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      TRUE FRIENDS
True friends are supposed to be the ones that don't fade away
~ Sticks with you when rough times lead you astray
~ Believes in you when you need it most
~ Gives you a ton of hope
~ Doesn't let you do things that aren't right
~ Won't let you give up without a fight
~ Stands by your side when you face your fears
~ Looks at you and in the blink of an eye, stops your tears
~ Knows what you say without making a sound
~ When your heart breaks, she makes all the pieces be found
~ You tell her a secret and she will never tell a soul
~ She's the funny person to make you laugh -- truth be told
~ You can be silly together and you automatically know
    You are Best Friends Forever ...
Author: Callie Huffman

COOKING THE CLAMS

On hot days in summer it was nice to spend time in the afternoons along the shady banks of Wolf Creek which ran back of our house along the edge of the farm on the north side.

In dry season the water was low and the pebbly bottom was visible and fresh water and clam shells of all sizes lay scattered among the pebbles. Occasionally there would be a live clam with partly open shell which would quickly close if it was touched.

When Brother and I heard that clams, properly prepared, were a great delicacy, we knew right where to get some. Never mind that these weren't the right kind of clams, but how were we to know that? We were eager with anticipation.

One afternoon while Mother was resting, we went to the creek with our bucket and found several clams. These were not the biggest ones we'd seen, but we figured medium size would do.

At home again, we had to figure how to get the clam to open up; but no luck. The clams wouldn't cooperate. We tried everything we couild think of and and nothing worked. We didn't give up. There had to be a way.

Now, we remembered hearing about "Clam Bakes" and figured maybe that was the way to do it, but how to go about it was our next problem.

In the summer time, in those days, Mother used a 3-burner kerosene stove to cook on because it didn't heat up the big old farmhouse kitchen like the old wood range did. She didn't have an oven for it, though, so it seemed the baking idea was out. But ... wait! There was a way ....

We had a bright idea. Not so bright as it turned out, but it seemed like a good one at the time.

We turned on a burner and when the wick was soaked just right, lit it and when the flame burned well, we put the clam over the flame and waited. We didn't have long to wait until things began to happen and not the way we expected. The clam opened up all right, spewing water and liquid into the burner and the flame went out with a sputter and a cloud of smelly steam. Not to lose out on this opportunity to get the clam, we stuck a spoon handle between the two halves of the shell, afraid it would close up again, and dragged the clam off the stove, ignoring the mess we had made.

After some more prying we got it all the way open and part of the clam out of the shell -- the foot part. After all this trouble getting just one clam out of the shell, we figured it would be enough to taste, so we'd just cook it and forget about doing the rest.

First, we tried frying it, but it was too tough to slice or even cut with any of the knives in Mother's cupboard. Well, why not boil it? We did -- all afternoon. The longer we cooked it the tougher it got and by now, it didn't look all that appetizing either. No way anybody could eat that clam, so we gave up and offered it to our dog. He'd eat anything -- but not that clam! One sniff and with a look of disgust on his face he walked away.

And then, Mother found the mess!!

Dorothy Miller Birdwell

A MOTHER'S LOVE

Several years ago after a forest fire in Yellowstone National Park, forest rangers began their treck up a mountain to assess the inferno's damage. One of the rangers found a bird literally petrified in the ashes, perched statuesquely on the ground at the base of a tree. Somewhat sickened by the sight, he knocked the bird over with a stick. When he struck it, three tiny chicks scurried out from under their dead mother's wings. The loving mother, keenly aware of impending disaster, had carried her offspring to the base of the tree and gathered them under her wings, instinctively knowing that the toxic smoke would rise.

She could have flown to safety but had refused to abandon her babies. When the blaze had arrived and the heat had scorched her small body, the mother had remained steadfast. Because she had been willing to die, those under the cover of her wings would live.

Submitted by W.D. Lewis