An Angel In The doorway Or Maybe Not

A Time To remember

The Power Of The Written Word

I have in my lifetime witnessed some very strange occurences and discovered that some of these events were explainable or close to it. Within a fog rising from the opening of a very large cave early one morning revealed quite clearly to me or so it seemed human images and they faded as quickly as they had appeared. The ghost of a woman that had passed away appeared to me one night in my home. The specter frightened my dog and she lay down and whimpered. A friend of mine who lay dieing asked me if he would know when it was time. I told him an angel would be waiting at his door. Early the next morning as his wife entered his room he told her to step aside for there was an angel in the doorway. He passed away moments later One particular day several years ago while sitting in a small room in the rear of the building that housed the U. S. Post Office and trying to finish a chapter in a book I was writing. My wife, the Post Master of our town, occupied the front part of the building separated by one door. The spring day was bright with sunlight and very pleasantly warm. Nothing seemed amiss to suggest an unusual day and I sat at my desk quite content enjoying a cup of coffee, pecking away at the keyboard of my word processor, changing a sentence or two from time to time. I stood up to stretch my legs and think about how I would finish the chapter.
Later, with a steaming cup of coffee in hand I sat down again still uncertain how I would end the chapter. I could not decide whether to end the life of one of the characters or let him live and become a major aspect of the book. Pondering the question, evaluating the man who stood on the brink of death, I sat with fingers poised to either kill the man or let him live.
Unbeknownst to me, my wife at her station was suddenly confronted with a cold wind entering the outer doorway, so cold she shivered uncontrollably. She sat down unable to stand for a few moments.
The mail carrier came and found her sitting and asked if she was ill and she replied she didn’t know but was very cold.
During this time or shortly after, perhaps a moment or so I made a decision to let the man live and thought no more about it.
An hour past and during that time my wife was still not feeling much better and commented on the cold wind that had entered her work place, for as I have said it was a very pleasant day outside.
Sometime during that approximate hour and after my decision to let the man in my book live, a neighbor came to town and told the store keeper across the road from the post office he had come close to drowning in the Niangua River after falling from his mule. The fall had addled him, he said and he couldn’t get up and lay face down in the water. Struggling desperately he tried reaching for the bank, but couldn’t get a hand hold and just as he was about to give up he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into my face. He said I quickly pulled him upon the bank, but too weak to speak he said, he lay there for time before sitting up and looked around for me, but I was no where to be seen..
He finally managed to get astride the mule and by the time he reached his house was feeling much better and came to town to tell of his close encounter with death. He told the storekeeper he didn’t understand why I didn’t wait around, but wanted to thank me for saving him from drowning. The man left and returned home.
The storekeeper came to the Post Office and told my wife of the incident and asked if I had returned from the river. My wife told the storekeeper I had been in my studio all morning and the neighbor must be mistaken.
Some later I confronted the neighbor about his experience at the river and he without hesitation expressed gratitude for saving his life. He asked why I hadn’t stayed and had been a bit disappointed by my quick departure from the scene.
I told him he must have been mistaken and it was someone else who had pulled him from the river.
“No,” he replied emphatically, “it was you!”

Adios

A Hat and An Open Road

The above are some of my credentials and represent memorable events in my life and continue to do so. Adios

Take Notice Elizabeth

Short Stories, A Journey Across The Ozarks And Beyond

A Boy's Journey Through The Troubling Years Of The 1940's

This Morning Elizabeth I received your letter. The Book, Life Along The Dousinberry and South Through Barefoot Pass will be in the mail very soon. Both books will be signed and dated. I deeply appreciate your interest and I am quite certain you will enjoy the books. Thank you. Adios

Heidi And Me And The Secret Garden In Bloom

AS If To Say To Me, "This won't Happen Again."

The Sumac Tree Crowns The Wild Garden

The lilies Will Not Be Outdone

A Beautiful Jewel in the Garden

I found this old statue broken and put part of it back together and now it watches over the secret garden

Hollyhocks that originally came from England over a hundred years ago.

A quite, polite rain slipped across the crossroads this morning. Heidi waited in her house until it passed and then we went walking along a road bordered by wild flowers, nodding in the breeze. Heidi has changed so much in the last few weeks and I think she forgets at times the bad days of her past. She does not care for strangers and is a very private creature. This morning after returning from our walk she sat quitely while a photo of her and I was taken. The secret garden is in full bloom. Adios

An Old Man's Passage To White Mountain

A Woodcarving of Mine

A Time to Remember
The Journey
By Ronnie Powell
There is undoubtedly an abundance of stories hidden in the minds of all people, stories that too often are never revealed and too late when death occurs. They are aspects of life, often simple tales, yet compelling, exposing unique qualities that fall by the wayside like autumn leaves and swept away into oblivion. Knowledge of these tales I have learned can often be easily acquired by asking or showing interest in the individual’s life. They may not be promptly revealed or may follow a negative train of thoughts at first, nevertheless they are given up often in an unusual way.
I sat quietly on the floor next to Delmae, (fictitious name) an old man of Siouan stock; the face bore symbols of time, deeply creased, weather worn to the texture of old leather. Grey black hair shadowed the eyes that reflected the single flame rising and falling like an ancient warrior of old in a stone fireplace huddled against the wall. The old man sat with his head bent in prayer and I waited, sipping cold coffee from a tin cup.
Delmae and I were not close friends, but we talked and respected each other. He said to me moments after I arrived that evening the dark eyes boring into mine. “The white man’s defeat was Custer’s last stand, but the Indian paid a terrible price for the victory.”
This statement seemed to open the door to many haunting tales of his upbringing. He believed a savior would come to right the world and replenish the buffalo. Delmae openly mourned the destruction of the land, rivers and its animal inhabitants.
“A time will come when Mother Earth will grow weary of man’s cruelties and cleanses her-self of the rape. It will begin on the White Mountain.”
The following is but a small part of our time together during the evening.
The grey dusk lingering in the window of the small room faded as night crept close and as if on cue many flames rose up in the fireplace, dancing to a rhythm as old as time. The old man lifted from his lap a small cassette player and set it on the floor. The distant bellow of a diesel truck on the highway broke the silence in the room.
“Hey. Hey." Delmae said softly. “I am ready for the journey. I doubt if you will follow, but say nothing and listen.”
He bent over and pushed the on button and the machine emitted only wisps of sounds at first and then faint drum beats began, unyielding growing in intensity, demanding attention.
“Look,” Delmae said softly, pointing to the fire, “the sunset. I see a trace that leads to the mountains and the Great Plains, with grass as tall as the buffalo. See? “
I leaned forward captivated by the deep pulsating sound of the drum beat, tempted to join the hypnotic rhythm, but hesitated and was left behind. I listened to the voice, sensing urgency in it, but could not determine whether it held fear or reverent appreciation.
“I am standing at the edge of the plains and beyond lies nothing but desert that should not be there,” he said gazing intently into the fire. “There are huge pinnacles of stones scattered out across this waste land as far as I can see and I am turning back.”
Delmae said nothing more for a time, sitting quietly, swaying slowly to the beat of the drums. Night had claimed the room and if not for the firelight pushing aside the shadows dancing erratically on the walls I would not have been able to see the old man’s face.
Delmae smiled and raised a hand as if in greeting and then he spoke. “I saw nothing but the remnants of mountains and man’s skeletons, bleached white and I felt the icy touch of fear, but beyond I saw the White Mountain and knew Grandfather has not forsaken the tribes.”
He reached out and touched the cassette player and the journey ended, the drums fell silent. “Hey. Hey.” Delmae whispered and scooted closer to the fire.
Reaching into the fireplace he picked up a glowing ember and scooted back to where I sat. “Hold out your right hand, do not flinch, for no harm will come to you.” He stated gruffly.
Slowly I extended my hand; it was surprisingly steady suspended near his. I could feel the intensity of his eyes and without hesitation he laid the ember upon my open palm. The ember glowed wickedly lying there for perhaps ten or fifteen seconds and then he picked it up and tossed it into the fireplace.
“Hey. Hey.” He said. “You did well, you are human like the Indian. It is late, you should go now.”
Delmae again turned the cassette player on.
I did not leave.
Delmae’s journey continued for nearly an hour, raising an arm now and then, looking up, and lapsing into silence a time or two as tears slipped from his eyes. The recorded drum beat was a remarkable hypnotic aspect and vehicle by which he traveled and I am certain was never out of his control. Perhaps it was only the musings or reminiscing of a time worn soul and he sang.
“The whole world is coming.
A nation is coming, a nation is coming.
The Eagle has brought the message to the tribe.
The father says so, the father says so.
Over the whole earth they are coming.
The buffalo are coming, the buffalo are coming.
The Crow has brought the message to the tribe.
The father says so, the father says so.”

-Sioux Ghost Dance Song-

Queen Ann and the Secret Garden

The Guardians of the Secret Garden and the Wee People who live there

I brought this home a couple of years ago.

The butterflys love it.

Queen Ann

The secret of my garden will remain with me. It is not a neat place, but need not be. Over the last few years I have found wild flowers that appeal to me and planted them in the garden and to me at least it is ammazing how much more beautiful a wild plant can be if left alone to grow and mature. In the garden are Blackeyed Susans, Indian paint brush, Daisies and many others. Last year I brought a start of Queen Anns Lace to the garden and forgot about doing that. This year it came up and in all the years I have admired the plant did not know how beautiful it can be. The plant is considered trash and like the dandilion is for the most part mowed from pastures and lawns. But the Queen is here now in the secret garden to reign surpreme. Adios.

Heidi On The Run

Heidi cooling off after her run

After laying in her hole.

Cleaning up a bit

With help from me, Heidi is clean again.

Yesterday evening a long about sundown I sat brushing the dead hair from Heidi, (she enjoys that) I took a break and laid down beside her in the grass. She looked down at me and jumped over me and began running around the yard as fast as she could go, leaping over me, nipping at my feet. This went on for about five mintutes and fearing she might get too hot I stood up and then she ran circles around me. She stopped and took off again and jumped into her pool and laid down. I decided to get a picture of her, but when Itried she got out of the pool. I went into the house and snapped a picture of her from a window. She laid there for a while and then ran over to her hole next to a fence and laid down and instantly got very muddy. She came to where I was sitting and laid down in the grass and began cleaning herself. Heidi is truly becoming a dog. She really enjoyed the run and playing with me. Adios