First off, as the picture at left shows, "Wick's End" is a farm, not a candle shop. Nor did I mean to type "wit's end", although I've been there more times than I care to admit. Truth is, the name is historical, not a temporary mental condition.

A hundred years ago a family named Wickersham homesteaded a section of land on a dead end road. To distinguish them from the Wickershams a couple roads over that wasn't a dead end, locals shortened "Wickersham's on the dead end road" to "Wick's End" and it stuck. Even after the other Wickershams sold out and moved to California after one particularly bad winter. Or maybe Florida.

Either way, they bought an orange grove, and for years, a week before Christmas the family that bought their farm would get a box of oranges. Which irritated the mailman no end. Said he didn't mind risking life and limb on icy country roads to deliver "normal" packages at Christmastime, but it was downright inconsiderate to expect him to muscle a "ton" of oranges in and out of the truck. (So much for 'neither rain nor snow'...) Mighta changed his tune if the lucky recipients had thought to reward him with a orange (or six) for his trouble. Bah humbug.

Anyway, being a farmer doesn't guarantee a man will have sons, or if he does that they'll live long enough to produce grandsons to inherit the family farm. World War II and Korea eliminated the sons of Wick's End, only one of whom had the good sense (or misfortune) to marry and reproduce before going off to defend his country. As did his son, who died in a POW camp in Viet Nam.

Which is how I, the former ImaDell Wickersham, inherited Wick's End.

A fellow named Royal Winterbottom had been one of Mama's hired hands and as often happens, "Roy" and I took a shine to each other. No hanky-panky in the hayloft, mind you. Heaven's no! Mama would've skinned him alive, and then me right after. To make sure there was no hanky-panky when Roy took me to drive-in movies the summer we were courting, she went along and sat between us! It's a wonder we got married after all that, but we did. Mama even stayed in town with the old pastor and his wife so our friends could chivaree us at the farm on our wedding night.

Roy passed away too a few years ago, and in the part of Iowa that isn't Des Moines - meaning most of this great state - winters give a person a lot of time to ponder how people and situations affect one another (and me). Which is to say I've reached the age where certain things (and certain people) infuriate me no end. The current minister, Pastor Fairthy Well, recommended I see a therapist to work on my "issues" as he calls them, or take a long cruise. A cruise in the present economy? Dream on.

It was my grandson who said blogging could be therapeutic (and much cheaper than a therapist or a cruise).

So here I am.

Oh, and here's a snapshot of what we grow here at Wick's End, but if you squint your eyes just so, you'll have a good idea of what I see in the mirror every morning before I've had my first cup of coffee.

Can't guarantee a post every day. Depends on how often things get my blhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifoomers in a knot and when we can cohttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifnnect to the internet out here.

Until next time,
Ima@Wick's End

"Is this Heaven? No, it's Iowa."
(line from the movie Field of Dreams)
Photo by Helen Gunderson. Visit Helen's blog.