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Nellotie Chastain 
While at Daycare 5-18-08
While in daycare, Mitch, my four-year-old grandson, is learning to form the letters of the alphabet and words that begin with each letter. In helping him with his work, I couldn’t help but think about the month of May and, beginning with the name, how it is filled with “M’s”, most of which have to do with memories.
Mother’s Day is always a fun, exciting time when we mothers are honored and remembered with various tokens of love. No matter how estranged a child may become from their mother, deep in their heart they know their mother loves them.
From the moment of conception, babies snuggle under the warmth and security of a mother’s heart for nine months until they get pushed, kicking and screaming, into a cold, scary world.
After that first smack on the bottom, the next thing those babies feel is the warmth of mommy’s arms around them and they settle against her softness where they feel and hear the security of her beating heart. That love ties together mothers’ and children’s hearts for a lifetime.
May is also when we celebrate Memorial Day, or Decoration Day. No where is Memorial Day displayed more beautifully than in the mountains of Kentucky. In large cemeteries as well as small family plots dotted across the mountain sides, are grave sites that have been adorned in remembrance.
Began as a day to remember those who gave the ultimate sacrifice in service to the United States, Memorial Day has grown into a day to remember all those who are no longer with us.
Growing up in southeastern Kentucky, I remember looking forward to Memorial Day because the cemeteries, which normally were unhappy places, were almost smiling through the beauty of flowers.
The emotions I experience as I decorate my parent’s and my tiny grandson’s graves are mixed. With tears rolling down my face, I lovingly place especially chosen flowers on their graves as I remember. Memories can never be taken from us. The gaily colored flowers mixed with loving memories help us smile through our tears.
I have a life-time of memories with my parents and only eight days of memories with my grandson. But, I have hope with those memories. With no intention of sounding morbid, someday I’ll be with them again and my children and grandchildren will be decorating my grave. It is my hope that they will have more smiles than tears. I am now almost twenty years older than my mother was when she died. Hopefully, I have given my family many happy memories.
Patches of beautiful flowers decorating the mountains shout, “You are not forgotten.” Love means never forgetting.
The words of an old hymn entitled “Precious Memories,” pretty much vocalize what the month of May is about: Precious memories, how they linger, how they ever flood my soul. In the stillness of the midnight; Precious sacred scenes unfold.
Our mothers will always be remembered with love. The men and women who fight for our freedoms will always be remembered with honor. May we always love; and may we never forget.

As The Morning Progressed 4-1-08
It was not my intention to stop a freight train, trick my daddy or that train conductor, or receive the unhappy, bottom-warming consequences for my morning of doing nothing but my all time favorite activity.
Maybe it was because I was unusually short, even as a four-year-old girl, or maybe I truly am part monkey, but climbing high into a tree always gave me a special thrill. In fact, I still feel the lure of high branches from time to time.
In any case, that particular morning, with the sun shining and the birds chirping, I ran to my favorite tree and scrambled far up into its branches. Our house was separated from the next door neighbor’s by their driveway. On the opposite side of our house were our driveway and a lovely yard where we kids played every day, all day, in all weather.
My tree was approximately half way between our driveway and the railroad bed that joined our property. As with most people who live near railroads, we were accustomed to the blast of trail whistles, the clang of crossing bells, and the crashing of freight cars as they bumped into each other.
Another favorite pastime of mine was pretend crying. I was very good at it. In fact, when our family moved to Greasy Creek, in southeastern Kentucky, my siblings and I held funerals for baby chickens that had died. I was the designated crier because I was so good at it.
In the bright sunshine of that morning on Mekendric Street, in Grand Rapids, Michigan, I held lightly to the tree limbs and surveyed the neighborhood. A sudden thought entered my four-year-old mind. Looking down, I allowed my shoe to slide into what looked like a trap.
Pretending to be stuck, I began crying—at the top of my voice. After all, that’s where it sounded the best. The neighbors no longer took notice of my crying because they knew.
I didn’t see the train stop, nor did I see the man from the engine running across our yard. But I did see daddy dart outside, then run for the garage. In a matter of minutes he had the ladder slapped against the tree and was tugging at my “stuck” shoe.
Looking down into the fear-filled eyes of my sweet daddy, I asked, “What are you doing up here?” I nonchalantly stepped my “stuck” foot onto the same limb the other shoe rested on.
Even though I was only four years old, I watched as my sweet daddy’s eyes immediately changed from fear to something intense that I knew wasn’t going to be good for me.
“In the house,” he ordered, shoving me from behind. My short legs moved like the wind. I don’t know what transpired between the train conductor and my daddy, but I’m certain a very sincere apology was in those words somewhere.
I remember an intense time with my sweet daddy that included a few swats that warmed my behind. I remember not having the desire to climb my favorite tree for quite some time.
The Bible says that, “Pride goes before destruction…” But, over the years, as I have contemplated that morning, I have felt a sense of pride that my crying was good enough, real enough, and loud enough to attract the attention of a person who was driving a very large locomotive that usually makes far more noise than one little four-year-old girl.
While my bottom was being warmed, my pride was dented somewhat. But I have to admit, that little trick of mine was funny. Now that I am a parent and a grandparent, I know as well as I know my name, that after that particular incident, my sweet daddy and mommy—and even that train conductor—enjoyed their own moments of laughter.
As we rear our children, we fail stop our busyness long enough to laugh as much as we should. But when we become grandparents we not only enjoy the pranks the children play, we also take part in a good many of them.
All it takes is remembering what we did as children and remembering what we wished we had done differently as parents. Children are blessings from God. Again, as the Bible says, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:…A time to weep and a time to laugh…”
There’s nothing more precious than the laughter of a child. It takes a hard person to resist joining in their laughter. I believe that if we would chose to laugh with our children more, we’d have far less to weep over as they grow older.

Hope 3-8-08
The English language if filled with beautiful words with which we are able to express our emotions, our thoughts, and our dreams. In these last few weeks before Spring, one word seems to come to mind quite often—yucky. What better word could our children have captured that we adults can use in days such as these?
Brilliantly white snow with sparkles of diamonds makes us smile as it floats from heavy clouds. By the next day, the diamonds are replaced by mud splatters. A coating of wet, coal dust gives the snow the look of a chocolate covered ice cream sundae that’s been splattered on the ground.
The crispness of the air begins to soften as thin tubes of mercury on thermometers begin to inch upward. The snow melts, the ground turns to mud, the rain begins, and the mud deepens. Yucky! 
But, there’s hope; winter is almost over. We stand by the window watching rivulets of muddy water run down the driveway and onto the road, just to be splashed back into the driveway by passing cars and trucks.
Aw, there’s hope. The yard’s winter brown grass is beginning to look green again. And there by a small pond of melted snow are two fat, red-bellied robins who have made an early appearance. Is that a night-crawler being pulled from the water-logged ground?
Yes, there’s hope. Using a leash to keep him out of the worst of the mud, we walk the dog along the edge of the driveway. Nearing the house, our eyes espy something green poking out of the ground. The first crocus of the season is pushing its way through the mire to spread its small green leaves and purple flowers into the warmth of a small shaft of sunshine that has sliced through gray-edged clouds. We smile.
Checking the calendar so that we will be prepared, we discover that Easter is only four weeks away. Winter is indeed almost over. Spring is right around the corner. We will no longer be cooped up in the house.
Seeing tulips begin to push through the ground, we step off the sidewalk for a closer look, only to have our shoes sink up to our ankles in mud that has been concealed by what we thought was grass. Yuck.
Nevertheless, there’s hope. Flowering bushes, tulips in a multitude of colors, birds chirping happily, rabbits and squirrels scampering about, new clothing and shoes for Easter, thoughts of candy that has been hidden in gaily colored plastic eggs all assure us of the promise of Spring and Easter.
Easter reminds of us our hope in the love of Jesus Christ, the assurance of forgiveness of our sins through the blood of His sacrifice, the hope of eternal life with Him.
Without hope, our lives would forever be yucky. Hope in tomorrow helps us wake up every morning. Hope in the love of our families gives us reason to live. Hope in good health gives us the incentive to take good care of ourselves.
Hope steps on the yuckies and shoves them deep into the mud. Hope lets in fresh air and sunshine. Hope makes us smile.
“Now the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that you may abound in hope, through the power of the Holy Ghost.” (Romans 15:13)

Red February 2-16-08
A kaleidoscope of reds, pinks, crimsons, lavenders, and burgundies sparkle through our thoughts as February arrives after the white-cold of January. Our hearts begin to thaw as  special warmth begins spreading over our emotional horizons.
We women, especially, look forward to Valentine’s Day with hopeful expectation of expressions of love from the special men in our lives. Smiling, laughing, and many times with tears slipping from our eyes, we women spend long moments in card aisles of local stores searching for that perfect card.
On the other hand, men tend to rush to the store after work on Valentine’s Day to grab a card and box of chocolates, realizing that it’d not be a good idea to arrive home empty handed.
For the better part of our thirty-nine years together, my sweetheart struggled to “get it right.” Once he finally got with the program, he makes me very happy on Valentine’s Day.
He had difficulty understanding why the boxes of assorted chocolates contained many of the small, brown morsels cut open, but uneaten. He understands now that I don’t like a lot of those odd tasting pieces of chocolate. But, because I don’t want to waste them, I use a sharp knife to discover what’s hidden inside. If it’s something I don’t like, someone else will have a chance to enjoy the little goody.
Now, when Valentine’s Day arrives, I’m sure to find a large box of chocolate (dark, of course) covered cherries—with liquid centers. My sweetheart gains much pleasure in watching my face as I pop one of those little pieces of heaven in my mouth and savor it to the fullest. The dark chocolate coating softly crunches, allowing the liquid to flood my palate before my teeth slowly grind together the succulent cherry and chocolate.
Valentine’s Day is a fun time filled with love and sweetness. Little children enjoy exchanging valentines with their friends at school, after which there are always heart-shaped cookies and red punch.
Valentines become more serious in high school. Young people no longer give small valentines to all their classmates. Especially chosen cards are given to friends. Special cards, filled with words of affection and love, are exchanged between young sweethearts. And, by now, young men realize the importance of giving chocolates. They don’t know why chocolates mean so much, but the results are too rewarding to give that much thought.
With valentines, roses and diamonds given--and chocolates eaten, Valentine’s Day is the day we celebrate the kaleidoscope of love. Pink and lavender sweetness of friendship, sparkle into first-love’s redness. Crimsons deep, passionate love swirl into the deep burgundy of life-long love that is time-tested secure and cherished “until death do us part.”
HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY

A Necessary Evil 1-31-08
What began as life-saving measures for our environment has now become a booming business. Mandated in many cities and counties, re-cycling is what many would label a ‘necessary evil’.
It wasn’t that many years ago when trash of all sizes and shapes littered our roadways, mountainsides, and waterways. Every flood that roared through Kentucky creeks and rivers left behind piles of mud-covered trash. Pamper trees, decorated with plastic jugs, lined the creek banks.
Twenty years ago, my family and I visited Cumberland Falls and were disgusted and heartbroken to see trash, which included several kitchen appliances, that had accumulated below the Falls.
On our last outing to Cumberland Falls, we were pleased and grateful that much work had been done in cleaning up an area of Kentucky that is unbelievably beautiful.
I do not know who began the ‘Don’t litter’ campaign across the country, but I certainly am grateful. I remember a TV commercial from years ago where an Indian is looking at litter and a tear rolls down his cheek.
In an all-out attempt to save our environment, our lawmakers have made laws that make littering a punishable offence. At the same time, others have learned to make money by turning in their used materials and by those who re-cycle the mountains of materials that have been brought in to them. Seems like a win/win situation to me.
Why would re-cycling be called a ‘necessary evil’? Because it takes effort from all of us. Laziness still seems to be prevalent in our society. Tossing plastic jugs, newspapers, and soda cans into the trash to be hauled to the landfill is easier. It takes effort to separate our trash and then haul most of it to the re-cycling center.
To the best of my knowledge, no one has figured out a way to re-cycle disposable diapers, so our landfills are stuffed full of those. But, at least, there are fewer and fewer Pamper trees lining our creeks and rivers. That’s a good thing.
It’s indeed a pleasure to drive along our roads, whether interstates or gravel roads, and enjoy un-marred beauty again. There are no more road-side trash piles that spill over the side of the mountains. That’s a very good thing.
Of all the states I’ve been privileged to visit, each with their own natural beauty, there are none that compare to the natural, breath-taking beauty found in the state of Kentucky.

The Child Inside 1-01-08
One night last week, unable to sleep, my bare feet tapped across the dining room’s chilled, hardwood floor as I headed for the kitchen and a much needed glass of water. What to my wondering eyes did appear, were icy-white snow flakes tumbling near.
The child inside me instantly sprang forth as I stood at the window with my hands over my smiling mouth. My cold feet were forgotten as I plopped into the rocking chair and held back the curtain to watch the first snow of the season begin piling up on my car and blanketing the street.
It was far too early in the morning to call the grandkids, and my husband’s loud snores let me know that there would be no waking him to join me in watching the dance of the snow flakes. So, I sat there wishing I could run outside and play in the new fallen snow. How long had it been since I made a snow angel?
Sometimes I wonder why, as we grow older, allowing the child inside to escape happens so seldom. Without even giving it a thought, children enjoy being children. Their little bodies hold more energy than ten of me. With no holds barred, they barrel through life in carefree joy.
As teenagers, we begin to cover our child inside with a throw of early adulthood. We want to be grownup, so we begin to stifle our playfulness. As the years pass, the throw turns into a blanket, keeping the child inside smothered. We no longer have time to play and have fun. We become too busy with life. We work, we raise our families, and have mountains of responsibilities.
On those rare occasions when we accidentally allow the child inside to escape the confines of the smothering blanket, we have so much fun we feel guilty and embarrassed. So we rush home, claiming to be worn out, take a pill and crawl into bed. By the next morning, the blanket is firmly back in place. Each time that happens, the blanket becomes heavier and heavier until it turns into a quilt.
If you’ve ever taken time to watch elderly folks, you’ll notice that the child inside yearns more than ever to escape. Our usual thought, when that happens, is that they are silly old people. Sadly, in nursing homes, those children inside are buried forever by the medication the elderly are given like candy.
Slow down sometime and watch some of the seniors around you and in your life. Physical pain and stiff joints keep them more sedate, but they love to dance, they love to sing, and they love to laugh. Most of all, they love to be around children. They love to throw that quilt back and allow their child inside to escape long enough until they doze off in their easy chairs with a smile on their toothless faces.
I want to let my child inside out to play more often now so she will be less likely to be smothered by the quilt that my withered arms will have a difficult time throwing off later. My children no longer are embarrassed by my antics. My grandchildren aren’t old enough yet to be embarrassed, so I’ll enjoy playing while I can.
The first snow of the season always releases my child inside from the confines of the blanket. Christmas allows a full day of play. Excitement at the thought of a new year causes the child inside to conjure up all sorts of new ideas. Because my birthday is also in January, I am more aware as each year passes that I’m inching closer and closer to being a senior person.
The first time I was given a senior discount by a child waiting on me at a fast food restaurant, I was appalled. Just because my hair was gray didn’t make me “old”. But it didn’t take me long to begin enjoying any discount I could get. So what if my hair is gray, I’m still not old. In fact, my grandchildren have been told that they are not to call me old until I’m eighty-five—then we’ll talk about it.
This time of year, the blanket is not only thrown back, it’s folded neatly and stored on a shelf somewhere. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and now a brand new year. Run free, child inside, play, sing, dance. Anyone want to join me?

Gift that keeps on Giving 12-13-07
As quickly as needles fall from Christmas trees, we are rushing into the season of giving. Our thoughts whirl as we shop for just the right gift to match just the right person.
We Americans are buried in plastic debt. Every year it’s the same. The money runs out before we reach the end of our list. We slide that little plastic card out of our wallets and watch as it’s sliced through the store’s tiny little machine that in turn makes mountains of debt that we never seem to be able to conquer.
Often we hear about the gift that keeps on giving. I’ve even heard one of the credit card companies advertise with that slogan. A credit card is definitely a gift that keeps on giving—more debt, more stress, more need for antacids, and the absolute need for a better paying job.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could stop the insanity of Debt-mas and re-focus on the real joy of Christmas as we share the gift that keeps on giving?
I’ve never known anyone, young or old, who has ever accepted a Christmas gift and failed to open it immediately. I love to watch my grandchildren tear the paper to shreds in their excitement of finding what’s hidden inside.
I have eight-year-old twin grandsons who abhor anything that is pink or even looks like it might be a ‘girlie’ thing. Last Christmas, their parents (yes, my very own sweet daughter) wrapped the twins’ main Christmas gift in Barbie-doll wrapping paper. The boys wouldn’t touch those gifts until they finally realized that no one was going to open the gifts for them.
Daddy and mommy (and grandpa, I might add) considered their plight quite funny. Yes, I have to admit, it was kind of humorous, but my grandmother’s heart felt sorry for them because they wanted what was wrapped inside so badly, but just couldn’t bring themselves to touch the wrapping paper.
Over two-thousand years ago, humankind was given a Gift that keeps on giving even today. Deep inside each of us is a desire for what is in that Gift. Far too many refuse to touch the ‘wrapping’ in order to experience the joy of the Gift.
The great thing about accepting God’s gift of Jesus is that there’s so much more than just one gift. It’s like opening a box and finding lots of little packages hidden inside.
There’s the gift of peace. During the Christmas season, we hear much about peace. As each year passes, we hear less and less peace in our world. In fact, our world is a mess. But Jesus’ gift of peace is in our hearts and helps us face the lack of peace around us.
Joy is another gift that also fills our hearts. Even when our personal lives are full of pain, either physical or emotional, if we have Jesus’ joy in our hearts we can survive because the joy of the Lord is our strength.
Kindness is the gift that we give that keeps on giving. One of the TV commercials shows how one small act of kindness is passed from one person to the next. It doesn’t take much effort to show kindness.
In a society where me-ness prevails, how about all of us practicing kindness throughout the Christmas season. It doesn’t have to be wrapped and we don’t have to go into debt for it.
If each of us would determine to find one opportunity on one day to show kindness to someone else, by December 25th I’ll wager our acts of kindness will become habit forming.
Do you remember what happened to the Grinch’s heart with his one act of kindness? That’s exactly what happens to us when we make a habit of showing kindness to others. Our hearts swell with joy and happiness.
When Christmas Day arrives, we’ll want to shout from the chimney top, “Merry Christmas” and truly mean it.

My Inspiration for Life 9-04-07
Chaos shrouded love of my grandchildren inspires me to live. When life hurts, they love. When life unravels, their hugs stitch it back together. In their faces I find hope. Wrapped in my arms, their love infuses my heart.
Diamonds sparkle in the blue-black sky above me as I pause outside the door of my love-filled home. The meeting was long, I am tired, but the sounds of family replace the stress lines with a smile.
The walls are vibrating from what the teenagers call music. Self-imposed exile in “their” room where the little ones are not allowed, they somehow have long, involved conversations on their cell phones amid the din.
Six-year-old twin boys roll across the floor, their bodies hopelessly entwined. It’s difficult to know if their cries are from pain or pleasure as their heads collide with a table leg.
Standing at the head of the stairs, my heart jerks with fear as the three-year-old rolls down the carpeted steps. “D’you see that, mamaw?” he yells. Proud of his tumble, those beautiful blue eyes seek my approval as I ease down the steps with my hand over my thumping heart.
“Mamaw, Emma has a code brown!” In unison, the twins announce what has become obvious to the entire household. Armed with a diaper and handful of wipes, I quickly have three-month-old Emma restored to dry, clean acceptance.
Oblivious to the chaos, my husband’s eyes and ears are completely focused on his favorite TV show. My adult children and their spouses are enjoying their opportunity to chat as they finish off the last of the banana pudding and coffee upstairs.
Twenty minutes pass as I hold Emma close, rocking her to sleep. Mitchell, my three-year-old, sits on the couch looking at a book waiting his turn on mamaw’s lap. The twins are lying in the floor laughing at papaw who is snoring so loudly no one can hear the TV.  
Suddenly, the walls stop vibrating. Curious, the teenagers venture out to see why the twins are laughing so hard. I watch in wonder as the twins are invited into the inner sanctum of the teenagers.
When Emma is snuggled under her blanket on the couch, Mitchell climbs onto my lap. Leaning his back against me, he wiggles and giggles. In a few short minutes, he’s lying against my arm and chest as he reaches for my hair. Since he was quite small, his  favorite way to go to sleep has been to play with mamaw’s hair.
Unable to lift his eyelids another time, his body relaxes against mine. I lean my head against the rocker and smile. It’s quieter now, but the love remains. Giggles and chatter come from the teenage domain. Light talk and laughter seep down the steps from my grown children; my husband snores.
I sigh contentedly. This is not just life, this is my life. This is why I wake up every morning. This is why I breathe. My family inspires me to live.

8-28-07
Anniversaries are days for remembering. Although wedding anniversaries are at the top of the special memories list, there are all sorts of reasons to stop and celebrate or just stop and remember. Whether good, bad, or ugly, our memories are important.
August is an anniversary for me. Fifty-four years ago, my parents loaded their four small children into the family station wagon and left the large city of Grand Rapids, Michigan, for the mountains of southeastern Kentucky.
Our dad, Jesse Porter, had been born and reared in Chavies, Kentucky. After his stint in the United States Army, he and our mother, Marie, married and set up housekeeping in the big city. Other than occasional visits home, Jesse had no particular desire to move back to the mountains.
But God has ways of moving us out of our comfort zones. After becoming Christians, God called Jesse and Marie to be missionaries. Now, they didn’t have a problem with that. In fact, they were excited about the prospect of moving to Africa to serve the Lord. The one place they were adamant about not going was back to Kentucky.
When they realized that Kentucky was exactly where God was sending them, they packed up all our belongings and us kids, and headed back to, what I now refer to as, God’s country.
Near our destination that August, 1953, afternoon, the station wagon turned onto the dirt and gravel road that would take us deep into lush mountains through which ran a clear, blue creek called Greasy Creek.
I was only six, but my life was forever changed by our seven years on Greasy Creek. I shudder to think how different my life would have been if I had grown up in the big city.
Children normally adapt quickly, and we Porter kids did just that. In hindsight, I’m certain we must have seemed a bit odd to the other kids on the creek. We soon began speaking the ‘language’. It also seemed that we enjoyed almost everything about living in the mountains.
Our house at Chappell was high on a hill above the creek, which was good when it flooded. But, the mountain itself was an amazing source of adventure for each of us. Our guardian angels were stretched to their limits guarding our bare feet and legs from the fangs of rattlesnakes and copperheads--that we never saw, but were definitely there--as we played on the rocks and in the small caves that covered ‘our’ mountain.
And then there were the grapevines. Mercy, was that fun. Our favorite vine was about half way up the mountain. The ground around it was worn shiny from our constant pushing off and landing. That is until the day it broke with me, sending me rolling all the way down the side of the mountain to our back door. That’s a story in itself.
I was excited every Sunday morning, evening, and Wednesday evenings when it was time to accompany dad to Chappell Bible Church to have church with our friends and neighbors. Unlike most churches nowadays, Chappell Bible Church’s pews were filled for every service. The windows that lined both sides of the small church remained opened so that anyone choosing not to attend, heard church anyway.
Attending our little, one-room school on Elk Branch was almost as exciting to me as being on top or our mountain. I was never that good of a student, but I loved learning. Not once did I ever think about skipping school. Recesses were always filled with adventure as we played follow-the-leader, softball, or just waded in the creek.
No one has bothered to ask my opinion, but I firmly believe that if our children could go to one-room schools today, they’d learn much more than they do in their modern, over-crowded, noisy schools where discipline is no longer allowed and disrespect is rampant.
My Greasy Creek memory bank is stuffed full and those memories have helped sustain me in times of sadness, depression, and loneliness. That’s because those particular memories are happy ones.
Far too quickly, the day came when God called Jesse and Marie off of Greasy Creek into Harlan County and then on over the mountain to Perry County. We were still in the mountains and continued to make more friends, but there were fewer and fewer memories that imbedded themselves inside of us like the ones from Greasy Creek.
Life is all about change and growing. And all of life is not about happiness and good times. All memories, even the bad and ugly ones, help direct our lives. Happy memories make us smile. Happy memories make us want to make more happy ones. And we want to insure that our children experience happy times so that their memory banks will be solidly packed with memories that will help shape and guide their lives so that when their bad and ugly times happen, the happy memories will cushion them and help guide them into good times.
Yes, August brings back happy, precious memories. Greasy Creek will always be a little piece of Heaven for me and my siblings.

8-13-07
As I drove along our Main Street today, I observed one church’s marquee which had two simple words—GOT PEACE.
As a Christian, I know what the church was asking—and offering, but I began to think about why so many people desperately search for peace these days.
Watching television advertisements and reading magazines and newspapers, we are inundated with hundreds of products that promise to bring us peace. From air fresheners, toilet tissue holders, dish soap, laundry soap, bath oils, car fresheners, lotion, and the list goes on and on.
Because my mind is a bit wacky at times, I kept pondering this issue; especially why so many of these products are used in bathrooms. Isn’t the bathroom usually a place of escape from the craziness of life, most pressures of life, waiting housework, barking dogs and so on?
Does my toilet tissue really need to emit a calming aroma as it spins off the cardboard roll? Is standing under a warm shower so stressful that I need calming scents from shampoo, cream rinse, and soap? Do the towels I press to my wet face and wrap around my dripping body have to smell like lavender for me to survive my bath time?
How many houses have burned down because a stress-relieving scented candle was left burning too long? Possibly, standing outside watching it burn, the owners held stress-relieving scented Kleenex over their noses.
I’m certain that if someone wanted to do the research on how much medicine was prescribed by doctors these days for relieving stress, the numbers would be staggering.
Why are we so uptight? Why are so many of us physically ill from worrying? Knowing the risks, why do so many people still NEED their cigarettes? Of course, I won’t mention chocolate. That would stop the meddling and begin the preaching. Peace seems to have become elusive as the wisps of smoke from a scented candle.
Because of my husband’s job as mayor of our city, each day beings a deluge of stress. We are parent and grandparents, which means the worries can be many. Home and vehicle ownership brings added stresses. So where is the peace?
The truth is that we don’t have to search diligently for peace. It’s available for the asking. I understand that many folks don’t believe this, but peace comes from within when all is well between us and God. When that happens, we will find peace in the world around us.
I gain immense peace from sitting outside watching my grandchildren play. There are many types of books that give me peace; that make me feel good. As often as possible, my husband and I will escape to the state park (where no cell phone service is) that is located near us and sit next to the creek enjoying nature and watching people.
On those far-too-few opportunities I have to return to southeastern Kentucky, there is one spot along what used to be called the Mountain Parkway, where, coming up over a rise, in the distance the mountains greet me. At the moment my eyes see them, it’s as if the arms of the mountains reach out and wrap me in peace.
As I drive deeper and deeper into the shelter of the mountains, that peace swirls around me like a cocoon. I sometimes wonder what my life would be like today if I had not been given the privilege of growing up in the mountains.
My grandchildren enjoy sleeping in the tent we keep up in the back yard. Lying in the dark, looking out through the screened windows, we watch in awe the star-studded sky enhanced by man-made objects sailing across the universe.
When a sudden, strange noise startles them, they hurriedly snuggle as close to me as possible. That’s peace.
God gave us nature for us to enjoy. He gives us family to love and enjoy. He gives us life to enjoy. Possibly the reason we’ve lost our peace is because we’ve forgotten to enjoy nature. Families are becoming non-existent. How can there be any peace where there is no love? Our lives have become too busy to enjoy.
Stress, pain, disappointment, and discouragement have always been around. But, you know what? So has peace. The slogan-Got Peace-should be changed to—Choose Peace. Most things in life are by choice. Why not choose peace?

The Celebration of Reading
I was honored to be invited to participate, with nineteen other authors, in the Clay County Reading Celebration on May 11th. We authors took our places behind our name placard to await curious onlookers and hope some of them would purchase our books--autographed, of course. That was the beginning of a surprisingly interesting evening.
I cannot remember the last time I enjoyed anything as much as I did that evening at Hacker Elementary School. My husband joined me on that particular trip into the mountains and I believe he had more fun than I did—another surprise.
Although Hacker Elementary is not a large school, we discovered that it was a very nice, well taken care of facility. Stepping inside was like entering another world. Every hallway, classroom, restroom, and gymnasium had been transformed into magnificent kingdoms, realms, and domains that evolved from the imaginations and talent of the students.
The students were not only allowed, but obviously encouraged, to express their talent in an explosion of creativity. That was amazing to my husband and myself.
The bulletins stated that the event was sponsored by a partnership of community and schools. That fact was quite evident. Volunteers were everywhere making sure the program went as planned, every participant had what they needed, and visitors were given ample opportunity to enjoy three hours of fun, fellowship, food, music, and education. Most of the children who attended were given free books.
The Clay County Reading Celebration is an annual event and everyone involved in planning and implementing a program of this magnitude needs to be congratulated and encouraged to keep up the good work.
The importance of books and education cannot be promoted enough. Education is the answer to most of our society’s woes. Too many children have lost their ability to use their imaginations because all the imagining is being done for them with movies, DVDs, videos, and television.
Even adults are losing the desire to sit down and relax with a good book because life has become too fast-paced. Audio books are becoming popular. Now we can stay on the go and listen, instead of read.
Back in the dark ages, when I was a small girl growing up on Greasy Creek, we didn’t have television. So we Porter children read everything we could get our hands on. And that love for reading has followed each of us throughout our lives.
Although, as an author, I enjoy writing my stories, I also still take the time to sit down and read other good books.
Along with the excitement of the Clay County Reading Celebration, the evening was special to me to have been included with nineteen Kentucky authors. As a transplanted Kentuckian, Kentucky will always be just as firmly entrenched in my heart as my love for reading.
We adults should encourage our children to read. Most schools and communities have libraries that are vast store houses of information that open their doors and invite us in to discover excitement, fun, and education. Reading is indeed a celebration.