Aunt Hilda

My Aunt Hilda has always been there for me, no matter what.
There are few people in my life that I can truly say that about. Where do I begin to tell you about the lady that is very special and dear to my heart?

There was a time I was a very sick girl. Food became my enemy and made me very ill. It was a very hard time for me, right at a time during my adolescence where just growing up is hard enough. I wanted to be able to get on with my life, do all the things that high school was made for, but it was not to happen for me. I would wake on Monday mornings so sick and weak, wondering what in the world was wrong with me and wishing I could just be normal. Little did we know that the beef roasts we had at Sunday’s meal was the culprit. We would have beef roast or stew or maybe steaks grilled on special Sundays. Beef was my main allergy , but until we found out what was causing it, I was miserable. Sick and pretty miserable.

Dad suffered from beef allergy but was really never diagnosed with it. He would pass out after a heavy beef meal, so sick. So strange that food, that which sustains us, can become so lethal to someone with allergies.
To make things worse, it was during a time when doctors did not really accept that food allergies were real.
Poor Lewis had several allergies as well, one thing in particular was oranges. His lips would swell something terrible.

Hilda and I spent time together on the weekends and she took me places, along with her friend Ruth.
We had such fun together and had many laughs and good times. I appreciate her being so kind to me, especially since that time was so difficult for me.

Sometimes God knows just what you need in your life and he sends you a very close relationship. More of a 'Mother-Daughter ' bond than just an 'Aunt-Niece bond '.

My Aunt was more of an angel to me than an Aunt. I cherish those times we spent together.

Sometimes we sang together in the car on the way home from places. Oh how, I enjoyed that! Sometimes we just talked, sometimes nothing much was said, but that was alright , too. It takes a special relationship to be comfortable with nothing said at all. I had that with Hilda and still do. We are cut from the same bolt of ‘Maudie’ cloth, I guess you could say.

Sometimes I will just spontaneously do something that even cracks me up..something outlandish and comical..I just have to laugh out loud, because I know that is the Maudie in me coming out. Hilda and I have that in common for sure. Pretty bad when you crack your own self up... :-)

Hilda and I went up to the mountains, early on , in my search for the family tree. We wound up in the library and we came across the Toe River Valley book and we found several mentions of the Arrowood family in it. We found Spencer Arrowood and the mention of his great granddaughter, the writer, Sharyn McCrumb. We were so excited we could hardly stand it. Every new find has to be told to my Aunt Hilda, for sure. I saw then and there what the search for the family meant to her and we bonded once again, kindred spirits.

Our lives are full of wonderful blessings and highs and we have all had our share of sadness and lows, but Hilda remains steadfast through it all. A testament to the lady she is.

We both love to laugh. (Even at ourselves!)
We both love red, ripe, tomatoes. (And Cucumbers)
We both love chicken dumplings. (Sweet Robin did, too!)
We both love music. We can tap a toe to most anything.
We both love growing things and of course, we love our flowers.
And we both love those Maypops.
I love our family and it’s history, and she does, too.

And we both love life.

And let’s face it folks…that is more than enough to know we are Arrowood’s.
And we are definitely related to Maudie.

Thank you for your love and attention during the years, Hilda.
You are one special lady. Special to me and special to a multitude of others. You have made a difference in people’s lives that you don’t fully recognize. A true inspiration.

Sometimes Angels are here on earth, too.

She writes beautiful, heartfelt poetry and gives us all a glimpse into her heart.
Keep writing, Hilda, we love it!

May your Maypop have a fresh bloom everyday , and may your contagious smile, come readily to your sweet face, a mirror of the joy that radiates from you.

I love you, Lady.

Pockets Full Of Love ~

When I was a little girl I kept my pockets full.

My jean pockets were always gritty in the bottom from the "treasures" I had found during the day of play. I found shiny pebbles, seeds (grin), and neat looking rocks, even sticks. Sometimes, in the dirt, I would find a misplaced marble. I like to fancy it was one that my Dad lost when he was just a lad.

Out under the massive tree between Grandma's and Uncle Ben's, there were treasures abounding in the sandy light soil. I found four leafed clovers, from time to time, in the grass, and they would wind up, shriveled beyond recognition, in my pockets along with the other stuff.

Treasures.

My grandpa was forever giving me baubles. I kept a plastic elephant that he had found somewhere, he knew I loved those tiny treasures. Some treasures, the very special ones, would eventually wind up in a cigar box that I kept for such things, a box given to me by my grandpa Wilburn.

I had pockets that were always full, and now that I am grown, I still do. This time my pockets are full of love from my family. I have letters that were written to me from way back, I have sweet emails that I keep in a special electronic folder, and Valentines, from my sweetheart. I have a buckeye, given to me by my Dad.

The latest addition to my 'pocket' in life, has been a tiny, delicate, hanky. Not the kind that men carry in their pockets , but more the kind that a Victorian lady would grace her delicate hand with.

This is no ordinary hanky. This one is filled with love in every stitch. Tiny ornate stitches adorn the hanky. Every stitch is wrought with a selfless compassion for another*s state of heart and life's needs. Prayers are said over these precious hankies and then they are distributed to a heart in need. Prayer changes things, and prayer changes people. Prayer draws us closer to God and closer to each other. Wonderful, blessed prayer.

My precious Aunt Ann makes these prayer cloths for those in need. She does this as service to the Lord, in her church. She lovingly sews the love deep inside of each stitch, where it cannot come out until it is needed. I carry that cloth in my pocket and every time my hand goes into that pocket I feel her love. It encompasses me as if she is there standing right beside me. My pocket will be full for a long, long time.

God bless that sweet Aunt of mine.


I believe that all the good that you cast out among others in this lifetime, is God working in you and through you, and that good is multiplied, before it is sent right back to you. God's precious gift to us. God is good! Our God is love.

Get ready, Ann, there is going to be a "whammy" of good coming your way , one day soon.

Love and blessings to you, Sweet Aunt Ann.

In my pocket is your hanky, filled up with a piece of your heart.

In my pocket it'll stay, and from it, I will never part.

Pockets full of treasures, and pockets full of love.

Pockets full of life's little gifts, all from up above.

The treasures of this earth will soon fall away and wither.

For some, the struggle for earthly treasures, leaves them in a dither.

So let's set our sights for the treasures that are on that distant shore.

Our struggles here will soon be over, and our hearts will hurt, nevermore.

We will all fly up to heaven, on the wings of a precious white dove.

On the wings of a dove, with our pockets full of only love.

Aunt Buna Tribute, By Hilda Arrowood Olive

Aunt Buna was six months shy of her 100th birthday, at her passing.

This loving tribute was written for her by Hilda Arrowood.

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She was quite a lady, so kind and thoughtful, too.
Knew just what words were needed to hear, to see us through.
What a reunion they are having in Heaven, those sisters three,
Praising God and waiting for the rest of their family to see.

Those summer vacations I spent at her house, must have been tough,
she didn't need another " young-un" to wait on, Lord knows she had enough.

Being a preacher's wife was a pretty hard job,
especially if your oldest child was anything like Bob.
I know he loved me because he would plead and beg,
for Mama to let me visit with them, so he could break my leg.

I must have enjoyed it because I kept going back
All the love from her family, that I got, took up the slack.
Don't weep, dear cousins, your Mom is walking the Streets of Gold.
I'm head of the clan now, at only eighty years old.

Your leader is kind of feeble now and on a walker,
But God gave me a wagging tongue, and I've been called a talker.


I love you.
Hilda
May 2010

Aunt Ollie, By Hilda Arrowood Olive

Hilda is the eldest of the children of Lewis William Arrowood and Maude Rose Hull Arrowood. She is almost eighty years old and writing beautiful poems, still. God Bless you Aunt Hilda.





We had a special Aunt down here, but she's an angel now,
Everyone is happy she's home and we will get along, somehow.
What a time she's having with her sisters and her Lord.
She enjoyed living and never seemed bored.
I'll never forget her saying, "Stop and smell the coffee", to me,
she knew we needed to slow down to look for all the beauty to see.
Her two sons are special and she loved them so,
And her grandchildren would have been the reason,
for her not wanting to go.
She planned a birthday party for me, such plans she did make,
While running up the stairs, she fell and her elbow went through the cake.

She had many nieces, but I was first to come along,
she loved me dearly and according to her, I could do no wrong.
Most of her life, she lived with Grandpa and Grandma Hull,
when we all went to visit, it was anything but dull.
We were so blessed to be part of a family like that,
she was so pretty dressed up and sometimes, she wore a hat.
The movie stars of her day, they could not compare,
everyone who saw her, could not help but stare.
She was the baby of the family, but to me she was a queen.
Her sweet smile, black hair, and the prettiest face I have ever seen.
She would say to us, get ready, to come live on that beautiful shore.
When our time comes to cross over, she will be waiting inside the door.

Planting Seeds

Now seeds are just dimes to the man in the store
And the dimes are the things that he needs,
And I've been to buy them in seasons before
But have thought of them merely as seeds;
But it flashed through my mind as I took them this time,
"You purchased a miracle here for a dime."

- Edgar A. Guest, A Package of Seeds

My Dad loved to grow things.

He loved to plant and watch things grow from tiny seeds.
He planted a garden each and every spring. I walked behind him as he laid out the rows, always straight, amazingly straight. We planted sweet potato slips in the silky powdery loam in the garden beside my grandparent’s house one year. We worked nearly all day, preparing the soil and carefully placing the tender slips. I remember my toes were blackened with the soil of countless trips up and down those rows.

Not to mention the granny necklaces that were forming, ring after ring, on my neck. I was a kid and dirt did not matter much. Strangely enough, I still do not mind it. I would happily shuck my nice “work” high heeled shoes and nylons for an afternoon in the soft, cool , earth of a newly plowed garden.

My Dad passed that love on to me and I am so grateful.

I get this hankering to plant some seeds and start digging when the weather begins to turn warmer. The smell inside of my little greenhouse is like a tonic to me. I breathe deep, filling my lungs upon entering it. The smell of the earth is so satisfying to me.

Russ’ son, Chance, once got a Christmas present from his Dad that really wasn't what he wanted, but the gift was filled with love from his father. I was trying to explain that his Dad meant well with the gift, and I asked Chance , “Well, take me for instance, now what in the world would you give me, that you are absolutely sure I would want?”. Chance answered me without skipping a beat, “Why of course, I would get you some SEEDS!”

Out of the mouth of a babe….that realization struck me soundly.. He was so RIGHT! Seeds are perfect for me. Perfect for me and my Dad. Dad would pull up something interesting or find a nice plant at an abandoned house, left on a windowsill and to me, it would promptly come. Pieces of cactus’ or a cutting, whatever it was, it was welcome, and Dad knew that.

That is why the Maypops are so special to me. Maypops and the story that Dad taught me.
We would scour the ditches at our river cabin for those wonderful smelling flowers. Always bringing a smile to my Dad’s face, I would come clutching one in my small chubby fist. Holding it up for Daddy to see.

I planted my garden this spring, scaled back from the garden’s of yesteryear, but special to me, just the same.
George, My Dad in law, (my other Dad) loved to garden too, and we planted way too many tomato plants each and every year. But it was so much fun. Something we did together. Every year I would watch with anticipation , that first red, ripe, tomato and every year it would simply disappear one day while I was not looking.
George got it . And that was fine.. It still makes me smile to think of it. Grin. Tomato snitcher right in my own back yard. Grin.

I grow things out of love. Love that was instilled in me from the time I could walk.
That love was shown to me as I walked behind the plow, dropping the seeds into the soft earth, with tiny fingers, carefully counting out how many.

I can still hear Dad whistling as he went along the rows.

That love was shown to me as I watched my Dad take the fresh vegetables around to our neighbors , those unable to garden themselves. I watched, and I learned, and I grew.

I grow things, and as I grow things, I grow myself, just a little.

Thanks, Dad.





When I see that first, tiny, curled up, pale green, wisp
of a sprout poking up between a couple of grains of
soil , I hear God speaking.



He who plants a seed,
Beneath the sod;
And waits to see -
Believes in God.

- Author Unknown