Bert Vincent and Ole Cap Smith

Quilt Pieces
Shirley Noe Swiesz
We got some unexpected snow here in Harlan last week. It was pretty but didn’t last long. I am longing for springtime when the flowers begin to peep their heads up through the cold, hard ground, and the frogs start yelling like banshees! Frogs have always been a part of my life in the mountains. One of my earliest memories was when we lived beside the bridge in Hiram, and I could hear this ole frog calling me. He would say, ‘wade in knee deep, wade in knee deep’. That frog scared me to death. I was only four. I was petrified of this particular frog and finally my brother and some of his friends went gigging and caught him. He was a fine specimen. Another time, my brother gigged a bunch of frogs and one got loose in the house. We hunted the place over for it and days later found it in a chest, dead. I loved to catch tadpoles in the springtime and would bring a bucket full of them home, only to have to take them right back and let them loose again. The most fascinating thing to catch or just to watch for they were difficult to catch, were the tiny, baby catfish that swam around in schools. I mentioned once that us mountain kids would eat about anything from the woods, and I would like to add to that: we would catch about anything we could get our hands on as well. I didn’t mess around with snakes, but I did catch many a green snake. I do remember playing in the river and the water snakes swimming around us…don’t get them mixed up with water moccasins!
My favorite name of places around here might be Frog Level, outside of Cumberland. For years, I thought that Defeated Creek was Feedie Creek. The old names of communities are being lost now for sure, but to me they had a lot of character. You take Poor Fork for instance. I don’t rightly think of it as being poor when I hear that name; I think it is a sight more original than Cumberland; (not necessarily better, just more original). Harlan used to be named Mount Pleasant until it was changed and named for Silas Harlan who probably never stepped foot in Harlan. He was a Revolutionary War hero and while we like to Romanize him, I recently read that he was a ‘hothead’ who did not like to follow orders and thus he was killed early on in the war. We knew all the names of the little communities when we were growing up. I doubt if the names Dionne and Splint are used much anymore either. I think they are mostly lumped in with Putney. I don’t even hear much about Totz. All up and down the roads were communities fed off the coal mines and they are albeit gone now, memories of yesterday when there were lots of children growing up and making their way to Cumberland High School or to Totz Grade School. How sad it is to go past the High School and see it deserted and lonely. Our memories are all tied up in schools and small communities and we can’t forget the small grocery stores. They were a haven for an ice cold pop and the makings of a balony sandwich. They had everything a body would need: things for sewing, material, thread and even patterns. You could buy a ball cap and a pair of shoes and beautiful dolls and toys, all while doing your grocery shopping. And there were always sacks of various kinds of grain to sit on. Men were never allowed to buy the grain for the women liked to choose the material that they liked. Of course there is the same concept of shopping or trading as we called it and it is called Walmart or Target but there was something very special about those old stores. The very smell was unique! The outside would be covered with signs advertising Coke or Pepsi or Nehi grape. The screen door would screech when you went inside and there was sure to be a fly or two waiting to get inside. Everyone in the neighborhood had a running tally and they would pay when they got paid. Some stores would have a post office inside such as the one that Dorabelle Kellamen ran in Hiram. Laurie Boggs was the post mistress for a long time. I think her sister Martha might have been before her. The first job that my brother had was hauling the mail to the post office in Hiram. In the back of the post office was a heating stove and some chairs and often people would go back and visit either with the post mistress if she was not busy or with each other. The catalogs that we got back then were pure heaven! Oh, the dolls and clothes and house hold goods that those pages revealed! The Christmas ones were the best. We couldn’t afford to order anything but we could dream. I would spend hours planning how I would furnish my house when I grew up and a catalog gave me hours and hours of pleasure cutting out things for my paper dolls. I was well rounded back then…I could play with my paper dolls and then go outside and walk around on tin cans or hunt for crawdads in the river.
I think that most of us mountain kids were not afraid of much of anything except the occasional haint or two. I am sure you all remember Bert Vincent? Well, once he wrote about a teenager whose friends dared her to go to a graveyard after dark. She was supposed to stick a fork in a grave to show that she had been there. Well, you know we wore those full skirts back then, probably made out of feed sacks, and this girl squatted down in her pretty skirt and stuck the fork into the grave. She was a brave girl…but that fork went into her skirt and when she got up it felt like someone was pulling her into the grave. Ole Bert swore that she had a heart attack and died. Now ole Bert was a writer and that bunch tend to stretch the truth about as far as it will go, so I have no idea if this story is true or not! My dad loved to read Bert Vincent’s stories. I can see him now, laughing to himself when he read some of Bert’s tales.
Those of you who don’t know Bert and never heard of him, he was a columnist for the Knoxville News Sentential back when I was growing up. We couldn’t afford a paper so Corrine and Ralph Price gave us theirs after they were finished reading it and Daddy would read it word for word, beginning with Ole Bert. Sam Lewis lent me his book called the Best Stories of Bert Vincent, Sage of the Smokies. It was illustrated by Bill Dyer. Now ole Bert was born in to a family of educators at Bee Springs, Kentucky in 1896. He got a college education and went to work as a newspaperman for the sole purpose of someday becoming a governor. But I am getting ahead of myself. He taught school for a while but he quit for he said the students were picking up Vincent habits of cussin’ and chewin’ tobacco. He worked for such newspapers as The Kansas City Star and St. Louis Post-Dispatch but eventually returned to the Appalachian Mountains. At the time of the printing of his book in 1968 he had worked 35 years as a columnist doing his popular ‘Strolling with Bert Vincent’. He started the Cosby Ramp Festival in which Harry S. Truman once visited. He solicited funds to build a chapel for people at a ‘poor farm’. His humanitarianism brought him many awards; his literary talents brought him honorary college degrees. An anonymous friend once said about him, ‘Bert Vincent has religion and doesn’t know it!’ But my words for him are, ‘he was a character!’ A few years ago a man said that he picked up a stranger hitch hiking over around Whitesburg, making his way toward Harlan. ‘He was higher than a kite,’ or perhaps he said, ‘he was drunker than a skunk’…I can’t quite remember exactly how the man said it. Anyway the inebriated man told him his name was Bert Vincent. I have heard that old Bert liked ‘shine along with tobaccy and cussin. He was a true mountaineer who liked to sit on sacks of grain beside the old men who hovered around a stove at the local store and listen to them tell their stories, trying to outbest one another. He was loved by housewives and adored by children for he offered homes for pets in his column and was liberal with his compliments to the ladies. I think he only did one book. A friend of mine who lives in Florida and grew up in Jonesville, Va. reminds me a bit of Bert. His name is Kermit Kirk and he is a marvelous writer of the old days. I have no idea why he reminds me of Bert, for his writing is different, but I guess because I admire both of them. I have shared some of his stories from time to time in my column and one was about the soaring Eagle that he wrote in memory of his brother.
Some have told me that they faithfully follow Ole Cap Smith’s story. I realize that it is difficult to read, but after trying to use the words of today or as we called them ‘proper words’ it just wasn’t the same. The words they used then and many still use today, are a version of words brought over from Scotland and Ireland by the first settlers. They got all turned and twisted throughout the years, but we are different and I wanted to bring out that difference. We are a unique people and I hope that all of you stand up tall and proud when you say you are from Harlan County Kentucky.
Cap Smith’s Story:
“Sissy war th oldest gal an we jest got ta calling her Sissy an hit stuck. She was as beautiful as one o th Lady Slipper flowers thet a body would run acrost in th mountains an as rare. She had allus had a wild streak in her an she wanted real bad ta git away from th mountains. Truth be tolt she hated th mountains an th unending poverty. She had a way o makin fun o th people right in front o them an they didn’t seem ta understand hit. She allus tolt me thet she didn’t feel like she belonged around har.”
“Mam allus had control o her when she war alive but adder Mam died, there war nothing ta do but let her have her way. Thar war times thet Pap stropped her with th leather shavin strop but she didn’t shed a tear. She would stand thar an glare at him with hatred in her eyes. She war a right good worker an she could make a biscuit as good as Mam’s eny day. And Lordy how thet gal could sang. At least some o us allus went ta church an she would allus sang. Iffen someone war sick, th rest o us would go an thet war about ever Sunday. Hit war usually us younguns fer Pap war allus sick on Sunday’s adder Mam died. I hate ta admit hit but Pap hit th ‘shine right steady adder Mam was gone. Nobody could hardly blame him. He worked long hard hours in the coal mine an then he come home ta a bunch a younguns. The womern who war keepin the new babe finally got hit on a bottle an Pa wanted ta brang hit home. Sissy got real upsot. “I can’t take keer o another younun, pap!” She tolt him. “Ye’ll do as I say gal!” He tolt her an got th strop. Mam never let Pap use th strop on us.”
“Pap war becoming a right mean drunk. None o us hed ever seed this side o him. I war scart when he staggered ta work with me at his side. He had them little packets of sin-sin thet he would use ta kiver th booze on his breathe.”
“ Sissy war no more than a kid herself but she war havin ta take keer o us all an I saw tears stream down her cheek when th babe war brought home. First time I ever saw her cry. She hadn’t even cried when Mam died. The babe, hit war a purty little thang an Sissy fell in love with hit, but th drudgery o th work got ta her. Three months adder Mam died, Sissy left us. Thar war a drummer (salesman) who follered her around a lot an she complained ta Pap thet he made her feel uneasy like. “Did ye do somethang ta make him thank ye war interested in him?” Pap ast her in a frightening way. “No, Pap! He is a horrible man! I hate him! I hate this place!” Pap got th strop agin.”
“Thet night she left us. Pap looked ever where he could but no sign o her. She seemed ta have disappeared inta thin air. Aunt Versie allowed she would stay with th younuns fer awhile an she moved in with us. Aunt Versie war no kin ta us but she loved people an she loved ta hep. She had been hepin out some other folk er she woulda hepped sooner, she told Pap. “Hit be too hard on thet pretty young girl ta take keer o all them younuns an clean an wash an do a growed womern’s work.” Pap reckoned hit war. Sissy would have smiled at hearin Aunt Versie defend her thet way, fer th old womern hed often been at th stingin end o Sissy’s remarks.”
“Th drummer left th same night thet Sissy did so everybody thought she went with him. I didn’t though. Sissy hadn’t took a thang with her, not even a pair o shoes. She would never have left with somebody without her shoes, sich as they were. “Somethang’s ahappened ta her, Pap,” I kept sayin.”
“ He allus said th same thang. “She hated this place an she hated takin keer o all them younuns. I guess I didn’t do right by my little girl.” He would say an I knowed he grieved. Sometimes I would find him at th graveyard, talkin an acryin ta Mam. Hit jest about broke my heart. Hit got so thet I started ramblin in th mountains looking fer her. I hed this sinkin feelin deep in my soul. My beautiful sister hed ta be dead.”
“Hit war nine days adder she left thet she war found on th river bank. She war deader then a door nail, jest like I thought she war. A man war going fishin an come acrost her body, almost in th water. Pap an me hadn’t gone ta th mine yit when th sheriff come ta see us. “They fount yer little girl,” he tolt Pap. “Hit looks ta me like she war beat ta death. We figgered the drummer did hit but he is long gone now fer shore. I am sorry!”
“The men at th mine built a casket fer her an Aunt Versie an some o th other womern lined hit with a quilt. They brung her home fer thet last night…th pretty young girl who had never lived. The casket war never opened but Pap went ta th company store an bought her a dress. Hit war th prettiest thang you ever did see an all I could thank o war how much she would have loved hit. Hit seemed so pitiful ta me, even though I war a boy an still a kid, thet she hed never hed a thang beautiful when she war alive an then she war dressed in that purty thang.”
“Th preacher said, ‘Th good Lord giveth an He taketh away an ye all need ta git yer sins shet from ye right here an now so ye can meet up with this girl. Ye needs ta git saved right now!’ Well right thar in our little camp house with my sister laid out in th front room Pap give his life ta th Lord. People started singin an shoutin. I war right glad thet Pap got saved an all, but I war rightly grievin over my sister an not only fer her, but my Mam too. I missed them both so much. I cried and cried.”
“Pap never did drank enymore adder thet day an fer thet I war thankful, but thar war two empty spaces in my little boy heart. I jest couldn’t fer th life o me figger out why life was so unsartin and painful. I guess ye might say I couldn’t figger out God. Hit took me a long time ta figger Him out, but I guess He had patience.”
Well, that is all for today. I have a new phone no if any of you want to call me. It is (606) 505-0925 or you can write me at PO Box 1433 or email me at sswiesz@gmail.com. Don’t forget to smile at someone and pray a few prayers for your enemies, if you have a mind too…it would be a good thang!

Violets and Love

The romance of valentine's day must surely extend into every day...into our vast array of memories. I remember skipping along a lane with drifting apple blossoms, eating an ice cream cone and holding my daddy's big hand. I was four. It wasn't valentine's day, but it was wonderful to me.
I loved hot blackberry jam and my overworked Mama would get up and make it for me on a school morning with hot biscuits...it wasn't valentine's day but it was love to me.
I was sick with the flu and uncle Holly walked out of the holler and up to Claude Blair's store and then down to our house in the Scott Holler to bring me a big box of valentine candy. It was valentine's day and it was the simplicity of an old man's love for his niece who had grown up sheltered by her family's love. He was a simple man who could not read or write but he knew devotion.
I was a little girl of five and my brother found a wild baby rabbit and brought it home to me. We raised it. It wasn't valentines day but it was love.
Granny was dead. I was thirteen. They brought her home for the night and for her funeral. Pap and I sat together all night. Everyone else fell asleep. I drifted off and woke up to see him standing beside the coffin, a big handkerchief in his gnarled old hands, tears flowing down his cheeks. 'I loved her more than anything on earth,' he said. I took his hand in mine and there in the illumination of a lantern...they had no electricity; we cried together. It was not valentine's day but it was love. She was born on valentine's day.
He brought me a bunch of violets to plant in my yard...I missed the wild violets rambling all over the river banks and mountainsides in Ky. And my military husband knew my loneliness for Kentucky, and my love for flowers. It wasn't valentines day, but it was love. They grew wild and free in my yard and when he died they were blooming as I cried. It was love, but it wasn't valentines day.
Little grubby hands picked bunches of wild dandelion flowers, and sometimes my cherished rosé buds and brought them to me...it wasn't valentine's day, but it was love.
The day after tomorrow the candy will be gone and the roses will fade, and it won't be valentines day, but there will be love to turn into memories. Cherish the moments, the romance of simplicity, the pure romance of everyday life in all its glory. Happy Valentine's Day, tomorrow and the other tomorrow's...the simple days, those days of making memories from moments.

Spitting Snow and Living in a Church House

Quilt Pieces

Shirley Noe Swiesz

            Today is warm and a bit overcast in Harlan. The days are getting longer though. The cats wake me up at the crack of dawn and I notice that it has been earlier. It would be easier if I had a rooster, for it would just crow and wake me up...cats get on the bed and aggravate until my feet hit the floor and then they aggravate some more as I wearily climb the stairs. They have adjusted well to living in a church/house. I guess we all have. There is some thing wonderful about the tin ceilings and big windows that cheers one up, not to mention the sun shining through the stained glass windows and turning my world into beautiful colors.

            If you live in a church it is difficult to stay angry, bitter, or mad for long for truly there is a sense of peace that is comforting in this old building that reminds one of long ago. My church/house is ninety years old and has surely seen days of sadness and happiness as well. Someone said it was against God's plan to live in a church, but to me it is the graceful giving of new life to an old almost forgotten building. I enhance its' inner beauty with other old objects, that like me, have seen better days and together they seem to mesh and blend.

          As I sit here, so close to Valentine's Day, I remember back when I was young and my military husband would come home with a beautiful box of candy for me and smaller boxes for the children. I would keep the boxes until they fell apart and would fill them with treasures that I wanted to keep. They usually came adorned with a hard plastic flower back then.  He loved chocolate cake so I would bake one for him and fix him a good home made dinner. Our lives were simple and filled with little sticky hands, strong coffee, home made food, a clean house, and more little sticky hands. I enjoyed the military life and living on base. Not many wives worked back then outside the home and if the weather was nice we would take the kids outside to play and sit with our coffee and crochet or knitting and talk. Well, yes, gossip...the youthful innocence of those days when we were young and thought life would go on forever and that sticky hands, dandelion flowers, and sloppy kisses would never end.

            Each year, except when we were in Alaska, we would go home and visit Mama and Daddy. I remember the tears of joy when my mother looked on the face of the first grandchild she ever saw...she had three others, but she had never seen them.  We took my daughter home when she was nine days old, for I longed for Mama to see a grandbaby and she cried and cried. My sister in law, Bessie and Shirley McKnight gave me a baby shower. The entire community came out. One woman, Mrs. Tuttle, whom I dearly loved, came and told me that she didn't get an invitation but she knew I would want her to come. I cried and tears are close to the surface even now for the love of a little community that was always willing to welcome me back into their arms and would pray for me when I was sick, or bring me goodies when I came to visit. Such were the days of simplicity, love, and a sense of community.

               Tomorrow one of our own will be buried. Aaron Dixon who was a part of this community for many years will go to his final resting place and another of our pieces of history will be gone. His dad was a coal miner and he was killed in the mines, when Aaron was quite young.  Aaron's mother died when he was born or shortly afterwards.  He fought in World War II and he is a part of our rich history in this area. Aunt Katy raised him and Aunt Katy was an icon of our small community. She often came to our house and stayed a few days and helped Mama either with the canning or with her quilting, or whatever needed to be done. They were good company for each other, for women needed the company of other women just as men needed the company of other men. It was at those times that the women discussed life things, birthing, babies, quilting, cooking, church and men; men discussed tools, mining, logging, building, church  and women;  and they stayed together...it was a part of that 'you made your bed you lay in it' and whether it was right or wrong, in most cases they took the time to make friends, go to church and be a part of the community. We don't do that much anymore. We don't sit outside on the porch and talk with our neighbors or gather at the church to give the preacher a pounding...remember poundings? It was actually when they gathered up food and such for the preacher and his wife. I love that word! It has nothing to do with a beating but is a sense of community...only to us mountain folk!

         My brother told me that he used to paint for Bert Vincent's nephews, Jay Will and Ray in Cincinnati. Jay Will started a painting business and Hagert and Jim Blair went to work for him. Not long after he had his business up and running, he got killed in a car accident and later his brother, Ray took over. I guess Jay Will had a bit of Bert's wildness and he loved to tell stories in the same way as his famous uncle.  Ray was more the religious type. I like to think they both had traits from their Uncle Bert.

            I never knew that Dorabelle Kellamen, Ot Lewis, John Lewis' wife, Goldie (there were two Goldie Lewis' in Hiram) and Doug Creech were brothers and sisters.  Doug Creech lived over across the swinging bridge where the convalescent Center is located between Chad and Sand Hill. John Lewis, who was married to Goldie was a revenuer...as in hunting and destroying moon shine stills. Dorabelle used to have a little store in Hiram and Andy Kellamen worked in the mines. Further down the road, Ot Lewis had a store and I think her husband was a miner as well. Doug Creech was a miner. I didn't know Ot or Goldie very well, but I thought the world of Dorabelle.  I did an interview with Andy a couple of years before he died and he talked and talked about his beloved Dorabelle. I think they had a true love story.

        I was talking to Doc Smith's son the other day. Doc died recently and he too was a part of our community. His wife Bea and their two sons went to the little church on the hill all the time. Doc was also a coal miner. I teased his son that the two boys were 'mean as snakes' but actually they were sweet boys.  Someone recently mentioned the name of Hence Fox and I had forgotten all about him. He and his wife had a little store near the Chad school. They raised their granddaughter. Why am I mentioning all these people that few people know or remember? They make up the small towns in our Appalachia. They lived the simple lives that we lived. They worked hard. They lived hard. They were survivors. They could easily be us or our families. I hope when you read my articles that you think, 'I had an uncle like that' or 'my grandma was just the same way'.

            Aunt Katy's little house was near the Kellamen's house. I think it had three rooms. I remember that she had lovely old furniture and she kept an oil cloth on the table in the kitchen and jars of jelly and jam set on the edge of it. Oil cloth was very popular back then. It lasted forever. Granny Ison had oil cloth on her long table and at one end there was jam and jelly and the ever present bowl of bacon grease. Pap loved to pour bacon grease over some sugar and he would sop it up with a piece of pone bread. Uncle Clarence did the cooking and he did not know how to make biscuits so he would make one big pone of bread in an old cast iron skillet. When I think of Pap now it is with gentle thoughts. I took him a candy bar the last time I went to see him and he quickly stuck it in his coat pocket for later. He wore that old coat all the time.  He wore overalls and blue work shirts and those old shabby shoes that he repaired on his shoe last. He slept on a corn shuck mattress. He made the best gnat smokes around. I think I told you that I tried to make a gnat smoke like his back in the summer and it caught on fire and burned to a crisp. I guess it is a good thing that there is always someone around to look out for me!                    

           Men would sit in the yard, hard packed dirt and not a blade of grass, and listen to the stories told by a story teller in the group. There was always a story teller. Dad was a great story teller and he loved a good laugh. Many times he would laugh to himself over some long ago tale he had garnered in his wide repertoire of stories.  They would lean their chair back on two legs and some would sit astraddle the chair with the back in the front.  I would love to have sat like that but little long legged girls with  dresses did not sit that way.  I loved to sit with the men and listen to the stories but in the same manner I also liked to sit with the women and listen to their gossip which was simply good stories to me.  Uh...huh...both men and women gossiped even back in the old days, but I think that most took it with a grain of salt. They seemed to have a second sense of who was telling the truth and who was stretching it until it bent and broke.  Now I am not advocating gossip. I just put it in story form and now, many years later, love the colorful aspects of men and women's lives. Like a patchwork quilt our lives make up a little portion of that quilt, some larger than others, some  touched with beautiful lace and buttons, some plain and uninteresting.  Around the border of that piece of velvet, linen, or cotton,  is a row of colorful thread, a zig zag of our lives.  Some pieces are large and some are very small, but all are needed to make up the quilt.

               There is a spitting of snow, dancing through the trees outside my church. Birds sit all fluffed out in their winter clothes, hoping for a few scraps of bread or better yet, some sun flower seeds.  I am home in the hills, far away from the flat land of South Carolina, the cold of Alaska, the sands of New Mexico and the  snow of Massachusetts and New Hampshire.  How I love my mountains! They have traveled with me, snug in my heart all the years that I was away and I know that many, many feel the same. There is something special about these mountains, a mystic feeling that seeps inside and becomes a part of us, in the same way that our heart beat is a necessary to our livelihood.  The mountains are special to me. They sustained me and fed my soul when I was a child and now as an old woman they still sustain and feed the hurt and lonely parts of my heart.  I deserted them once, but I hope to never leave them again, except to become a part of them, to go back to the earth where I was once formed and leave a part of my quilt, finished and complete, embroidered with life.

             Well, I hope you are safe and warm today. Remember to smile at someone and a special hello to my friends Rachel and David. Send up a prayer or two for your enemy and  be kind to yourself. Blessings. You can call or write me at anytime.

Brother

        Back in the days the boys were full of pranks...they still are of course, but it was a different style back then. We lived by the river and when it rained a lot and the flooding came, the muddy water would wash the bridge out. Now back then the county didn't take care of those things. Neighbors would get together and build a bridge or like my friend Mary Joan Cornett and her brothers, they would have to paddle a boat across the river, all year long. It was a cold job in winter but in the spring, summer, and fall, it was an adventure for young people and especially boys, I'm sure. But that old bridge beside our house afforded a lot of fun for us. The boys would fish off it and swim under it. Many people would throw their garbage off the bridge and it would float downstream to the next bridge where it would often get tangled and stay there. I have seen people shoot off the bridge, the sound reverberating through the swish of the water. It was a hanging out place for many. I have sat on the edge many times, my feet dangling, thinking of something or other. If a car or truck came across I would get talked to for sitting there.
        Once when I was no more than four, we got a flood and my brother and his friend Jack were on the bridge on their bicycles. The water was getting close and the bridge was making sounds that should have worried anyone except two young boys.  Neither of them had new bicycles. They were probably an assortment of pieces put together by two boys who loved to tinker and were merely practicing for when they could replace them with an old car. In my minds' eye, I can see them: leaning on their bikes, snickering at their daring, when one decided to be a bit more of a dare devil. I don't know whose idea it was...but like many of their pranks, it had potential for danger.
        They dared each other to ride off the bridge into the water. I don't know how they decided who would go first, but Jack was the chosen one. He rode across the rough bridge a few times, trying to get his courage up or perhaps showing off to the other boys, who had gathered around, and then amidst cheers of  'I double dare you!' he rode off into the dirty, swirling, fast moving water, as cold as ice. My brother was supposed to be next. Perhaps he had second thoughts, perhaps Mama came out of the house to see what was going on, or perhaps my brother was now fearful for his friend's life. He didn't go. Instead, he rode his bike into the yard, got off and ran down the river, watching as a head bobbed up and down, and bicycle parts were here and there. Several others had followed my brother and they yelled and encouraged Jack. Now Jack was a good swimmer, having spent a lot of time in the river, but there was no swimming in this flood swollen, fast moving river. I think there  truly are angels who watch over children for they were there that day! Jack was pulled for a good half mile before he got near the bank and the onlookers pulled him out. The first thing he said was, 'I thought you were right behind me!' to my brother. 'My old man woulda killed me if I had done something like that!' he told Jack.
         Jack was 'biling' mad at my brother for a day or two, but soon they were right back into mischief. As I think back on it, I think there was such a special bond between boys and their friends, forged through hard times and the challenge of making do with what they had. Jack's mother died in childbirth when Jack was about ten years old, leaving three small children and a baby. He spent a lot of time at our house, eating at our table and planning mischief with Hagert. They fished and hunted together and one time when they were about sixteen, Lee Creech who owned a coal mine up in the holler, had an old mule who died. He offered the two boys twenty five dollars to get rid of it. Now, he didn't specify how to get rid of the bloated carcass and twenty five dollars was a lot of money; twelve fifty each. Jack's family had gone away for the weekend and they hot wired Jack's old truck and drove it up the holler to the mine. Neither boy had a license. Now they backed that truck right up to the mule, gathered up some wide planks of wood and some rope. They then got two other mine mules and tied the rope to them and put one on each side of the truck and pulled the mule up over the boards and into the bed. It was no easy feat, but twenty five dollars was riding on their accomplishing it. Well, they got the mule in and my brother drove up to Sand Hill and nearly to the top of the mountain where there was a trash pile that people for miles around brought their trash. It burned all the time it seemed, and the smell was horrible.
         They found a spot where they could back the truck up and dump the body. It was a lot easier to get it out than it had been to get it in. They used the boards to push its body off the truck bed. They had backed the truck as far as they could and they got a little nervous as the mule sat on the edge of the truck, for all they could see was garbage down the hill. They dumped it and watched as it rolled down, down, down. They went back home to get their twenty five dollars and they fixed the truck back as though nothing had happened. Boys. shirley's quilt pieces blog

Winter's Cold

As I drove to church toward Cumberland this morning, I took the time, as I always do, to look at the mountains surrounding me. It is not very cold this day, but as one gets older, the cold seems to seep into ones' very veins, and at nearly seventy one, I consider myself as older.

There is only one way in my mind, to describe the mountains in the winter time: they are stark sentinels of bare beauty, resting for the full blaze of glory come springtime. They reach tall and graceful toward a thin wintry light that covers the heavens. We wait in anticipation and yet dreading the full onslaught of winter: snow, sleet, and cold, cold weather. We long for hot summer days and yet we know full well we will complain and pray for the cold weather, when indeed the heat forces us to stay in doors where the air conditioning will cool and soothe us.

I think perhaps the older people did not dread the elements as much in the old days as we do now. They dressed accordingly and although they might complain, they took it simply as a way of life. My grandmother Lonia Cornett Noe Ison dressed with layers of clothes, summer and winter. I never saw her without a couple of feed sack petticoats, feed sack bloomers, and long sleeve dresses. She didn't own a coat for she did not get out in winter time...at least in my lifetime. If she was hot in the summertime she would shed a petticoat or two and fan with one of the paper fans that were mostly given away by funeral homes. All churches had them and I still have Grannie's--it is a trifold one with roses on it, advertising a funeral home on the back.

Winter time reminds me of those days when the coal pile was getting empty, and Mama and I would dress warmly and walk the railroad looking for coal, while Daddy tried to find work. Dressing warm meant wearing a pair of my brother's pants under my dress and a pair of bobby sox on my feet. Snow or ice or just water would usually soak into my shoes and my feet would be nearly frozen when we got home. Mama didn't fare any better. There were times when Mama had to wear an old pair of Daddy's shoes for hers were worn out and there was no money to buy anymore. Once she had to wear a pair of high heeled shoes that someone gave her for there were no others. They were horrible clunky green shoes and I hated to see my poor Mama wear them for she would be in tears at the end of the day from the pain.

Toward the end of winter, long before springtime salad fixings came in, food became scarce. There were plenty of pinto beans, but the potatoes were small and sprouting and everything seemed to be crying for springtime. The hens weren't laying and Mama had killed about all of them that she dared for she loved her laying hens and treasured them for their faithful laying of eggs. We were often out of flour and Mama made cornbread for breakfast, dinner, and supper. (We called lunch 'dinner'). She would make cornmeal gravy and although I love it now, it was a sort of shameful thing to make cornmeal gravy for breakfast. There was no coffee and Daddy would buy a bag of chicory to use in its' stead, if he had a little change. There was no sugar and Mama would use molasses if she had any for sweeting. We had no milk either, but Mama would try to have evaporated milk on hand, but sometimes that was not possible. There were times when we had water gravy and the chicory coffee would have the thin bluish powered milk in it for evaporated milk. We had no meat, but we never went hungry. Pinto beans and cornbread went a long ways back then. Many of the neighbors had the same problem but not all. Times were hard in Harlan County back then for many of us. When I hear of poverty in today's world, I think back of those cold winter days. Poverty had a different face when I was growing

Friendship & Cap Smith, Part 3

I received a lovely card from a man called ‘Detroit’. I think many of you know him. I have never met this person, but I consider him a friend and a man of my own heart…a writer of the old days who appreciates the past, while living in the present. He is one of a kind like my friend, Arthur Johnson, who wrote for Tri-City before I did. JoAnne Calton wrote for the newspaper years ago. She was the mother of Jewel Calton Shepherd (Alfred Shepherd’s wife). Alfred is a collector of old stories as well, and he and I could spend hours talking about the ‘old days’. He can name all the old stores that were in Cumberland back in the fifties and sixties…forties too, for that matter. I am more familiar with Ball Brothers and the A & P. Mama did most of her ‘trading’ at the A & P. I’m wondering if people still use the word ‘trading’. I love the idea of ‘trading’ and it sets a whole lot better on my mind than ‘shopping’.

I don’t know if I have ever mentioned Fanny Wilder when I write, but she lived in Hiram and was quite a character, right along with Aunt Katy and Aunt Cassie. They were dear, dear ladies who had seen so much pain, heartbreak, and hard work in their time. I imagine that in her young days Fannie was a beautiful lady. She loved jewelry and big purses and you seldom saw her without her gold bracelets and big purse. She lived in a little house near the railroad. I think it had brick siding and had about two rooms; but like my Aunt Nancy, she didn’t stay inside much. You would see her outside working in the yard or visiting with her neighbors.

When I was young, people visited each other a lot and there was never any need for an invitation. If you were eating a meal, you always asked the person to come in and have a bite. It might only be fried tators, pinto beans and cornbread, but you always invited a visitor to eat. I remember that an older Jewish man would come into our area with a huge suitcase. He would walk up the hollers and all around, trying to sell his goods that he had brought in from New York. I don’t know, but he probably came on the train. That big suitcase would be full of things…silk bedspreads and chenille ones too; gold silk and chenille with lovely peacocks on them. The beautiful handmade quilts our mama’s made would have been a far better choice, but the women of the house loved the bedspreads from the city. The man that I remember was a small man and he seemed old to me although that is rather uncertain, but that suitcase was beyond huge! He always managed to get to our house around meal time and Mama and Daddy never failed to ask him to ‘wash up and come eat!’ Everyone always washed their hands before eating. I think every household was that way. In the summertime, quite often the bucket, dipper, wash pan, lye soap and towel would be outside. Everyone used the same towel, but if it was dirty, Mama would quickly change it to a clean one. I remember that Granny Ison’s towels were big old sacks, rough and large that grain had come in. The soap was usually Lye soap, but sometimes Mama would buy Ivory soap, but it was considered a luxury to most people, and especially to us. Besides Mama didn’t think anything cleaned like her lye soap. There were so many people who ate at our table and in the same sense I ate at many tables as well. I remember that Louisia Fields would fix me cornbread and canned peaches when we went to her house. She was considered a tough lady, but she never failed to fix me some cornbread and peaches.

Here are a few more lines to old Cap Smith’s story:

“I guess I’ll never forgit th day my Mam had thet last baby. She hadn’t fared well atall with this babe an sometimes I would ketch her lookin a far piece away like they war something on her mind, like. She still worked hard right up ta th day little Millie war borned. I guess I never knowed enyone who worked like my mam an my granny. Well, sir, I guess I should take thet back. Most all th womernfolk I knowed war hard workers. They worked from daylight ta dawn. Well, truth be tolt we all worked hard. Hit war awful hard jest trying ta survive back in them days. The womern folk took keer o their men in th same way they took keer o their younguns, truth be knowed they took better keer o them, fer they war th bread winner an if something happened ta th man, th whole family might starve. I tolt ye how my Mam washed th coal dust offen my pa every day. She warmed his clothes afore he got ready ta go ta th mine an she put his shoes on fer him. Hit pains me now ta thank o thet mam o mine, so big with child thet she could barely git up from th floor whilst she was putting Pap’s shoes on fer him. She cooked his meals an poured his coffee. She got up in th mornins an built a fare in th stove. She wouldn’t make us younuns do hit. ‘Hit’s too hard on them younuns ta git up an go outside in thet cold ta git farewood.’ She would say.“

“She raised a garden in th summertime an we would hep but most o th work war on her. She canned an dried everything she could. When th beans come in, we would all pick them an she would spread a big quilt on th porch an pour them on hit an she would show us how ta thread a big darning needle with thread an string them beans up on hit an she would hang them behind the cook stove an enywhere she could find a place ta hang them. One little youngun would nub th beans an us bigger ones would string them up. When they dried, she would store them in a fifty pound lard stand. We would sit on the lard stands adder thet fer we didn’t have enough cheers ta go around. I kin tell ye thet our hands would bleed at times. Thet last summer we had ta walk a fur piece ta git ta th garden an mam still raised a big garden. Mam would dry apples too. We didn’t have eny trees so th neighbors would give them ta us and we would walk over with our big bushel baskets an fill it up an tote them home. Mam would go with us an she would hep us carry them.

Th truth be knowed, I thank my Mam war jest plumb wore out. She war thrity three yar old when she hed th last youngun an she never got out o bed adder thet. Th old midwife who delivered little Millie said our mam died o child bed fever, but I knowed better. I guess right then an thar I started blaming my pa. I knowed I war wrong fer he worked hard too, but I blamed him fer not doing more fer Mam. But I guess as I got older I reckoned hit war jest th way thangs war back then: hard work an more hard work. Ye had ta be right strong ta survive.”

“Th neighbor women all come in when they heared Mam war about ta have th baby. Us younguns war sent next door, but we heared Mam screamin in pain an we come back an stood in th yard an cried. We war so scart. We knowed thet women died having babies…or th babies died or both. As time went on th men gathered in th yard an stood around an drunk shine but hit war a somber time. Th women folk would come outside and shake their heads. Hit war taking too long. Something war wrong. Thar warn’t a doctor around an th old midwife had delivered a lot o babies…but she had lost a lot too, babies an their mothers. Thar war a lot o grumbling from th men. ‘The company needs ta git us a doctor fer sich as this…an whut if we have a cave in at the mine er somebody gits mashed!’ Th midwife, Granny Bess did all she knowed. She made tea from bark and roots. She put a knife under th bed ta cut the pain but she didn’t know whut ta do when Mam got worser an worser. Little Millie finally made hit but Mam war ta sick ta really know. She died three days later. Me an Pa had gone back ta work an my sisters war taken keer o her. Wider Jones took Millie an nursed her. Her man had got kilt in a coal mine cave-in a few months earlier an she had had ta move out with four younguns an a new baby. She did warshing fer people an whutever she could ta raise her younuns, but she come right over an tolt Pa she would breast feed little Millie along with her little John who war six months old.”

“They come got us outer th mine at one thirty in th morning. Mam had died. Pa war all broke apart. I felt right awful thet I couldn’t cry. I didn’t cry fer yars but I reckon I never did git over losing my Mam. I could remember so many thangs: Mam milking old Bossie an takin th time ta feed th barn cats afore we moved ta th coal camp; Mam brushing my sisters hair an cutting my hair when hit got too long an I tolt her I looked like a sissy. I remembered her sweet smile when she churned th fresh butter an then spread hit on hot biscuits an passed hit around ta us younguns. I thank fer all th hard work, my Mam war happy. She loved us younguns an she loved Pa. I remembered her tears when I went inta th mine. She war pretty as a picture and I allus felt she war right thar with me when I war growing up. She war like a angel ta me and I missed her all o my live long life.”

Well, that is all of Cap Smith fer this week. I am looking forward to spring time. This cold weather is hard on us old folk! I want to get outside and work in the yard and pull weeds. Do you remember how the old folk swept their yards and they were hard packed, with not a weed around, much less grass. The chickens would ramble around and they would even go in the house and check things out before the woman of the house saw them and shooed them out with the broom. My Mama always told me that if you stepped over a broom, it would bring you bad luck. I still will not step over a broom to this day, although I know that was only told to us to make our lazy selves pick it up!

Those old folks will stay with us all of our lives I think, their memories inside our hearts, reminding us to cherish each day, so for today remember to smile and pray for your enemies. Take care and blessings!

Cap Smith, Part 2

I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas! If only for one day there would be peace in the land and no deaths or sorrows, that would surely be a day for dancing a jig or two. Several people called me to wish me a Merry Christmas including Rachel, David and the little dog. He even sent me a Christmas card…his picture. He visited me with his human people back in the summer. I would like to say over the past few years I have made many friends and renewed many acquaintances and I appreciate all your calls, cards, letters.

I wonder how many people are making New Year’s Resolutions. I always make them and sometimes I even keep them. A friend of mine via facebook did some genealogy on my family and I found a lot of relatives. As I looked at the myriad of names, it saddened me that I didn’t know any of their stories. The first one was a Frenchman back in the days of Louis IV and he was Captain of the Guards. What stories he could tell! I would like to encourage each of you to write a journal, no matter what your age. I have not kept a journal and I wish that I had, but I feel that my books and articles reflect who I am and how I have lived and I can only hope that somewhere down the line some great great grandchild will pick up where I left off with my writing. So much history is being lost. I grieve each time an older person dies around these mountains for I know they are taking so many things, memories, history and a wonderful part of these mountains that is known only to that person. No one else has the same memories as you. So think about it and make a resolution to write down all you can.

Here is another chapter of Cap Smith:
“I knowed thet adder we moved ta th camp house, hit would only be a day er two afore I started ta work. Pa worked seven nights a week and he war tared all th time. ‘I’ll be right happy when ye go inta th mine with me, boy.’ He said hit over an over. I didn’t tell pa but th truth be tolt now…I war awfully afeared. I war jest a little boy an I wanted ta be able ta run th woods an go fishing an sich. I had never been inside a mine in all my born life. Hit war scarey ta me…all thet darkness. Pa gived me a right good carbide lamp. It sorta looked like a teakettle ta my mind. He showed me how ta light hit. I hed ben around carbide afore. My buddy had some in his pocket onct when we went gigging fer frogs. Hit got wet and ye never seen such hissing and bawling; hissing from the carbide and bawling when it burnt the fare outa my buddy. Ma give me a lard bucket to pack my dinner in each night. Pa worked th night shift from seven at night ta seven in th morning. When he got home each morning, he would sot and drank his coffee and smoke cigarettes fer a hour er two. He would take a bath in a wash tub from the hot water Mam het fer him. Mam would shew all the younguns out of the kitchen and she would take a pan o water and a bar of Lye soap and wash Pa, starting with his head first. I knowed this cause I allus war nosy and I peeped through a crack. Adder she soped him up good she would pour pan after pan of water on him, with him still astandin in th tub. Then she would dry him off. Adder thet she would pour him another cup of coffee and he would saucer hit an when hit war finished he would go ta bed. Hit bothered me right smart ta thank thet Ma would warsh me thet way. I warn’t no baby! Hit war different with Pa, but iffen Ma warshed me then hit would git around an boys would laugh at me…girls too, fer thet matter. So with my fear of going underground thar war also my fear of my Mam warshing me an I rightly don’t know which war worse in my young mind.”

“I decided ta talk ta my Pa about hit. I said, ‘Pa, hit don’t seem right thet Ma would warsh me th way she does ye when ye come in from the mine!’

‘How did ye know thet?’ he ast. I jest hung my head. ‘Yer Ma allus kivers th winders so ye ben lookin, ain’t ye?’ I held my head down even further this time. ‘I guess I have, pa.’ I tolt him. ‘well, son, I’m afeared ye is agoin ta have ta warsh yeself!’ I run out o the house. ‘Thank ye, Jesus!’ I shouted, fer hit couldn’t wait fer church. I never did peep through no cracks adder thet.

Thet first morning I war kinda proud. Hit war in the fall o th yar but hit war still pretty warm. I war kinda upsot thet Mam made me war long johns. I thought I would pert near burn up til I got ta th mine. My pants war too long an Mam had cut them down an now they war too short. Sommin hed gived them ta me. hit war an old Polish womern who couldn’t speak a word o Anglish. She brung the clothes ta th house fer me an I saw tears in her eyes. She spoke ta Mam but Mam couldn’t understand her either. I spect she war upset thet I war goin inta th mine. I larnt later thet she lost her older son in th mine th year afore. She had four workin thar now along with her man. Th boy who war kilt war her youngest an he war eleven yar old. She war a mighty good womern fer she made th best bread in the world an she allus brung some fer us. The evenin I war goin inside the mine she brung me four fried apple pies, made from dried apples and wropped up in a paper poke. I gived two ta pa an I et two when hit war time fer dinner. Mam fried us taters an cooked green beans thet she had canned in the summer and give us a big hunk o cornbread. ‘I wist thar war some way we could keep our food warm in har.’ He would say every born day. ‘iffen we had a bucket with a bottom whar we could put hot water in hit an put our food on top, hit would work right fine.’

The mouth o thet mine war deceiving like. Hit war big enough fer mules ta come out apulling a load o coal so I thought thet surely hit would be th same inside. We went inside fer a ways on thet same ol mule an sled, but then hit war like being in th darkest cave. I war thet scart! Pa had gived me a pick ax ta work with, an I had a hard hat on and carried my dinner pail an I war shakin in th boots thet war too big on me, and th pants thet war cut off at th bottom an tied at th waist with a piece o clothes line. Pa bent his head toward the hole an shined th light right thar. ‘Pa, is thet whar we got ta go?’ ‘thet’s hit son,’ an fer a minute with th carbide lamp shinin in his eyes, I war shore I saw tears.

Hit war hard, hard work and the clinkin sound o them pick ax went on and on right ta the time I went ta my bed, plumb smack wore out. Even in my sleep, I heared them, clanging, clanging against thet black coal. Thet carbide lamps shinin on them walls seemed like hades would be. Thet an th clanging o them picks. By th end o th day I war almost too tard ta walk home. I bagged Mam not ta make me take a bath. I think at that time, I woulda gladly let her warsh me like I war her baby agin. I remember her tears afallin on my face when as I drifted off ta sleep.”

Well, I guess that is all for today. Remember to smile and to say a prayer or two for your enemies; and always always be kind to yourself! Have a Happy New Year and don’t forget to start writing those journals!

Old Man Cap Smith

A few years ago, I met a man who had begun working in the mines when he was seven years old, thanks to my friend David Lewis, who took me to meet him. This is not the old man’s story but it inspired me to write about children in the mines. They worked in the mines in order for their family to get extra money and although it is something this country is not proud to admit, children worked in mines, factories and worked hard until there was a law that voted against it. It was not something they did for their own good, but for the good of their family…for survival. The old man that I met spent the rest of his life working in a coal mine. He said, and I will never forget it, ‘My pap said he got lonely like working in the mine and wanted me to go in with him.’ Seven years old! My heart ached for that old man who was in his seventies and had spent most of it under the ground. I hope you like this story and will give me feedback on it. If so then I will continue about this young boy.            

             (1916) Old man Cap Smith worked in the logging woods all his born life. He was a mule skinner, or to those who didn’t know the term, he hauled logs out of the woods by a mule. He was tall, but he had been bent over since he was young, from going inside a mine with his pa when he was not more than seven years old. He used to tell anybody who would listen, “Why them mine warn’t morn eighteen inches high. I started going with Pa ta keep him company, he tolt me, but truth war, we needed th money. We lived in a little green house, not morn a shack in th mining camp, but hit war a sight bettern  living in thet two room log cabin whar th wind might cut ye in two when ye laid on a pallet on th floor come night time. The floor war hard packed dirt an colder n ice come winter time an hottern hades in th summer. I kinda liked living in th cabin though fer ye could jest go outdoors an up th holler an tree a squirrel er two or mayhap a coon. Ain’t like thet in no camp house. I guess we might a lived in th cabin right on but my Uncle Seth sold th rights o th land ta th coal company an th next thang ye knowed, we war put out o th cabin. Uncle Seth didn’t mean no harm…he jest signed his x right on th line the man tolt him ta sign. He war a nice enough man but adder whut happened, I never did trust no stranger. I warn’t but seven yar old but I remember hit like hit war yesterday. Pa was workin in the mine but thar warn’t no houses open so we had ta find some place ta live. Thar war eight o us younguns an one on th way. I war the oldest boy though I had three sisters oldern me. Well, sir, we moved under a cliff fer a while an hit war right cheerful like, sich as hit war, but my Mam was allus sick like living thar. She had the pleurisy, she said, though she never did go ta th doctor. “

           “We didn’t hav much ta move, so Pa borrowed his Pa’s mule an hauled hit all on a sled. Thar war one bed, hit being Mam an Pa’s an the two youngest littleuns, th second set o twins, a long table an a few old broken down cheers, but mostly we used them big ole lard buckets to sot on. We hed plenty o dishes an stuff like thet, woman thangs Pa allus said, so somehow we made hit. Pa had his two guns, a twenty two an a shot gun and he had a old pistol. Mam built a far outside ta cook on in th summer an in th winter we used the ol farplace, sich as hit war. Mam hated thet ole farplace fer she war shore we would burn up alive in hit.”

          “Th onliest way Pa could git a camp house war ta sign me on ta work with him, but I didn’t know hit then. Not thet hit would make a difference, fer I honored my Pa an Mam an never sassed er back talked them none.”

          “My older sister, Nance, war tickled ta death ta move inta the camp house. She would be shore ta make new friends, er so she thought. Hit war the first time thet we knowed thet we were mighty pore. Th people on one side o us only had three younguns an they all slept in beds, not like us an they had a real stove ta cook on. We war tolt th first time thet Mam built a fare outside thet we couldn’t do thet. Hit war all new ta us. We warn’t usta enybody tellin us what we couldn’t do. This man all dressed in a fancy uniform, come ta th door an knocked right hard like an my sister run ta see who hit war with th rest o us younguns trailing right behind her. Well, sir, my sister war a right comely girl…some might say she was right purty. She war only fourteen but neigh growed as she could be. The man who had knocked at our door like the devil, suddenly couldn’t hardly talk none, but he managed ta git aholt o his self ta tell us thet Mam had ta put th fare out. She could build a fare on wash day, but not ta cook a meal. Ye could smell the food cooking all through the camp. Hit war pinto beans and corn bread but man Mam could shore cook her some beans. Well, ta make a story short thet man sot down on a lard bucket and took some o them beans and corn bread thet Mam offered him. Next thang we knowed some other women in th camp come over with food and plates. Some o them couldn’t speak a word o Anglish. I thank they were Italians thar an them thar Polocks and Lordy knows what else. Hit war th best food eny o us ever had. Thar ended up being nigh onta thirty people all eatin and drinkin in our yard thet day.”

       “Hit war like a party fer us younguns, but us older kids knowed right then and thar thet we were dirt pore.  Suddenly we knowed we war dirty an our hair war stringy an our clothes were nearly in rags. We hed been a right smart cleaner afore we lived under thet thar cliff.  An Mam war about wore out having so many younguns and all. Two sets o twins had about kilt her. I heared her tell Pa thet she shore hoped thisun warn’t another set o twins. Pa jest laughed, “Hit might be three o them this time!”  Pa laughed heartily but Mam didn’t crack a smile.”

            “I’ll never ferget th first night we slept on the floors! They war real wood floors! None o us younguns could remember sleeping on enythang but cold hard earth and under the cliff it had been even colder. Hit war in the spring o the year when we moved under the cliff and Mam worried mightily about snakes. Course us younguns played so hard we didn’t have no problem sleepin, even on the cold ground. Course being the onliest boy I had a lot of chores ta do. I had to carry water from the branch an it seemed a long ways off an thar war forever water ta be brought in. Mam had a sight o clothes ta wash an we would carry them down ta the branch an beat them amonst th rocks ta git them clean. I allus managed ta git a little time ta do thangs thet I loved specially if hit meant putting food on th table. I would head ta th river every changt I got ta go fishing. I allus loved ta fish. I would take my little sister along with me ta ketch crawdads. She war a good crawdad gal. Hit takes a sight o patience ta ketch them thangs, an I liked ta ketch them but my time was allus limited so I had ta spend hit on fishing fer hit would make a good meal fer us. Lordy, we loved a good mess o fish. Mam would clean them down at the branch and roll them in meal an fry them in lard an she would make hush puppies ta go with them. Hit war a meal fit fer a kang!”    

          “I loved ta squirrel hunt too an hit took a half dozen o them ta make us a good meal. If she had hit, Mam would cook some sweet taters ta go with em an she would bake a big pan o biscuits in a cast iron pan on th far ta go with hit. They ain’t nothing like sweet taters throwed in the far an cooked away from th high heat with th juices running from they skins.”

          “Mam an Pa was right frugal with they money when they got a few dollars. Course Pa war paid in script when he war in th mine an th company store war higher a kite on eney thang they fotched.  When I went ta work with Pa, he bought me a chaw of baccy each week an th rest war spent on food an sometimes a bit o clothing when hit was a necessity. I never really liked to chaw, so I would give mine ta Mam. She kept hit hid until she sot down at night an then she would chaw a bit. Hit was her only real thang that war hers alone. Course I am gittin ahead o my story!”

             Well, enjoy the holidays and remember to smile at someone and to bring Christmas into each day of your life and pray for your enemy if you can. It’s right hard to do sometimes! And while you are at it, remember we are so blessed in these times in so many ways.  Blessings.

Christmas Past

Sometimes it seems that the world is falling apart but I think it has always seemed that way; we just didn’t have access to the news in the same way that we do now. But it does seem to me that the more we have the less we enjoy it. I remember years ago that Christmas was not mentioned very much until after Thanksgiving. Mark down sales did not start until after Christmas and there was not this mass rush for consumerism. It is a battlefield now of rush, rush, rush and there doesn’t seem to be any enjoyment. I see faces of discontent and faces of pain…not enough money to buy what their kids really want and in many cases not enough money to even take care of their needs…but this is nothing new. Most of us have gone through that at one time or another.

It is a bit scary though to see so many unhappy people at this time of year. What have we lost? I see people cursing in road rage over the slightest of incidents and even a year ago, I did not see this here in Harlan. When I was a child, that phrase ‘road rage’ had never been brought to life. The other day, I was thinking of my brother, Hagert, after he had told me of the horrible cold they endured in Korea during the war. He cannot stand the cold now and although his medicine might be at fault to some degree, I wonder if those long ago years when he was just a boy had something to do with it. He spent his eighteenth birthday on a ship going to Korea. He had probably not been out of Harlan County very much when he volunteered to go into the Army. Many of his friends had gone as well. Ruby Cox’s older brother went in and he never came back.

Kentucky always had plenty of men and women who felt it was their duty to serve their country and they did with all their hearts. I think of how difficult it must have been, and most especially on the holidays, when all they could think about other than survival was being home in front of a good warm fire. The cold, the dirt, the smell of gunpowder and blood in the air…death never took holidays. I’m sure that my brother, young and naïve about life, missed his mother so much. I know he must have thought of going hunting back in the deep woods of Kentucky. He probably thought of going to Granny’s house and sitting around the fireplace with Pap and the days of his youth rambling throughout the woods. He loved to fish and hunt and I am sure the taste of fried sun grannies or squirrel cooked with gravy and sweet potatoes, sweet with natural sugar flowing from them, danced through his young mind.

As Christmas is nearly upon us, I think of my Uncle Daunt who served in World War I and was poisoned with gas, never to be able to live a normal life again and my great grandfather, Jonathon, who fought in the Civil War. Of course you know that my dad fought in World War II. Christmas brings memories to mind of them all, cold, war weary and longing for the Kentucky Mountains, to see them once again, to breathe in the fresh mountain air and to go hunting and fishing, and looking for gin sang. Many of the men, warriors forever, will never get to see these mountains again, for they were killed in action. Did they think of the loved ones back home, these wondrous mountains, the freedom they afforded our youth, when they breathed their last breath? Did they think of Christmas, of sitting around the old Warm Morning, drinking coffee and talking with their parents? Or did they think of the gas station or old country stores that were hangouts for the old and young?

I think perhaps we were afforded more freedom here in the mountains than any other place when we were young. Our mamas never worried when we were in the woods, except for snakes, and we were warned aplenty about them.

My friend from high school, David Gilliam, an avid reader sent me a package this morning. There were three books inside the box. One was a Lodge Cast Iron Cook Book, one was Life Through the Eyes of an Elementary School Student, by Bobby Darrell White. Bobby was born in Gilley Holler in 1942, delivered by Dr. Fields who was a distant relative. I haven’t read it but it seems to focus around Cumberland and the elementary school up on the hill from the high school. The third book was Mother Jones, The Miners’ Angel and I am looking forward to reading it. I have heard a lot about her. I think she is one of the heroes of the mountains in the same way as Mary Breckenridge. I was amazed when I began writing A Great Heart that I had never heard of this wonderful woman who started the Frontier Nursing Service over in Hyden, Ky.

There are so many women in our neck of the woods who are truly heroines and most of them were just trying to survive. It was with great honor that I put a picture of my mother on the front of my book, along with her greatest treasures, her children who survived. Mama was an unsung heroine. She lost three little babies and I don’t think they ever left her mind until the day she died. She was not unusual…there were so many like her: Goldie Lewis, Aunt Katy, Aunt Cassie, Aunt Serrie, Granny Ison, Dorabelle Kellamen, Essie Blair, Gladys Dixon, Ruth Perciful, Mrs. Cox, Granny Halcomb, Aunt Nance, and a thousand others whose name I cannot remember and whose faces have dimmed with time. They lost babies, they lost grown sons to wars or to the coal mines, they lost husbands, and yet they never lost their faith in God. Like Job, they suffered through it all and held onto their strong love for their creator and a better hereafter. This land here in the mountains has not been kind to those who dared to live here, and most especially the women. Sometimes I sit and think of how hard it must have been when this land was first settled, with danger from Indians and others, constantly on the minds of those who came here to make a home. As time went on it became a more difficult hardship for the Indians than the whites and again the women suffered immeasurably. Although it has been argued, I do believe that Indian blood mingles through many of us white people around here. And perhaps many of our survival traits came from them as well.

So this year when you think of Christmas, think of the past ones as well. Remember the young men who were fighting and thought of home at Christmas as they hovered, cold and lonely trying to get warm; think of the ones who left to find work, teenagers still, and cried at Christmas time for they too, were lonely for their family and for the yesterdays when Mama made biscuits with hot jam on cow butter for them. When you think of Christmas, think of the coal miners who spent so much of their lives inside a mountain and become old, bent, and worn long before their time and a perfect Christmas to them, was food and clothes for a bunch of hungry younguns and a fire to keep them warm. And think of the women who worked from daylight to dark for those same younguns and Christmas to her was food and clothes for her little ones, and a warm fire to sit by and read her Bible. Think of Christmas as a day of Grace, a day of memories, a day of thankfulness for having a warm fire and food enough for another long winter. Remember to smile at someone and send up a little prayer for your enemies. Write to me anytime…blessings.