Straight From The Hart

THE LITTLE WHITE CHURCH ON THE HILL The old oak tree still stands on the hill, it’s branches spreading wide; The cedar trees with their perfume, lined up, still stand beside The cemetery, with tombstones old, so peaceful and so still, But the centerpiece of this rural scene is the little white church on the hill. Since 1883 it has stood there, a lighthouse to show the way, A haven for the weary, a place for the burdened to pray. Jacob Blickensderfer designed it, but God set the dream in his heart. Oakland needed a churchhouse, where people could draw apart And come to a place of worship when they needed sweet peace and rest; A place where they felt God’s presence, when they needed to be blessed; A place where they sought His healing when the physical body was ill; Jacob built them this House of Worship, this little white church on the hill. The bell tower guards the southern side, the bell rings loud and clear Proclaiming the time of worship has come, as it’s done for

Dinosaur Bones and Other Childish Dreams I threw away an old bone my granddaughters found while visiting last week. When mommy and daddy came to get them, little Lorna couldn’t wait to show them her dinosaur bone. The look on her little face when I told her I had thrown it away will haunt me forever. I learned my lesson that day. I will never destroy a child’s dream again, even if my coffee table gets covered with “dinosaur bones”. The Dinosaur Bone While playing in the yard last week she found an old bleached bone; She brought it to me, so excited her little eyes just shone. “This came from a dinosaur” she said. You’ve never seen such pride; It was the find of her life for a four year old, her brown eyes open wide. As the day wore on she laid it down; Other things got her attention. I found it on my coffee table and decided not to mention That it was left over from table scraps we'd had some weeks before When a hungry dog had wandered by and stood outside our door.

I can remember how much I enjoyed going to the fair when I was a little girl, but for the life of me I can't remember where it was held, over by Nelson Park somewhere, maybe? Or was it somewhere else before it was over there? I loved the carnival part, doing a few of the rides, and eating cotton candy. Back then I didn't think I could get enough of it. Come to think of it, I still could eat more than was good for me....making me hungry. Then I think it was 1958 when I got a look at the livestock barn, firsthand. I wasn't raised a "country girl", didn't have any 4H training, but that year I was madly in love with Jim Ragland (don't tell Milan) and Jimmy was showing cattle, and Joyce Jennings and I walked over to the fairgrounds, wherever they were, and I was able to spend some time with Jimmy while he washed and groomed his cows. Now that's true love if I ever saw it. I always enjoyed going inside and looking at the exhibits. So many pretty things, espe

Here is another great letter from the Memorial Day issue of the Spfd paper. Don't know this person but she is quite a writer! Dusk had barely settled before the first loud boom echoed across the shallow valley where I live, just a stone's throw from Wilson's Creek National Battlefield. Then, the barrage began. Fireworks season again. As the trees darkened into stark silhouettes against an uneasy, overcast sky, the sounds of explosions surrounded my backyard. It wasn't too difficult to imagine myself back to the time on this very soil when artillery shells and bombs were meant to maim and kill fellow American citizens, warriors for both the North and the South. Back then, the blast of gunpowder exploding in cylinders resulted in more than high-fives and dares to see who among a crew of foolhardy middle-school boys would hold onto the lit roman candle the longest before tossing it (hopefully) skyward. How many women in that distant time listened, as I did now, to the soun

This is the quote Sarah was referring to in her Memorial Day column. "It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of the press. "It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech. "It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who has given us the freedom to demonstrate. "It is the soldier who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protester to burn the flag."- Father Denis Edward O'Brien

Relish opportunity to celebrate Fourth There's a poem circulating on the Internet that has some e-mailers a-twitter, both pro and con. Detractors say it's pro-military, and/or lacks the perspective that all of us who champion freedom, in our own ways, have blazed trails, held the faith and otherwise acted to preserve our freedom. Another critic says that rights are inherent, and no one "gives" them to us. Ohhhh-kaaaay. Tell that to the people of Darfur. The poem's detractors are correct in that it takes all of us doing our respective jobs to remain a free people, to protect our Constitution. I'm just sorry more of us don't defend it more fiercely, especially screaming like wounded crows, to our elected representatives. The poem printed above is by the late Father Denis Edward O'Brien, who was a chaplain in the U.S. Marine Corps. I included the poem in the recent funeral of my brother, George Keeslar. He was a veteran of the Korean War, a radio operator

Elsewhere on this page I am posting today's column by Sarah Overstreet, a feature writer for Springfield News-Leader. I thought it was WONDERFUL and very much worth passing on to those of you who don't have the privilege of reading her stuff. Sarah and I are an interesting story in ourselves which has a good point to make. Sarah has been writing for the News-Leader for a long time, certainly since before 1983. I know, because that's the year they hired me to write a weekly column for their editorial page wherein I was supposed to show my conservative social issue and political points of view in such a controversial way so as to garner more readership for their newspaper. Those of you who know me will recognize that this was right down my "opinionated outspoken alley". Back in those days people could have their letters to the editor printed anonymously, so while my name and picture appeared each week with my philosophizing, people could come at me from all sides w