From the Journals of Clara Whitmore, September 20, 1895 - Walnut, Iowa
Fall is surely making its way across these wide Midwest prairies I now call home. Never have I lived in a place where the leaves glow with such richness…scarlet, gold, and russet…as though the Lord Himself dipped His brush anew each morning. As I walk the to the little one‑room schoolhouse, my boots brushing through the crisping grass, the early sun catches the leaves and sets them shimmering like stained glass in a country chapel.
It has been a full week with the children, and I am still learning navigating my new life here in Walnut, Iowa. There are moments, especially in the quiet evenings when the kerosene lamp burns low and the boarding house settles into its familiar creaks, when homesickness presses close. After the other boarders retire, the hallway falls still except for the ticking of the tall clock. At such times, tears threaten. Yet whenever my heart grows heavy, I reach for Great‑Grandmother Esther Mae’s journals. Though her words were penned long ago they steady me. I am thankful the Lord preserved them for my comfort in this season of change.
This afternoon, I took the children on a walk through town. Their chatter warmed me as they pointed out the familiar buildings…the mercantile with its creaking porch boards, the blacksmith’s steady hammer ringing like a church bell across the dusty street, the mill with its wooden wheel turning in patient rhythm. I have became acquainted with many of the merchants and families who call Walnut home, but seeing the town through the children’s bright eyes offered a certain sweetness.
To them, Walnut is not merely a settlement on the prairie, it is a place of welcome, shaped by neighborly kindness and God’s daily provision. During our lessons, I asked what they loved most about living here. One bright‑faced boy spoke of the train that whistles through town throughout the day. Sometimes it brings travelers stepping down with carpetbags in hand, other times it carries away great sacks of flour from the Walnut Flour Mill. He said the train is like a road to faraway adventures. I smiled, for I can already see which children will remain rooted here all their lives and which ones gaze toward the horizon, eager for whatever the Lord may place in their path.
The children have asked many questions about my dear Beaty Creek. It is so different from Walnut. Back home, the air stayed warm much longer, and though autumn came, it never arrived with such boldness. Here, the changing leaves seem to proclaim God’s handiwork with every gust of wind, as if creation itself is singing a hymn of praise.
When I lived in Beaty Creek, one of my greatest joys was gathering wildflowers with my mother and grandmother. Each year we walked the fields, choosing the brightest blooms, then pressing them between the pages of our heavy family Bible or sometimes thick books. Weeks later, when we opened them, the flowers lay preserved…delicate reminders of seasons past and of the Lord’s faithfulness through every change.
Inspired by those memories, I decided to teach the children a small lesson in nature and in God’s constancy. I gathered supplies and let them pick leaves around the schoolyard. Their laughter filled the crisp air as they searched for the brightest ones. Back inside, we pressed the leaves between the pages of their schoolbooks. I showed them some of the flowers I had pressed with my mother and grandmother years ago, their colors softened but still lovely.
The schoolroom buzzed with chatter as we worked. Each child proudly held up a favorite leaf, and their delight opened the way for a gentle lesson. I spoke to them about the changing seasons, how the leaves may fall, yet the trees remain steadfast. Their strong branches will bear the winter snows and, in God’s perfect timing, bud again with springtime flowers. The children listened with wide eyes, and I prayed silently that the Lord would plant these truths deep within their hearts.
As I sit now in my small boarding‑house room, the lamplight flickering against the wallpaper, I look again at the pages of leaves I once pressed with my grandmother. I remember walking through her garden, her gentle voice naming each flower as though she were introducing me to old friends. She has a big lilac tree around back right by her vegetable garden. She gently spoke of her faith. Those moments shaped me more than I knew.
“The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever.” Isaiah 40:8
Tonight, those words feel especially dear to my heart. Seasons change, homes change, even hearts change, but the Lord remains steadfast. I look again at the dried flowers I pressed so long ago with my grandmother…these now remind me of her gentle way of the passing on of her faith, and how much she trusted God through all the seasons of her life. And in that truth…tonight…I will find rest.
Clara Whitmore
(As imagined by Shelly Thompson)
*The pressed flower photo in this picture is one I made at Magnolia in January 2026 at a workshop on drying and pressing flowers at the Magnolia Silos Herbarium in Waco, Texas. It inspired this journal entry.
Make sure and follow all The Hinckley Boarding House Journals. A place where long‑forgotten journals come alive, vintage pieces find their stories, and a quieter, simpler way of living unfolds on every page. Click here if you've just found this page and would like to read from the beginning.
Fall is surely making its way across these wide Midwest prairies I now call home. Never have I lived in a place where the leaves glow with such richness…scarlet, gold, and russet…as though the Lord Himself dipped His brush anew each morning. As I walk the to the little one‑room schoolhouse, my boots brushing through the crisping grass, the early sun catches the leaves and sets them shimmering like stained glass in a country chapel.
It has been a full week with the children, and I am still learning navigating my new life here in Walnut, Iowa. There are moments, especially in the quiet evenings when the kerosene lamp burns low and the boarding house settles into its familiar creaks, when homesickness presses close. After the other boarders retire, the hallway falls still except for the ticking of the tall clock. At such times, tears threaten. Yet whenever my heart grows heavy, I reach for Great‑Grandmother Esther Mae’s journals. Though her words were penned long ago they steady me. I am thankful the Lord preserved them for my comfort in this season of change.
This afternoon, I took the children on a walk through town. Their chatter warmed me as they pointed out the familiar buildings…the mercantile with its creaking porch boards, the blacksmith’s steady hammer ringing like a church bell across the dusty street, the mill with its wooden wheel turning in patient rhythm. I have became acquainted with many of the merchants and families who call Walnut home, but seeing the town through the children’s bright eyes offered a certain sweetness.
To them, Walnut is not merely a settlement on the prairie, it is a place of welcome, shaped by neighborly kindness and God’s daily provision. During our lessons, I asked what they loved most about living here. One bright‑faced boy spoke of the train that whistles through town throughout the day. Sometimes it brings travelers stepping down with carpetbags in hand, other times it carries away great sacks of flour from the Walnut Flour Mill. He said the train is like a road to faraway adventures. I smiled, for I can already see which children will remain rooted here all their lives and which ones gaze toward the horizon, eager for whatever the Lord may place in their path.
The children have asked many questions about my dear Beaty Creek. It is so different from Walnut. Back home, the air stayed warm much longer, and though autumn came, it never arrived with such boldness. Here, the changing leaves seem to proclaim God’s handiwork with every gust of wind, as if creation itself is singing a hymn of praise.
When I lived in Beaty Creek, one of my greatest joys was gathering wildflowers with my mother and grandmother. Each year we walked the fields, choosing the brightest blooms, then pressing them between the pages of our heavy family Bible or sometimes thick books. Weeks later, when we opened them, the flowers lay preserved…delicate reminders of seasons past and of the Lord’s faithfulness through every change.
Inspired by those memories, I decided to teach the children a small lesson in nature and in God’s constancy. I gathered supplies and let them pick leaves around the schoolyard. Their laughter filled the crisp air as they searched for the brightest ones. Back inside, we pressed the leaves between the pages of their schoolbooks. I showed them some of the flowers I had pressed with my mother and grandmother years ago, their colors softened but still lovely.
The schoolroom buzzed with chatter as we worked. Each child proudly held up a favorite leaf, and their delight opened the way for a gentle lesson. I spoke to them about the changing seasons, how the leaves may fall, yet the trees remain steadfast. Their strong branches will bear the winter snows and, in God’s perfect timing, bud again with springtime flowers. The children listened with wide eyes, and I prayed silently that the Lord would plant these truths deep within their hearts.
As I sit now in my small boarding‑house room, the lamplight flickering against the wallpaper, I look again at the pages of leaves I once pressed with my grandmother. I remember walking through her garden, her gentle voice naming each flower as though she were introducing me to old friends. She has a big lilac tree around back right by her vegetable garden. She gently spoke of her faith. Those moments shaped me more than I knew.
“The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever.” Isaiah 40:8
Tonight, those words feel especially dear to my heart. Seasons change, homes change, even hearts change, but the Lord remains steadfast. I look again at the dried flowers I pressed so long ago with my grandmother…these now remind me of her gentle way of the passing on of her faith, and how much she trusted God through all the seasons of her life. And in that truth…tonight…I will find rest.
Clara Whitmore
(As imagined by Shelly Thompson)
*The pressed flower photo in this picture is one I made at Magnolia in January 2026 at a workshop on drying and pressing flowers at the Magnolia Silos Herbarium in Waco, Texas. It inspired this journal entry.
Make sure and follow all The Hinckley Boarding House Journals. A place where long‑forgotten journals come alive, vintage pieces find their stories, and a quieter, simpler way of living unfolds on every page. Click here if you've just found this page and would like to read from the beginning.
Shelly Thompson, Owner of an 1875 historic Bank Building in Walnut, Iowa, that housed the Boarding Rooms in the late 1800's.
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Shelly Thompson is the Publisher for The Notebook Cafe -- Inspired Words for the Journey, and owner of Millie McKeever's Vintage & Home Decor and Coffee Bar located in the quaint historic town of Walnut, Iowa. 'The Gathering Room' offers a place where women gather to share a time of fellowship, devotion, and a tour the circa 1875 historical bank building restored by Shelly and her husband. Shelly is the author of two books. Entwined; now in its fourth printing; and Heart of a Warrior - A Legacy of Faith; in its sixth printing. Her current writing project is 'The Boarding Room Journals'. Taking a giant leap of faith Shelly left the corporate world in 2015 to pursue a dream God gave her of developing a monthly inspirational faith based online reading café of words and encouragement. Today, The Notebook Café reaches over one million people each month. Shelly has also developed The Notebook Cafe Annual Woman's Conference and women's retreat. In addition to operating The Notebook Cafe shop, Millie McKeever's Vintage & Home Decor, Shelly and her husband, Dave, spend time with their family and many weekends working on home renovation projects…that thankfully never seem to end.
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