graced school hallways.

I remember being a kid and about two weeks before school started, I would start to get the nervous jitters. I worried about liking my teacher, if the classes would be too difficult, if I would have a hard time fitting in with my peers. The whirlwind of thoughts were almost constant in my mind during the last few days of summer vacation.

One of my favorite parts of anticipation for the new year was the school shopping. I used to have all my folders neatly labeled for each class, my pencils perfectly sharpened with matching erasers in my pencil case, and I always had the best crayons, scissors and glue. Little did I know, that after about the first week in school, my orderly supplies would become so disorganized even though I swore every year that I would change and keep everything perfect.

Bats in my belfry

By MARY BETH WEISENBERGER

As a country dweller, I am intimately familiar with the multitude of critters that take up residence on my property. I’m accustomed to (though not on especially friendly terms with) field mice, chipmunks, rabbits, deer, raccoons and even the occasional ‘possum. Thanks to my tom-boyish upbringing, I tolerate spiders (if you don’t count the big hairy kind) and have been known to call a mouse “cute” (as long as it isn’t darting out from under my feet. Then I use other words to describe it.) All in all, I am comfortable, if not resigned to, sharing my space on the planet with all God’s creatures, big and small.

Except for one: Bats.

Edame: the other soybean

By KYLEE BAUMLE

You’d think that someone who lives in the middle of farm country where soybeans are a major crop, would have given some thought to growing edible soybeans in the garden some time ago.

I’ve lived in Paulding County my whole life and have grown sweet corn nearly every one of the 37 years I’ve been married, but this edible soybean thing was new to me. It just never occurred to me to grow edamame.

I’d heard about edamame several years ago, but it was just this past February when I tasted it for the first time. “Picky Eater” describes me pretty well and it’s just been in the last several years that I’ve tried eating some things that I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to like. But, you just never know. Take kohlrabi, for instance.

By NANCY WHITAKER

WOULD YOU EAT THAT?

Eating out in a restaurant or a fast food place is a lot of fun and a pleasure that gets Mom out of the kitchen, and allows someone else do the cooking.

I am a food lover in all ways. I love to read cookbooks, try new recipes and even take pictures of food. I think of myself as a Food Network junkie, a lover of restaurants and a foodaholic. (Now is that even a word?)

Of course you can watch all kinds of shows on TV showing us all the various types of culinary diversity. If you stop and think about it, every part of our lives and existence revolves around food.

By Nancy Whitaker

IS IT LOVE OR AN UPSET STOMACH?

Have you ever been in love and got butterflies in your stomach? Do you recall your first taste of love and how you felt? What is love? I believe there are different kinds of love which can be shown in many ways.

Of course, there is that precious, sweet love between parents and their children. It has always been said that blood is thicker than water and those words still ring true.

For instance, if someone picks on one brother or sister, they may have siblings who will stick up for them. You may find you have a lot more than one to whip.

Then, there is the love that a child feels for their mom and dad. When your child wants or needs something, they look to their mother and father with love and expectation in their eyes.

By Jim Langham

For most of her life, my mother was one of those people that was one of the first ones knocking on the front door when there was a need. When someone returned from the hospital, she took them their first meal. She loved working at the church sewing group, knowing that projects she finished would end up in the hands of people with need in third world countries.

One time, I can remember when a family moved into town of a different national background, poor, not knowing a lot of language and rather forlorn in a different culture. My mother visited them; she and my father picked them up for church on Sunday mornings. She purchased school supplies and took the lady and her two children to a clothing store to take care of them.

Of course, all of this, and many more actions, were performed without fanfare, preferably behind the scenes, with never any mention to anyone else that help had been given.

By Kylee Baumle

Whether you’ve been gardening for a short time or as long as you can remember, if your garden is like most of those in Paulding County, the native clay can be maddening. My mom has said that instead of growing flowers, we should be making pottery. Every year, I add organic amendments to the soil to make it more plant-friendly, because many plants don’t do very well in heavy clay soils.

One thing that amazes me about the dense clay is how earthworms seem to move through it with little effort. Just dig into it and you’ll see evidence of this in the form of worm-sized tunnels in the soil. Earthworms are a sign that the soil is healthy; the more worms, the better!

I read a fascinating book a few months ago called The Earth Moved. Author Amy Stewart writes about how important earthworms are to the ecological balance of our environment. They aerate, purify, and enrich the soil just by moving through it, eating, and um ... pooping. It’s that worm poop (called “castings”) that works as such a great natural fertilizer that got me interested in raising worms of my own.