Mass Mortality Events, Strandings of 260+ Dolphins Since February Along Gulf Coast

Mass deaths of dolphins have occurred along the coastal regions of the Gulf of Mexico. Not just any region though. The main regions where the dolphins have been stranded and died are areas that were affected the most by the Deepwater Horizon oil spill in 2010. Other factors, including an excess of freshwater from the Mississippi, are also said to have contributed to the event.

Detailed coverage: Stranding of 261 dolphins, possibly linked to high Mississippi River, declared ‘unusual mortality event’ - NOLA.com, The Times-Picayune

The stranding of more than 261 bottlenose dolphins along the Gulf Coast from Louisiana to the Florida Panhandle since Feb. 1, with 98 percent of the dolphins being found dead, prompted NOAA Fisheries to declare an unusual mortality event on Friday.

More regarding the Unusual Mortality Event, declared by the NOAA's National Marine Fisheries Service - Southeast Region: https://wwl.radio.com/articles/more-260-dead-dolphins-found-along-gulf-coast

This declaration allows an investigative team to look into the high number of dolphin deaths stretching from Louisiana through the Florida panhandle.

Dr. Terri Rowles, NOAA Fisheries Coordinator, has issued a statement informing the public what to do if they come into contact with any stranded mammals.

There's a number of factors that well be looking at as part of this investigation, but its too early at this point to say what may be causing the mortalities, said Dr. Erin Fougeres with NOAA Fisheries Southeast Region.

The area where the dolphins have shown an increase of deaths includes the area where the Deepwater Horizon Explosion impacted the gulf in 2010.

Myths about Osceola of the Seminole

Osceola, the Man and the Myths

The most famous painting of Osceola by George Catlin. 
George Catlin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Over the last few years of doing the educational programs and living history, I have been trying to put to rest some of the myths surrounding our favorite Seminole, Osceola. Problem is, there has been so much written about him from the very beginning that is just not true. Other people read these things, and not knowing any better, copy them down, and the myths are perpetuated. Without doing any further study, people just don't know any better. So what I will do here is try and expose some of these widely believed falsehoods. Keep in mind that even some of these are debatable, and you may have a different opinion.

If looking for facts, avoid novels that are nothing more than historical fiction. Even before he died, newspapers were writing fictional accounts of Osceola. The problem is that many people read these fictional accounts and believe them as fact.

The absolute worst book that you should avoid is "War Chief of the Seminoles" by May McNeer. Her book claims to be from true stories in her family history, but 80 percent of it can be easily proved false by historical documentation. It is a children's book, and easy to read. Problem is that people read this book and assume it is true without checking other historical sources. McNeer is descended from Indian Agent Wiley Thompson, who we know was made Indian agent for the single purpose of removing the Seminoles from Florida. Thompson treated the Seminoles very badly and told them that they were nothing more than ignorant children. When a white man would have a grievance against an Indian, Thompson would usually side with the white man even when the evidence favored the Indian. Osceola finally executed Thompson for revenge of Thompson's bad treatment of Osceola and the Seminoles.

False: Osceola was born in Georgia near the Chattahoochee River.

What the Facts Show: Osceola was born of the Upper Creek Town of Tallassee, in southeast Alabama, in 1804. A prominent early Alabama statesman, Thomas Woodward, was himself part Creek, and intimately knew many of the Creek families. Woodward described the exact location Osceola was born. Osceola was of a band started by James McQueen. McQueen jumped ship in Charleston in the late 1690s and became a well-respected trader among the Creeks, and lived to be 128 years old. McQueen had many children, and was practically the Father Abraham of the Creeks, known as "the soft-shelled turtle."

False: Osceola's name means "Rising Sun."

What the Facts Show: The correct name would be Asi-Yaholo. It is from the words Asi, referring to the Black Drink, and Yaholo, as one who sings out. So it roughly translates to "Black Drink Singer." Yaholo is a title. Many of the Seminole names are their title in society. It is not uncommon for Creeks and Seminoles to have four different names. A title, a personal name, a name as a child, and a private name. Thomas Woodward calls Osceola, "Ussa Yoholo." At the same time, Woodward also mentions a warrior named "Hossa Yoholo," who was with Peter McQueen (son of James McQueen who became leader of the band after his father.) Both Peter McQueen and Hossa Yoholo fought against Jackson. Hossa Yoholo was known as "Singing Sun," and also had a father named Powell, but would have been about 15 or 20 years older than Osceola. The Muskogee word for sun is HvsE (Hus-E'), and the word for "Sun Rise" is Hvseaossv (Hus'-E-aos'-suh.) It is easy to see where the confusion has come from. To complicate things even more, I have found reference to four different people named William Powell who lived during that time. One is buried in the national military cemetery at Fort Gibson, Oklahoma.

Osceola from the McKenney-Hall prints.
SMU Central University Libraries [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons

False: An Englishman named Powell was Osceola's father.

What the Facts Show: This is probably the most debatable of my points on this page. It is well accepted that Osceola was of mixed English and Creek race. But how much of each different ancestry is debatable. Lt. M.M. Cohen wrote in 1836 that Osceola had a Creek Indian father who died soon after Osceola's birth and that William Powell married Osceola's mother soon after. Many claimed that Osceola did not speak English, further proving that he was not Powell's biological son. (But that is a point that is debatable as well.) George Catlin who painted Osceola quoted him as claiming that, "No foreign blood runs in my veins; I am a pure-blood Muscogee." Genetic tests done on what is thought to be Osceola's hair did not answer the question either but pointed to someone of mixed race. Whoever Osceola was, from Indian, white, or even black ancestry, he was 100 percent Seminole.

False: Osceola was a chief.

What the Facts Show: He was not a hereditary chief. He led by his own charisma, bravery in battle, and outspoken views against removal. He commanded at most 100 warriors. Many officers have stated that Osceola only led a small group. In Seminole society, Osceola was a war leader, not a political leader. Much like a general or sheriff. He gained recognition during the 1834 treaty talks as having great influence over Chief Micanopy. The Florida Seminoles and Miccosukees credit Medicineman Sam Jones (Abiaka) for carrying the cause against removal. There was no one "Head Chief" of the Indians in Florida. In fact, the largest single faction of Seminoles at the beginning of the war fled to Fort Brooke and accepted removal over fighting.

False: Osceola fought against Andrew Jackson.

What the Facts Show: Jackson's major campaign against the Creeks and Seminoles were in 1813, 1814, and 1818. Osceola would have been too young to be a warrior at this time. There is a possibility that Osceola and the people of his village did meet or were briefly captured by Jackson in 1814 and 1818. Most likely people confuse Osceola with Hossa Yoholo, who also had a father named Powell and fought with Peter McQueen.

False: Osceola's Black wife was captured by a slave hunter.

What the Facts Show: There is no written eyewitness account of this ever happening. Indian Agent Wiley Thompson makes no mention of it in his letters. If it did happen, I am sure the war would have started much earlier. The story became popular long after Osceola's death when it appeared in a questionable abolitionist pamphlet. Osceola himself said that he had no slaves. And at Osceola's capture, the question posed to him is "Why have you not surrendered any escaped slaves?" There was another Indian, Econchatti Micco in north Florida, who did have a wife captured by slave hunters, and whom had a son known as Oceola Nikkanochee.

Sketch of Osceola from Dr. Andrew Welch's 1841 book: http://www.johnhorse.com/highlights/keyimgs/details/05.8_r.htm

False: Osceola thrust his knife in a treaty.

What the Facts Show: This is our favorite story, but even this might not have happened. After searching through many eyewitness accounts and government documents, I find nobody who says this ever happened. Indian Agent Wiley Thompson makes no mention of it, and he detailed much of what happened at the talks. It is only logical that he would have written about it since he makes a big fuss over the Seminoles leaders who did not even approach the table to sign the treaty. The closest thing we have to an eyewitness account is an anonymous letter written to a newspaper, which says Osceola made threatening looks and flashed his knife outside the window of the building during the talks. Those who first make mention of the knife in the treaty are those who were not even in Florida during the time. Dr. Andrew Welch first mentions it in his 1841 romantically written book, but his book is full of historical errors. There is a sketch in the book of the event, but this was printed in England. John Sprague mentions it in a footnote in his 1848, making it look like he was not sure of the incident. A book written in 1931 has a copy of what is claimed to be a copy of the treaty, but on closer examination, it is only a small rip and not something made by a knife being thrust strongly into the paper. One thing we can conclude is that this story is a symbol of the resistance and struggle to stay in Florida. It is an image that represents an ideal. It is a story much like George Washington and the cherry tree, which is well loved but does not have any historical basis. Even now knowing this, it is still one of our favorite stories.

False: While in captivity, Osceola went to Washington and New York. 

What the Facts Show: This is one of the most ridiculous stories that I have heard. Osceola never traveled further north than Charleston, South Carolina.

False: Osceola attended theater productions while in St. Augustine or Charleston, S.C.

What the Facts Show: There is no record of this. Osceola was captured in October 1837. He was ill from the time of his capture and only got worse until he died. He was too ill to escape from the fort in St. Augustine when 20 Seminoles escaped in November. At the end of December around New Year's Day, the prisoners in St. Augustine were moved to Fort Moultrie, outside Charleston, South Carolina. Osceola was very ill at this time and died in late January 1838.

See page for author [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

See page for author [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Article Mirrored From http://web.archive.org/web/19991225112058/http://www.geocities.com/CollegePark/Stadium/1528/osceola.html

Read more archived articles at http://web.archive.org/web/20010720080931/http://www.geocities.com:80/CollegePark/Stadium/1528/. Especially under the section: "Stray articles not in the tour book".

Sources Used (good and bad ones):
The Complete Story of Osceola, a reprint by the St. Augustine Historical Society of the Florida Historical Quarterly Osceola Double Issue, Vol. XXXIII, Jan.-Apr. 1955, No. 3 & 4.
Seminole Hostilities, U.S. House Doc. No. 271, 24th Congress, 1st Session, June 3, 1836.
Woodward's Reminiscences by Thomas S. Woodward, 1859.
Osceola's Legacy by Patricia R. Wickman, 1991.
Army and Navy Chronicles, journal published 1835-1842.
New American State Papers, Military Affairs, 1979, 19 Vol. Set.
New American State Papers, Indian Affairs, 1972, 13 Vol. Set.
Notices of Florida and the Campaigns, by M.M. Cohen, 1836.
The Origin, Progress, and Conclusion of the Florida War by John T. Sprague, 1848.
A Narrative of the Early Days and Remembrances of Oceola Nikkanochee, Prince of Econchatti by Andrew Welch, 1841.
The Exiles of Florida by Joshua Giddings, 1858.
Osceola; Florida's Seminole War Chieftain by Minnie Moore-Wilson, 1931.
War Chief of the Seminoles by May McNeer, 1954.

Paeonia Tenuifolia - Intense Crimson Fernleaf Peony

Paeonia tenuifolia is a perennial flower that is better known as the fern leaf peony. This variety of peony has a crimson color to it that is similar to what you'd see with heirloom red roses. It is a plant that will typically be one to two feet tall early in the growing season. Paeonia tenuifolia blooms earlier than other varieties of peonies and can flower all summer, into autumn, but will sometimes go dormant in mid-summer.

Paeonia tenuifolia can be grown in zones 4 through 7 and will begin blooming in June.

Flower Paeonia tenuifolia in Prague botanic garden, Czech Republic - Karelj [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Paeonia tenuifolia is the perfect ornamental flower

Paeonia tenuifolia has a few flowers that are excellent for growing as a companion. These flowers include similarly intense colored rose varieties and colors (per your choice), Jackman's Clematis, Carnations, and Chrysanthemums. Even other Paeonia tenuifolia, such as the pink shades of Rosea and Rosea Plena, are good too The choice is up to you though. Many perennials that enjoy full sun to partial shade, like the fern leaf peony does, make for a great companion flower.

Paeonia tenuifolia care

In early spring you should start watering the flowers if there isn't enough rainfall to do the watering for you. In late spring it's best to remove flower heads that are dead or look like they are dying. You should also remove fallen petals and flower heads from around the flowering plant. In the summer, it is also best to keep the flowers watered if need be.

When the flower has died back in the fall it is best to cut back the foliage of the plant and remove from the flower bed. This is to prevent pests from surviving over the winter. It may sound extreme but you should cut them back to ground level.

Very useful, detailed pages about Paeonia tenuifolia can be found at http://www.peonies.org/P_tenuifolia.html and https://davesgarden.com/guides/pf/go/62914/

Purchase Paeonia tenuifolia here - click to see customer reviews.

Other varieties of peonies can be seen at these pages:

Van Zyverden Peonies

Mixed Peony Value Bag

Sequoyah Caverns - Valley Head, Alabama

Sequoyah Caverns and Ellis Homestead, closed since 2013, was a popular destination in DeKalb County, Alabama. The cave was named for Sequoyah in 1963. There is no evidence that he visited the caves but they were home to some of the Creek and Cherokee since archaeological evidence was found in the caves beginning in the 1840s. Some of these artifacts were on display in the main building.

They held seasonal events such as Nativity performances called Winter of Glory from December 21st-24th. Other events they held included Fall into the Past, a Civil War re-enactment that took place in November, a Spring Festival, and Summer Blast on the 4th of July, with fireworks and bluegrass music.

Better descriptions of the events that they held:

Fall into the Past
Relive history at our spectacular Civil War
re-enactments that take place for several days every November.

Winter of Glory
Join us for our live nativity scene event December 21st through the 24th every year.

Spring Festival
Come witness the powerful world of tractors, engines & machinery every Spring. Also, enjoy great music & crafts.

Summer Blast 
Let the excitement of fireworks & bluegrass music warm your soul every 4th of July.

History of the Sequoyah Caverns and the Ellis Homestead

from https://web.archive.org/web/20130508082251/http://sequoyahcaverns.com/history.htm

James Ellis moved his family to Valley Head, Alabama from Tennessee back in 1841. He and his family built a log cabin and later a frame house where the campground is today. The cabin was 

later moved and used for another home 

on the farm.

In these pioneer days, the Ellis Family had to be tough and worked hard to cut farmland out of a wilderness. This hard work allowed the family to accumulate hundreds of acres of land, including what is today Sequoyah Caverns.

During The War Between the States, the Ellis family was divided, just like the nation itself.  James, a 2nd Lt. in the Union army, died from a camp disease in 1863. He is buried at the Chickamauga Battlefield. Four of his sons also served in the war. Three of his sons fought for the Union and one fought for the Confederacy. Only two of the sons survived the war. Mrs. Ellis had one son, Abner, who was too young to fight. 

Although times were hard after the war, the farm began to prosper again. By the turn of the century, the Ellis family was relatively well off. They were growing corn, cotton, wheat, and oats, making sorghum, and raising sheep and cattle.

Today, the direct descendants of James Ellis still live here welcoming visitors from all over the world who come to explore the Ellis Homestead and see Sequoyah Caverns.

Original Settler: James Ellis, 

Born 1806, moved here in 1841, died 1863

Son: Abner Jackson Ellis, 

Born here 1847-1900

Granddaughter: Harriet Saphronia Ellis, 

Lived here 1870-1935, married John Humble

Great Granddaughter: Abbie Jane Humble, 

Lived here 1904-1977, married Roy Lee Jones

G. Great Grandson: John David Jones, 

1933- Present, Owner of the farm, working with 

his son, Roy

G.G. Great Grandson: Roy Lee Jones II, 

1964- Present Running day-to-day operations

G.G.G. Great Granddaughter: Rebecca Jones, 

1989- Works today as a tour guide

G.G.G. Great Grandson: John Paul Jones, 

1991- Works today on the farm

---

Links:

5 discoveries about Sequoyah Caverns from its final public tours (Odd Travels with gallery)
Sequoyah Caverns - Flickr
Sequoyah Caverns - Geocaching.com
Who was Sequoyah and why were the DeKalb County caverns named for him?
The final days of Sequoyah Caverns popular; Alabama natural wonder set to close to public (with video)
Valley Head, Alabama: Sequoyah Caverns (Closed)

Legacy of the Mound Builders - Short Documentary

This 17-minute documentary was filmed in Ohio and covers the subject of the mounds located in the Ohio River Valley. Mounds which were built up by the Hopewell culture from around 200 BC until 500 AD. The Hopewell were preceded by the Adena culture. (Cultures that succeeded the Hopewell)

Thousands of mounds were built between these two cultures. Sadly, many of which have been damaged or destroyed due to carelessness while researching them, damaged for the use as materials for building foundations for homes, and in 2009, damaged to provide for fill for Sam's Club in Oxford, Alabama.

The last records of these mounds being built were in the 1600s.

Watch: The Legacy of the Mound Builders

Why and How did Native Americans Build Mounds

Heironymous Rowe at English Wikipedia [CC BY-SA 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons

Social Relations In Our Southern States - Chapter VII: Poor White Trash

This post contains an excerpt from the 1860 book "Social Relations In Our Southern States" by

Daniel Robinson Hundley. The title of the chapter that this text is from is titled, "Poor White Trash."

The chapter tells of how the slave owners, and the Southern elite, viewed poor whites in the Confederate south. Including being the views of the author himself. These Southern elites, the slave owners, the plantation owners, had a view that 'poor white trash' were worthless. They were looked down upon for living in rural areas instead of near plantations. They, the "white trash", wanted to be left alone. On the other hand, Southern elites wanted everything to be their business and for the benefit of their "business". These specific poor whites wanted no part of participating in slave ownership either since most of them were against it. All in all, If the Southern elite could have gotten away with it, they would've also enslaved poor whites.

The views of the Southern elite were purposeful in dehumanizing the poor white trash. They held such views to try and justify their own wickedness. To justify, in their own minds, their gains made off of slavery. That and their gains made from all sorts of atrocities against poor whites and especially slaves. It was this truth that Nat Turner understood during his slave rebellion. He spared poor whites from their actions. Turner and his fellow men saved their actions for those families who owned slaves.

Book Excerpt:

Every where they are just alike, possess pretty much the same characteristics, the same vernacular, the same boorishness, and the same habits; although in different localities, they are known by different names. Thus, in the extreme South and South-west, they are usually called Squatters; in the Carolinas and Georgia Crackers or Sandhillers; in the Old Dominion, Rag Tag and Bob-tail; in Tennessee and some other States, People in the Barrens--but every where, Poor White Trash, a name said to have originated with the slaves, who look upon themselves as much better off than all "po' white folks" whatever.

To form any proper conception of the condition of the Poor White Trash, one should see them as they are. We do not remember ever to have seen in the New-England States a similar class; though, if what a citizen of Maine has told us be true, in portions of that State the Poor Whites are to be found in large numbers. In the State of New-York, however, in the rural districts, we will venture to assert that more of this class of paupers are to be met with than you will find in any single Southern State. For in examining the statistics of pauperism, as prepared by the Secretary of State for New-York, we learn that the number of her public paupers, permanent and temporary, is set down as 468,302--to support whom requires an annual outlay of one million and a half of dollars, which has to be raised by tax for the purpose. They are also found in Ohio, Pennsylvania, Indiana, and all the States of the North-west, though in most of these last they came originally from the South.

But every where, North and South, in Maine or Texas, in Virginia or New-York, they are one and the same; and have undoubtedly had one and the same origin, namely, the poor-houses and prison-cells of Great Britain. Hence we again affirm, what we asserted only a moment ago, that there is a great deal more in blood than people in the United States are generally inclined to believe.

Now, the Poor White Trash are about the only paupers in our Southern States, and they are very rarely supported by either the State or parish in which they reside; nor have we ever known or heard of a single instance in the South, in which a pauper was farmed out by the year to the lowest or highest bidder, (whichever it be,) as is the custom in the enlightened States of New-England. Moreover, the Poor White Trash are wholly rural; hence, the South will ever remain secure against any species of agrarianism, since such mob violence always originates in towns and cities, wherein are herded together an unthinking rabble, whom Dryden fitly describes as,

                         "The scum
                         That rises up most, when the nation boils."

The Poor Whites of the South live altogether in the country, in hilly and mountainous regions generally, in communities by themselves, and far removed, from the wealthy and refined settlements. Why it is they always select the hilly, and consequently unproductive districts for their homes, we know not. It can not be, however, as urged by the abolitionists, because the slaveholders have seized on all the fertile lands; for it is well known, that some of the most inexhaustible soils in the South have never yet felt the touch of the ploughshare in their virgin bosoms, and are still to be had at government prices. Neither can it be pleaded in behalf of the Poor White Trash, that they object to labor by the side of slaves (see note 1); for, as we have already shown, the Southern Yeomanry, who, as a class, are poor, work habitually in company with negroes, and usually prefer to own a homestead in the neighborhood of wealthy planters. We apprehend, therefore, that it is a natural feeling with Messrs. Rag Tag and Bobtail--an idiosyncrasy for which they themselves can assign no good reason--why they delight to build their pine-pole cabins among the sterile sand hills, or in the very heart of the dismal solitude of the burr-oak or pine barrens. We remember to have heard an overseer who had spent some time among the Sandhillers, relate something like the following anecdote of a youthful Bobtail whom he persuaded to accompany him out of the hill-country into the nearest alluvial bottoms, where there was any number of extensive plantations in a high state of cultivation, which will aptly illustrate this peculiarity of the class. So soon as the juvenile Bobtail reached the open country, his eyes began to dilate, and his whole manner and expression indicated bewilderment and uneasiness. "Bedadseized!" exclaimed he at last, " ef this yere ked'ntry haint got nary sign ov er tree! How in thunder duz folks live down yere? By G-o-r-j! this beats all that Uncle Snipes tells about Carlina. Tell yer what, I'm goin' ter make tracks fur dad's--yer heer my horn toot!" And he did make tracks for dad's, sure enough.

And the biggest reason that the materialistic Southern elites despised the "poor white trash":

Panics, financial pressures, and the like, are unknown amongst them, and about the only crisis of which they know any thing, is when a poor fellow is called upon to "shuffle off this mortal coil." Money, in truth, is almost a perfectly unknown commodity in their midst, and nearly all of their trafficking is carried on by means of barter alone. In their currency a cow is considered worth so much, a horse so much, a dog so much, a fat buck so much, a wild-turkey so much, a coon-skin so much, et cetera, et cetera; and by these values almost every thing else is rated. Dollars and dimes, or pounds, shillings and pence, they never bother their brains any great deal about.

This chapter, as well as the book, was openly pro-slavery propaganda. See this paragraph on how the author describes educated poor whites:

But if, after he has gained the knowledge and social position to which he so ardently aspires, and has thereby become the pride of his doting old mother and the boast of his hard-working father; he still continues to harbor in his bosom resentment against those whom fortune favored more than himself in the outset of life, and secretly entertains proposals from the deadliest enemies of his native land merely because of such personal spite, to gratify which he also lends himself to aid the schemes of Northern abolitionists; where is there an honest man who would not utterly loathe and despise his meanness of soul? We know he may delude himself into the belief, that the social position of his father as well as that of his mother's family connection is due mainly to the institution of slavery; but is this an excuse for treason? Is it any excuse for his wishing to deprive other men of their property, or for his aiding to stir up a servile insurrection, hoping to see the roofs of his supposed enemies blazing at midnight and tumbling in upon the devoted inmates, while the emancipated blacks are dancing savagely around the ruins in the delirium of a brutal joy?

This chapter above, much like the book, is an attempt to justify slavery. Furthermore, it also outlines the view that the Southern elite, including the author, held the view that "poor white trash" should be afforded the same human rights. Practically saying that they weren't "white" (aka the idea of whiteness) as it were, other than the tone of their skin. All because the majority of poor whites were against slavery.

By their acts and their views, most poor whites were anti-slavery. The lies of the classist author falsely states that the majority, if not all, poor whites were pro-slavery. When, in reality, it was the southern yeomen who were pro-slavery. Especially since they profited off of living near slave owners and their plantations. On the other hand, the "poor white trash" purposefully lived far from the slave owners to not play a part in their actions. 

This book was part of attempts by Southern elites who tried to turn poor whites and slaves against each other. Mainly to create a buffer for themselves (the elites). It was a defense of their inhuman practice as pressure mounted against slavery. Which, as history tells, the buffer failed. Slave rebellion leaders like Nat Turner didn't fall for it. Neither did the unknown numbers of poor whites, out of the ~100,000 Union Army southern whites total, who fought on behalf of the Union Army during the Civil War. 

If you want to read the whole chapter or the whole book: Full digital book available for free on Internet Archive (archive.org)

Biography on Daniel Hundley and a shorter biography here which says that his father was a slaveowner.and names family members. Another biographical entry, from an ebay listing, saying that Hundley married his first cousin. The biographical book is also available on Amazon.

Notes:

Note 1: This is not because they were racist. Far from it since they were, by and far, opponents of slavery and southern secession. It was because they knew the game of the yeomen go-alongs and especially the slave owners. The wealthy slave owners saw the "poor white trash" as potential sources of a re-imagined, re-invented, and reintroduced indentured servitude. Which the "poor white trash" was wise to from hearing the stories of the older generations of their families that were indentured servants. 

Delta Blues Documentary: Willie Foster - Greenville, Mississippi (1994)

Blues singer Willie Foster in Greenville, Mississippi, interview from 1994 (possibly mid-September), sharing his experiences involving the beginnings of his blues career and other experiences.

Excerpted from the documentary, Delta Blues.

From IMDB: "Delta Blues is a one hour music/video documentary tracing the living history of the blues through the rich brown dirt of the Mississippi Delta, and through the lives of these traditional bluesmen."

The full documentary is 60 minutes long. Unfortunately, at this moment, there are no physical copies of this documentary for sale, as of this writing, just a "Currently unavailable." entry on Amazon. So these youtube videos are the only source as of now.

More about Willie Foster

Watch more excerpts from the Delta Blues documentary and similar blues videos/interviews from the RawBluesTV youtube channel

Christmas 2018 Holiday Livestreams by Mree

These are the live streams that the singer Mree did leading up to Christmas. To sum it up: her voice is amazing and beautiful.

More about her from Wikipedia:

Marie Hsiao, best known as Mree, is an indie folk singer-songwriter from New Jersey. She is of Taiwanese and Bulgarian descent. Mree began writing her own songs at the age of 14 and released her debut album, Grow, in October 2011. The album debuted at #18 on the iTunes Singer/Songwriter Chart.

Blues Singer Willie J. Foster's Garden

R.I.P.: Willie J. Foster September 21, 1921 - May 20, 2001

Willie J. Foster in his back yard.

The afternoon of Friday, May 15, 1998, started with nothing for me to do. Around 8 pm that night I planned to see harp master Willie J. Foster at the B & B Quick Mart, but 2 pm found me driving aimlessly around Greenville. I found myself where Nelson Street meets the levee. I hadn't been on Nelson Street in more than a year, so I turned the Bluesmobile right, east, and headed down Nelson Street, thinking I'd drive by Perry Payton's Flowing Fountain Lounge just to see if it was still there.

It was, and I also saw Perry's big Buick outside the front door. Thinking the joint might be open at such an early hour, I slowed my big Bluesmobile and looked closely.

Through the screen door, I could see inside the building. The joint was open. I parked the Bluesmobile and went inside.

Perry was alone inside the building. We greeted each other warmly, then he served me a soft drink and sat beside me on an adjacent bar stool. After a minute during which he mostly bitterly complained about the casinos taking the money of his customers, the screen door opened and a middle aged black woman walked quickly inside and sat on the stool on the other side of Perry.

In addition to the Flowing Fountain, Perry operates a funeral home. I kept my mouth shut while Perry explained in detail to the woman all the intricacies of the white man's legal system as it pertained to the affairs of her recently departed mother. During that conversation, which I let go in one of my ears and out the other ear because it was none of my business (except that Perry's funeral home had not handled the funeral arrangements for the recently departed), a thought struck me--white people pay good money to bad lawyers for information that some black people get from their bartender for nothing.

The system explained, the woman exited as quickly as she had entered. Perry and I continued our conversation. "So," he said, "you're gonna see Willie Foster tonight, huh?"

"Yeah. Out at the B & B out by the festival grounds. That's the only place I've ever seen Willie--at the festival. And a long time ago I saw him at a white people bar, but the sound system went out."

"He can blow that harp," Perry said. "Never heard better."

"Yeah, he's good. I'm looking forward to hearing him tonight and to meeting him."

"You never met him?"

"No. Never met him."

"Well, hell, why don't you go over to his house and meet him? He'd be glad to see you. That is if he could see you. He's blind."

"Yeah, I know."

"He don't live far from here. Want me to call him?"

So Perry called Willie and then gave me directions to his house. Thus by the coincidence of driving down Nelson Street began one of the most memorable meetings of my life, one I will remember for the rest of my life.

I easily found Willie's modest and neat white frame house and parked the Bluesmobile at the curb beside a white picket fence. There behind a white wooden gate across his driveway stood Willie J. Foster, a tan cordless phone dangling from a black string around his neck, his arms down at his sides and his eyes looking across the gate and toward the road as if looking for me. But, no, I remembered, he's blind.

I got out of the Bluesmobile and walked up to the gate and the elderly black man on the other side. His eyes still looking across the gate and toward the road, I noticed his right foot seemingly searching for something on the ground on his side of the gate. "Hi, Mr. Foster," I said. "I'm Junior Doughty. Glad to meet you."

"Glad to meet you," he returned. "I've heard Bud [Horton] talk about you. Can you see a wire down here on the ground?"

I looked over the gate and at the ground near his feet. "No sir."

"Well, this gate will just have to stay untied. Come on in."

I joined him in his yard and pulled the gate closed behind me.

He nodded his head toward the nearby front porch and said, "Go on in the house."

I stepped up on the porch and waited while he, using an aluminum walker, came across the yard and agonizingly slowly climbed the steps and joined me on the porch. "Go on in," he said again. "Hold the door open for me."

The door, thick glass from top to bottom, had a sturdy metal frame and was covered with black wrought iron burglar bars. I opened it and stepped inside his living room. It was squeaky clean and neat as a pin. To my right I could see through a doorway and inside a bedroom. It was clean and neat and the bed was made. I turned and held the door as Willie Foster slowly came through it. "Lock it," he said as he entered the room and I closed the door.

I locked it and said, "Damn, Mr. Foster, why do you have such a heavy duty front door?"

He made his way slowly to a wheelchair against a wall. "My youngest son," he said as he plopped down in the wheelchair. "He's 18. I just bailed him out of jail. ‘Leave ‘im in there,' everybody told me. But he's my son."

"Yes sir."

"What could I do?"

"I don't know," I answered, wanting to say, If you have to bar your doors to protect yourself from your son, maybe you should have left him in jail. Then I said, "Is it crack?"

"Crack cocaine," Willie said, sweeping his arm angrily around and pointing it toward the kitchen and a back door built exactly like the front door. "That street back there--it's Crack Alley. I tell him, ‘Stay away from that street.' But he doesn't listen to me, he doesn't listen to me, he doesn't listen to me. . . ."

Embarrassed and wanting to change the subject, I said, "Your house sure is clean and neat. Makes mine back in Louisiana look awful. You married?"

"Yes, but me and my wife don't live together. She lives about 4 blocks over. She comes over and takes care of me. We get along better'n any married people I know. Long as she lives over there and I live over here."

"Is she a lot younger than you?"

"She's 41. That's a lot younger than me."

"That's why y'all don't get along." Then, engaging my mouth before I engaged my brain, I said, "You ought to get you a woman close to your own age. Y'all might could live together an' she could take care of you."

"What? I don't want to live with a woman! My wife takes care of me just fine and we don't live together. I don't want an old woman! I like young women."

"Yes sir. How old are you?"

"I was born on September 21, 1921. I'll be 77 my next birthday."

"Yes sir."

"I was born on a cotton sack."

"You what?"

"My mother was picking cotton when I was born. Started having me out in the middle of the field. They spread out a cotton sack and laid her on it. That's where she had me."

"My God."

"Lots of people don't believe that, but it's true. I'm the only child she had. Don't have any brothers or sisters."

I knew Willie Foster was crippled as well as blind, but I didn't know why he was crippled. Sitting near him as he sat in the wheelchair, I could see that his left leg was artificial. It had been amputated slightly above his knee. "Mister Foster, how'd you lose your leg?"

"It got infected when I was on tour in New Zealand in ‘93. We went swimming in the ocean one day, and I stepped on a shell and it cut me between my toes. I pulled it out and threw it away, but a little piece of it must have stayed in there. It got infected, but I didn't worry much about it until it started hurting. Then it started really hurting. When I got back home I went to the VA in Jackson. They tried everything. They'd get the infection stopped, then it'd come back. I never had anything hurt me like that leg did. That went on for 3 years. Awful pain. Then in ‘96 the doctors told me they could give me an antibiotic that might kill me or they could cut off my leg. I said, ‘Cut it off.' Just like that I said, ‘Cut it off.' Didn't think twice about it. And that leg hasn't hurt me since."

Willie chain-smoked menthol cigarettes. He crumpled an empty green pack and reached out his hand and moved it around until he found one of the several ashtrays on the little table beside his wheelchair. Then he wheeled the chair inside the nearby bedroom. I stood and followed him.

He reached the foot of the bed and got out of the wheelchair. Then, carefully and awkwardly and bracing on the bed, he eased around the bed. I stood on one side and watched as he reached the head of the bed on the other side and then, carefully and awkwardly, got on his knees in the floor and started pulling stuff from beneath the bed. Out came his hand, clutching a green carton. He extracted a green package from the carton and stuffed the carton back under the bed, hiding it from his son, I then realized.

At that moment and as that blind and crippled old man started the slow and awkward process of returning to his wheelchair, my throat swelled with emotion--anger at his son and pity for the old man. "Mister Foster, if you'd asked me I would have gotten you a pack of cigarettes. Next time you need something just ask. I'll get it for you, okay? Won't be any bother."

Willie J. Foster in his bedroom

At that moment I watched the old man swell with emotion--anger at me. He stated, "Listen! Everything I can do for myself, I do! I was born doing for myself! No sisters. No brothers. If I fall, then you can help me." He plopped down in the wheelchair, green pack of cigarettes in his hand.

"Yes sir," I said, beginning to admire this old man.

He started wheeling himself back toward the living room. I followed. Nervous, I started to close the bedroom door. "Leave it open," Willie said and pointed toward the top of the door. "Used to when I'd go to bed at night, I'd close the door and prop a cowbell up at the top. If my son came in there at night, it'd fall off and wake me up."

I was stunned. This old man, blind and crippled, went to bed at night afraid his son would sneak in the room and knock him in the head.

"Now," Willie added, "I've got a burglar alarm in there. If he comes in, it goes off and wakes me up."

Willie wheeled his chair beside the living room window. I sat on the nearby couch and watched him smoke a cigarette. I can't describe my emotions at that moment as I watched him outlined by the light from the window behind him. Suddenly, the phone hanging from around his neck rang. A lady from the Smithsonian calling, making arrangements for Willie's upcoming concert at that institution. All I could think about was a cowbell and an 18-year-old boy.

Then Willie needed my help and asked for it. He sent me in his bedroom for an envelope and a marker, a blue marker I must add. I wrote the Smithsonian lady's phone # down on the back of the envelope. "Large numbers," Willie informed me.

When I finished and he hung up the phone, I handed him the envelope and he held the large blue numbers about two inches from his eyes. "Good," he said.

I remembered Willie mentioning the VA Hospital and that he was about my father's age. "Mr. Foster, were you in World War II?"

"4th Battalion, Quartermaster Corps. In England. I drove a truck. You know, the first time I got on stage was in London in 1943 when I was a soldier. One of those shows came. What do you call ‘em?"

"A USO show?"

"That's it. USO. There was three people with that show. Joe Louis. He was the world's greatest boxer. Betty Grable. The most beautiful girl in the world. Billy Eckstine. He had the most beautiful voice in the world. I went there to see Joe Louis. Joe Louis was an inspiration to me. You know, a black man and he was the world's best at what he did."

"Wow, you actually saw Joe Louis?"

"Did more than that. Joe Louis hit me."

"What?"

"The three of them got up there on stage. Joe Louis got up there and---"

"Wait a minute. Did you say that Joe Louis hit you?"

"On my shoulder. Let me finish. Joe Louis got up there, and he boxed around the stage. Betty Grable got up there, and she paraded around and showed us how beautiful she was. Billy Eckstine got up there and sang. When it was over they left the stage and stood along the wall. Then the announcer came out and said if any of us soldiers had a talent, come on up. One guy did the splits. Another guy done the jitterbug. A guy sang. Then the announcer said, ‘Anybody else?' Nobody went up. Then the announcer said, ‘Where's Private Foster? He's always blowing his harmonica.'

Willie showing me a case of harmonicas with a red  tuning letter on the bottom of each harmonica's box.

"My mother sent me that harmonica. Didn't cost her but a quarter. It was a B. Man, I kept that harmonica for years. Finally blowed it out."

"A "B"? Like Bee Brand playing cards?"

"No. Tuned for B. Like B, C, G."

"Oh," I said. "So that announcer said, ‘Where's Private Foster?' huh?"

"Yes. Then the guys around me started pushing me up on that stage. I'd never blowed a harmonica in front of an audience before, especially an audience that big and in front of Joe Louis. I was scared to death. Not only that, I didn't really know but one song--Lionel Hampton's Hamp's Boogie. You ever heard of Lionel Hampton?"

"Yes sir, but not the song."

Willie blowing a "B"

"There was a piano up there, and I walked over to the guy playing it and I asked him if he knew Hamp's Boogie. He did. I told him I'd never been on a stage in my life. He told me not to worry and to just blow and he'd follow me. So I started blowing. That piano player was good. He followed everything I did. The people went crazy. Screaming and yelling. I could see Joe Louis, and he was clapping his hands and yelling. When the song ended, they wouldn't let me leave the stage. They wanted another song.

"I walked over to the piano player and said, ‘That's the only song I know.'

"He said, ‘Play it again.'

"So I played Hamp's Boogie again. Played it a long long time that time. When it ended, I ran off that stage. Guess what? They pushed me back up on that stage. I didn't know what I was gonna play, but I knew I couldn't play Hamp's Boogie again. The only other thing I could do was make that harmonica sound like a train. Wuuuuu wuuuuu wuuuuu. Chug-a chug-a chug-a wuuuuu wuuuuu wuuuuu. Just like a steam train. You know a steam train?"

"Yes sir."

"So I walked over to the piano player and said, ‘I can make this harmonica sound like a train. Can you do a train on that piano?'

"He said, ‘You blow it and I'll follow it. If we don't do it, these people will kill us.'

"So that's what we did. That piano player was great. He could make that piano go clackety clackety clackety just like a train. Those people really went crazy. We went wuuuuu wuuuuu wuuuuu clackety clackety clackety chug-a chug-a chug-a wuuuuu wuuuuu wuuuuu just like a train. We finally had to stop and get off that stage.

"We had to walk by Joe Louis and Betty Grable and Billy Eckstine. They shook our hands. Joe Louis said, ‘That was good, Private Foster. Keep the good work going and you'll be a star someday.'

"And then he tapped me on the shoulder with his fist. Playful like. You know what I mean. A little tap."

"Yes sir. A love tap. Joe Louis was proud of you."

"I was so glad that man put his hand on me."

Willie after the Joe Louis story

Several long silent seconds passed, during which I took the photo on the right. I sat there in awe of a man that Joe Louis actually hit. That man, Willie J. Foster, sat there with the memory going through his mind, reliving it again.

"Mr. Foster? Have you lived in Greenville all your life?"

"No. I left here when I was a young man, ‘bout 18. Went to St. Louis. I'm back now. It's a funny story how I got to St. Louis."

"What happened?"

"There wasn't nothing here but working in a cotton field. I decided to go north. Didn't care where. Just anywhere north. Went down to the train station to get a ticket to anywhere north. There was a white man in front of me in the ticket line. He told the ticket man, ‘Give me a ticket to St. Louis.' When he walked away with his ticket, the ticket man asked me, ‘You want a ticket too?' I said, ‘Yes sir.' When he handed it to me I looked at it and it was to St. Louis. I said, ‘Well, that's as good a place as any. At least it's north.' So I went to St. Louis."

I laughed and said, "Guess if that white man had bought a ticket to Chicago, that's where you'd've went too, huh?"

"That's right," Willie said with a laugh. "But I had a rough time when I first got to St. Louis."

"What happened?"

"Almost starved to death. I got a job right off working in a foundry. They handed me a broom and said, ‘Start sweeping.' You know a foundry?"

"Yes sir. They cast metal."

"That's right. Now I had a little money when I got to St. Louis, but when you go to work at that foundry they hold back a week's pay. You don't get paid ‘til you've been there for two weeks. Now I didn't spend my money on dice or cards or women or drinking like some guys did, but after two or three days I didn't have any money. I got hungry. There was a place where a bunch of men sat and ate their lunches. They'd tear the crust off their sandwiches and throw it against the wall. I got so hungry I'd pick up that crust and blow off the dirt and eat it. But that little bit of bread crust every day at lunch wasn't enough food. I got so hungry I got weak, dizzy. One day one of those men threw half of a pork chop against that wall. I was about to die I was so hungry, and I didn't care if that man's lips had touched that pork chop or not. I grabbed it as soon as it hit the floor and ate it.

"He said, ‘Hey, boy, what are you, a dog?'"

"A white man?" I asked.

"No, a black man. I said, 'No. I'm a man, not a dog.' He said, ‘You a dog. Dog you better get your ass back to Mississippi where it belongs.' Another man said, ‘Boy, why you eat that pork chop and it came out of that dirt over there where people spit and everything?' I said, ‘Because I'm starving to death. The only thing I've ate in three or four days is the scraps off y'all's bread.' The first man said, ‘Dog, you making me sick. Get your ass back to Mississippi.' Then one of those men tore his sandwich in half and gave it to me. The next day most of them brought me something to eat. The day after that even the first man brought me a sandwich. After that I ate fine, and payday came and I made it."

I finally decided that I had taken too much of Willie Foster's afternoon. I thanked him for allowing me that time with him, then stood and walked to the heavy duty glass door. I unlocked it and opened it, prepared to step out onto the front porch. I heard Willie say, "Would you like to see my garden?"

I turned and looked down at him in his wheelchair. His outstretched arm pointed toward the kitchen and the back door. "It's out back," he said.

"Yes sir, I'd love to see your garden." I closed the front door.

"Lock it," he said.

Willie in his back yard.

I locked the front door and, carrying Willie's aluminum walker, walked behind him as he wheeled through the kitchen and up to the back door and stopped. I went around him and unlocked the door, noticing marks on the casing. "Looks like somebody tried to break in," I observed.

"My son," Willie said.

I held the door open while, slowly and awkwardly, he got out of the wheelchair and into the walker, came through the door, across his back porch, down the steps, and finally stepped out in his back yard. I held my breath that he would not fall. Remembering his words about not helping him unless he asked, I did not offer a helping and stabilizing hand. But I stood close in case he fell.

He led me up to a chain-link fence which once surrounded a small dog pen. Proudly, he showed me some large and budding tomato plants and about six small pepper plants inside the pen.

"That's some damned fine tomato plants," I truthfully observed. Then, more than half seriously, I added, "Looks like they'll be loaded with big juicy tomatoes about the time of my next visit to Greenville."

Willie grinned and said, "Come on by and get you some."

Willie at the gate to his garden.

"Is that pepper plants?" I asked.

"Sure is. I like peppers with greens. I like to fill my mouth with greens and then take a bite of a pepper and chew ‘em all up together. Man, that's good."

"Well, Mr. Foster, I'm gonna have to take your word for that. I like a little pepper sauce on my turnip greens and mustard greens, but I ain't man enough to eat a fresh green pepper right off the plant. Not even if I got five gallons of buttermilk to chase it with."

Willie laughed. Then he said, "Say, Junior, would you like to see how a blind and crippled man weeds his garden?"

Willie weeding his garden.

More than a little shocked, I hesitated before saying, "Ah, yeah, I guess so."

He reached out and found the chain-link fence, clutching it, using it for a guide as he left the walker outside of the dog pen and hobbled inside the pen. To my astonishment, he then eased his body down the fence and got on his hands and knees.

He crawled forward, one hand out, moving, feeling for a pepper plant. Finding one, his hand moved down, finding the stalk, then his fingers moved around in the dirt around the stalk and found blades of grass, then pulled the grass from the ground.

Willie's hand pulling grass from around a pepper plant.

I wanted to rush forward and help him. But I remembered his words: If I fall, then you can help me. So I took the pictures and stood there.

Finally, the last blade of grass pulled from beneath his peppers and his tomatoes, he pulled himself up the fence and out of the pen and got back in the aluminum walker. Now he retraced his slow and awkward path across the back yard, up the steps, across the porch, and through the back door as I again held it open. "Lock it," he told me again as he left the walker and plopped wearily in his wheelchair.

Near tears and with my mind almost overwhelmed with emotion, I locked the back door as he wheeled himself toward the living room. I picked up the walker and carried it through the kitchen and placed it beside his wheelchair, sitting again beside the light from his front window. "Mr. Foster," I said, "I've got to go. I'll see you tonight at the B & B."

"Okay," he said and held out his hand. "I enjoyed talking to you. Come back."

"I will," I said and meant it. I took his hand, shook it, then released it. I turned and unlocked the front door. As I looked through the door, I saw the mailman deposit something in the mailbox attached to the fence. "Mr. Foster," I said, "there's the mailman. He left something in your box."

"Would you get it and read it for me?" Willie asked.

"Yes sir." I walked out to the fence, pulled a letter from the box, and returned to the living room. I hesitated, not wanting to open the letter.

"It's okay," Willie said, I guess sensing my hesitation.

It was a tax receipt. I read it aloud, then placed it in Willie's hands. Then I said, "Goodbye, Mr. Foster."

"Goodbye. Please come again."

I grasped the handle, and the door unexpectedly opened, seemingly of its own accord. There holding the door stood a young black man, the son, I realized. Without a word to me or a look at me, he walked past me and into the living room.

"Hey!" I heard Willie Foster say. "Can't you speak?!"

I turned as the young man turned and looked over his shoulder at me. He sneered at me and lied, "I did," and walked toward the kitchen.

I looked down at Willie Foster, his sightless eyes looking in the direction of my right hand. "Goodbye, Mr. Foster," I said again and went out the door.

For a long moment I sat in the Bluesmobile in silence, my eyes filled with tears and looking through Willie Foster's white fence at the black bars covering his front door. Then I started the motor and drove away, leaving him alone with his garden and his son.

-------------------------------------------------- 

site originally mirrored at https://web.archive.org/web/20111007181319id_/http://deltablues.net/ credits go to John L. Doughty, Jr., who passed in 2014 https://www.legacy.com/obituaries/thetowntalk/obituary.aspx?n=john-lee-doughty&pid=171597632&fhid=12057

Bow Bridge - Central Park - New York City in Winter

Bow Bridge, completed in 1862, is one of Central Park's most enduring architectural gems. Featuring a Classical Greek design, designed by Calvert Vaux and Jacob Wrey Mould, this cast-iron marvel showcases the intricate craftsmanship of the era. The name "Bow" is derived from its graceful, curved shape reminiscent of a bow being drawn across the water. Over the years, Bow Bridge has served as a backdrop for countless romantic moments, proposals, and artistic creations, making it a cherished symbol of love and beauty in the heart of the city.

Other quick facts about the bridge:

It was built instead of the initially intended suspension bridge.

The eight cast iron urns are replicas of the originals and were installed in 2008.

The original urns disappeared in the early 1920s.

The street view panorama was taken during the January 2016 blizzard

Bow Bridge in Central Park stands as a testament to the enduring allure of art, architecture, and nature. Its rich history, coupled with Central Park, is an interesting addition to the park and The Lake. The bridge has lasted through so much history and even through times of being in a state of rusting and disrepair, and its restoration in 1974. Since then, the bridge is routinely repaired and spruced up when needed.

Winter Ambiance and Scenic Views

When winter blankets Central Park in snow, Bow Bridge becomes a focal point of serenity and charm. The bridge's intricate details contrast beautifully against the pristine white landscape, creating a scene straight out of a winter fairy tale. From the bridge, visitors can capture awe-inspiring views of the frozen lake, framed by snow-dusted trees. The interplay of nature and architecture against the backdrop of the city's buildings paints an unforgettable picture.

Learn more about Bow Bridge at:
http://www.centralparknyc.org/things-to-see-and-do/attractions/bow-bridge.html
https://www.centralpark.com/things-to-do/attractions/bow-bridge/

Other interesting views of Bow Bridge and nearby points.
From Bow Bridge at Sunrise
Bow Bridge at the Gazebo

Bow Bridge - Central Park

Indoor Garden Kit - Hydroponics LED Growing System

Indoor gardening has gained immense popularity among gardening enthusiasts. One of the most innovative and efficient ways to grow plants indoors is through hydroponics, and using a Hydroponics LED Indoor Garden Kit makes the process even more accessible and enjoyable. In this guide, we will provide you with a comprehensive overview of hydroponics, explore the benefits of using LED lights, and delve into how to choose the right hydroponics LED indoor garden kit for your needs.

Choosing the Right Hydroponics LED Indoor Garden Kit

Selecting the right hydroponics LED indoor garden kit is crucial to the success of your indoor garden. Here are some essential considerations:

Size and Space: Determine the available space in your home and choose a kit that fits comfortably within that area. Some kits are designed for small countertop gardens, while others are more extensive.

Plant Type: Consider what plants you want to grow. Different plants may have varying light and nutrient requirements. Ensure the kit you choose can accommodate the specific plants you intend to cultivate.

Light Spectrum: Opt for a kit with adjustable LED lights that allow you to customize the light spectrum based on your plants' growth stages. This flexibility is essential for maximizing plant health and yield.

Nutrient System: Evaluate the kit's nutrient delivery system. Some kits come with pre-mixed nutrient solutions, while others require you to mix your own. Choose the one that aligns with your gardening preferences.

Ease of Use: If you're a beginner, look for a kit with user-friendly instructions and minimal maintenance requirements. More advanced gardeners may prefer kits that offer greater customization and control.

Budget: Set a budget before shopping for a hydroponics LED indoor garden kit. Prices can vary widely, so finding one that suits your financial constraints is essential.

Join the growing community of indoor gardeners who have already experienced hydroponic gardening. Whether you're a seasoned gardener or a beginner, these kits are designed to simplify your journey and deliver exceptional results. Your ticket to fresh, organic produce right in the comfort of your home.
Hydroponics Growing System
Visit the link to learn more about this product on Amazon

Investing in a hydroponics LED indoor garden kit can bring the joy of gardening into your home, even in limited spaces or adverse weather conditions. With the right kit, you can grow a wide range of plants efficiently and enjoy the benefits of fresh produce year-round.