Winter takes late jab at us, with still another day of mixed snow and rain on the heels of a 70 degree day.  It’s like a house guest who has overstayed her welcome, but is still reluctant to depart.  We will be happy to see her pack her bags and leave.  However, the grass grows greener each day and some of the trees are beginning to put out green buds, and best of all, ramp season is here.

I can’t remember when I ate my first mess of ramps.  Of course, when you are brought up munching a ramp instead of a pacifier, you would naturally develop a taste for them.  One thing about it, there is no in between ground.  You either hate them, or love them.  I belong in the latter group.

Camping and ramps go together.  When we made our annual pilgrimage to William’s River in the spring, a mess of ramps (or more than one!) was always on the menu.  When you drove along the river, each campsite sent up a ramp-scented smoke like a tribute to the god of camping. To a true lover of ramps, it was a fragrance that set the mouth to watering.

Ramps are an innocent little plant, and don’t deserve the bad rap that they have.  The flavor itself is mild and tasty, a bit like a green onion but better (I think!)  It is the aftermath that is the culprit.  The smell lingers on the breath a long time after the ramps are digested.  The safest remedy is for everyone in the crowd to eat them—then you are insulated from smelling them.  My Dad loved to eat them raw on a cheese sandwich.  Oh boy!  You talk about rank!

One year our church had a ramp dinner on Saturday.  The next day (Sunday) the choir got up and sang.  I can’t remember if we had visitors that day or not, but if we did, I am sure they remember that service!  At least the choir was oblivious to the smell—all of us had eaten them.

One memorable spring, we all went camping in Daddy’s big tent which held at least ten people.  I think there were more than ten of us that year, as we had taken our pastor, and perhaps his son, along with us.  We were packed in like sardines, and when someone wanted to turn over they would yell, “Turn!” and everyone would have to turn at once.

My baby sister Susie did not like ramps, and maybe still doesn’t.  Anyway, here she was packed in the tent with all of us.  I can remember her saying, “Breathe in some other direction!”  It was enough to make you a confirmed ramp hater.  When we would get tickled and laugh—which we did often, she would yell, “Don’t laugh!”  I got a feeling she still remembers that trip!

There are many ways to cook ramps.  Some people like them chopped and fried along with potatoes, while others like them simply cooked like greens.  I like them fixed with bacon and eggs and eaten with corn bread.  They are best cooked along the river bank, with fresh trout fried brown and crispy.  Potatoes are so good fried over an open fire, and the sound of the rushing river, as it flows swiftly around huge rocks, is nature’s music.  In memory, I can smell the sweet fragrance of crushed ferns and the piney odor of the hemlocks.

I am so thankful that Daddy introduced us early to the pleasures of the outdoors and made us aware of God’s wonderful creations.  The mighty rushing river which sent billows of foam over the immense rocks, the towering mountains that seemed to pierce the very sky, the glorious sunsets—he pointed out each thing and remarked on it.  “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament sheweth His handiwork,” (Psalms 19-1) he would say.  I would venture to say that there’s not one of his children who would take the handiwork of God for granted.

The last words of that chapter are so good, and is my plea, “Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in Thy sight, O Lord, my Strength and my Redeemer.”

I received a letter from my good friend Dixie that I want to share.  Their home here was destroyed by the memorable flood that devastated many parts of Clay County and elsewhere.  She lived in the family home, and it is hard to visualize where the house, barn and cellar stood.  She says she remembes how comforting it was to look out the kitchen window as she washed the dishes, and knew she was seeing the same things that her mother did.  She would think, as she sat in the swing and watched the waterfall flowing in the creek, that her Daddy once heard the same gurgling water sounds as he sat there on a stump, waiting to shoot a groundhog out of his garden.  You know how comforting (and sad) these memories can be.

Yes I do, Dixie.  After all these years, I can still see Daddy walking off the Ball Diamond, his blue chambray shirt sweat stained, and carrying his scythe on his shoulder.  Precious memories. . .

She sent the lyrics to a song that touches her heart each time she hears it.  Here are some of the verses:

WHO WILL WATCH THE HOME PLACE?

     There’s a lovely green nook by a clear-running stream

     It was my place when I was quite small

     And its creatures and sounds could soothe my worst pains

     But today they don’t ease me at all.

     Chorus:

     Who will watch the home place?

     Who will tend my heart’s dear space?

     Who will fill my empty place?

     When I am gone from here?

     In my grandfather’s shed there are hundreds of tools

     I know them by feel and by name.

     And like parts of my body they’ve patched this old place

     When I move them they won’t be the same.

     Now I wander around touching each blessed thing

     The chimney, the tables, the trees

     And my memories swirl ‘round me like birds on the wing

     When I leave here, oh who will I be?

Yes, Dixie, the old home place is gone. But the memories linger still…