When Dad took corn to the mill he described it as “taking a turn of corn to the mill on grinding day.” The miller performed his services for a “toll,” usually a gallon of corn for two bushels of ground meal.
It is sad to me that waterwheels, and gristmills, once so important to the survival of many, are now tourist attractions. Gristmills that once ground corn into meal now simply grind out dollars for their owners.
The Old Moon in February
Grandpa and his pa before him on Stoney Fork each set store by the moon and the stars and other kinds of folklore. They would be quick to explain the reason why floors buck, doors warp, shingles curl, and fence rails rot. They would say, “They went agin the moon. When the moon is full timber, fibers warp and pull.” According to them, there was a difference in wood cut three hours before the new moon and that cut six hours after.
Dad held to certain beliefs about the weather. Sometimes on a winter night the fire in the grate would make a noise like someone whose boots went “scrunch” through the snow. When the fire made sounds like this, Dad would say it was going to snow. It always did.
I have since learned that as early as 1300 B.C. people believed there were intimate connections between man and the celestial bodies. Astrologers used the zodiac as a guide to nearly everything—butchering hogs, pulling teeth, fishing, forecasting the weather, milking cows, baking, cooking, and all phases of farming and wellness.
Grandpa always said, “The old moon in February is the right time for cutting timber that will stand forever straight and true.” In the old days in Appalachia, men knew how to hand-cut timber and rough lumber. When Grandpa and other old-timers in the mountain cut down trees, rived shingles, or even cut firewood, they did it according to the signs of the moon. Today, much of their lore is looked upon as mere superstition. Perhaps that explains why today’s lumber is considered inferior to that used in the old days.
When Dad rived out boards for our house roof, as well as for the barn, crib, and smokehouse, he was careful to go with the grain because “shingles split with the grain shed rain” while shingles cut across the grain hold water and rot. He also believed that boards and shingles should be put on when the horn of the new moon points down. “Then they won’t cup on you,” he would say. “When you see a roof with the boards all cupped up, they were put on in the light of the moon.” Grandpa said one time that firewood should be cut at the quarter of the moon to prevent it from snapping and throwing embers beyond the hearth.
The old-timers had learned from experience that it was best to cut wood from the north side of a tree, because it was not as susceptible to warping from dampness or milling. When they cut a pine to get lumber for flooring, they first split the tree in half and kept the northern half, using that half for wide, flat boards. They quarter-sawed the southern half for lumber to be used where warping was not as important.
Today’s furniture is often made from just one kind of wood, but in the old days a simple rocking chair might contain as many as seven kinds of wood. Dad and Grandpa, as well as several of my uncles, were excellent chair makers.
They knew that wood breathes with the weather, warping, contracting, or expanding with each change of humidity and temperature. If your house creaks and cracks during weather changes it is built of healthy wood.
If you believe the old-timers were backward and superstitious when it comes to working with wood, you should have had a chance to sit a spell with them on Stoney Fork, especially during the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s, and learn the wisdom handed down through generations of mountain pioneers.
Following the signs of the zodiac was common in the mountains when I was a child. I loved reading in the Farmer’s Almanac about signs and wise sayings. I looked at the stars on clear nights and believed they were friendly to us. I made up stories about the stars, fairies, and devas (wood spirits) of the natural world.
12
Family and Friends
The mountains taught me just about everything
I needed to know. My family and friends taught
me the rest.
When my youngest grandson, Eric Lawson, celebrated his eighth birthday, I went to his house to pick him up. When he answered the door, I announced to him that I had been “instructed to come kidnap a little blond-haired, blue-eyed boy who was eight years old!” His blue eyes opened wide, and he looked toward his dad. I hurried him out of the house without telling his parents specifically where we were going.
When Eric was younger, we would go shopping together. He loved going to the grocery where they had a big, round sun face as part of their decorations. He would climb up into the cart so he could be sure to see it. I used to marvel at the look of pure delight on his face when he saw that sun face.
Sometimes I would take Eric to the flea market at the Boone Square mini-mall. As we browsed up and down the aisles, he would ask ten thousand questions. “What is that used for?” “How did they make that?” “Why is that painted blue?” “Who owns all those books?” And, of course, the most popular question: “Will you buy this for me?”
When I picked Eric up for his eighth birthday I was not surprised when he requested that we go to the Boone Square mini-mall flea market. We walked up and down the aisles, as he selected small items he could not live without. Then we discovered two bicycle helmets, one in good shape. He had received a brand-new bicycle for his birthday, but no helmet. I bought one of the helmets for him, and he promised to wear it every time he rode his bicycle.
Something about our shopping trip was different this time, and it took me a little while to realize what it was. Eric only occasionally asked questions about the items. I realized that since he was four or five years old, he had acquired a lot of information about things in general from school and television, and he did not need to ask as many questions. He was growing up, and I wanted to hold him and savor every moment with him.
Today his family lives near me, and Eric is seventeen years old. He rides his bicycle to visit me. We have always been close. But now that girlfriends and learning to drive keep him busy, I don’t think I will see him as often now. Time changes people, but you can still love them as before.
Beloved Maple Tree
My favorite tree on High Street in Berea is a huge old maple that stands in the corner of my yard. Fortunately it survived the 1996 tornado—which did uproot a fifty-foot white pine growing near the edge of my front porch. The maple, however, was unscathed. I am so grateful it is still alive.
My son Bruce loved that maple tree. He would climb up and be hidden by the thick limbs as he watched people walk or drive by. If the passerby was someone he knew, he enjoyed making noise and watching the person on the street try to figure out where the noise was coming from.
In the fall when full color comes to all the trees, the maple lights up my living room and the bedroom upstairs above the living room. It makes the room look sun-filled even when the sky is overcast.
My husband Grant’s mother, Jeanette Farr, opened her heart to six-year-old Bruce the first time Grant took us to her home in Black Mountain, North Carolina. One year she visited us in October, just when the beauty of our maple was at its peak. The leaves were abundant that year and generously carpeted the whole front yard.
Bruce introduced Gran to “his” tree, and it is a wonder we did not find her up in the tree with him! It was curious how, when the two of them were together, Bruce seemed older and she younger. They had grand times together. She often did things that made the rest of her family fear for her safety, and got Bruce’s promise not to tell Grant or anyone else.
She did not try to climb the tree. However, she could, and did, play in the leaves with him! I have photographs of the two of them on the ground, covered up with leaves, just their heads sticking out. Grant both laughed at and scolded his mother for lying on the cold ground “at her age.” But I thought it was wonderful that she, especially at her age, could get down on the ground and romp and play in the leaves with Bruce.
Every fall after that, when the maple tree shed most of its leaves, I could not help but go walking through them. Leaves make such a satisfying crunch. I hope I never get too old to feel the urge to play in them—or, when October’s burnished gold spills over into the brown of November, ache to be one with Indian summer days.
I will always be grateful that Bruce had those years with his Gran. She taught him that some adults could be trusted to keep secrets; she taught him how to use his imagination; she gave him lessons on how to look to nature for the simple truths, and to trust the world of spirit for eternal values.
Gran passed to the world of spirit in 1979; and though a bright light went out in the universe, its radiance still shines in our hearts and memories. She took Bruce and me in and made us feel part of her large family. And even though Grant and I are now divorced, other members of the family stay in touch with both Bruce and me, and we continue to visit them.
Brother Fred
My middle brother, Fred, died in 1995, when he was fifty-two. I married and left home so early that I did not get to spend as much time with Fred as I would have wished; and then he married and began raising his own family. After he became terminally ill, however, I saw Fred often, and we shared some good talks about our lives in the mountains, our parents, and each other.
Our youngest brother, Lee Roy, wrote a tribute to Fred that is as eloquent as anything I could say about him, and I believe his remembrance is worth quoting in full.
My brother was diagnosed with cancer in April 1994. His wife, children, our remaining brother and six sisters, all went through alternate stages of hope and despair in the next year and a half.
I spent many days at his bedside talking, listening, and praying for and with him. Through this process I found myself changing—certain beliefs, old habits, acquiring more patience and a deeper spiritual attitude. His faith and strength were shining examples to me.
He was in charge from Day One. He decided when to stop painful treatments, and when to declare he wanted to die naturally at home.
He asked forgiveness and achieved peace with God and other people. He thought of many details that he could take care of to spare his family after his death. He planned his funeral and picked out the burial plot, made a will, and took care of many other details, including adoption of his two stepdaughters.
His wife Jackie became even more his partner, his helpmate, as he talked everything over with her. She kept a cheerful countenance for him, encouraging him, telling him little anecdotes about family, friends, and church. She kept demonstrating her love for him and taking care of him day and night.
Through spending time with him I managed to see my recent past in perspective, to realize how small my troubles were compared to his. He talked about our lives as boys, about Mama and Dad, about his children.
One day when he was very sick, he seemed to be in our childhood again. He replied seemingly to a question that he was seven years old. The most moving part of this was when he turned over on his side and began singing part of a gospel song with phrases like “I’m going to a better place, where there’s no more pain, no more sorrow, no more death.”
I am thankful that I got to spend as much time as I did with him. I witnessed how real and close God and the angels were to him and to us.
Appalachia-Alaska Connection
When I first met Ginny Carney in 1991 I had no inkling of the friendship we would come to share. Ginny Carney, an RN and a native of East Tennessee, moved to Alaska to live for almost two decades with her husband and three sons. At one time they had lived in the Bahamas and befriended a young native woman, who became their cook and house-keeper. They kept in touch with her after she married and bore four children, two sons and two daughters. Then their friend was tragically murdered. After a frustrating time working through all the legalities, Ginny and her husband adopted the four children and started raising a family again.
During those years in Alaska she lost touch with what was happening in her native region. One winter day while in the library at the University of Alaska at Anchorage (UAA) she found a copy of my bibliography on Appalachian women and was “thrilled to see that someone was doing something about Appalachian people.” Though we had never met and did not know each other, Ginny called to tell me how much she appreciated my bibliography.
At the time, Ginny was teaching two English classes at UAA and, using my bibliography and other lists of materials I had sent her, she wrote a proposal for a grant to teach a course on Appalachian women in literature. She received the grant, along with permission from the university to teach the course on a one-time-only basis. Fourteen women and one man enrolled.
Ginny called me when the course was assured. She invited me to come to Alaska and lecture on Appalachia at the university. With my son Bruce, I flew to Anchorage on September 25, 1991. Over the next two days, I spoke to Ginny’s class and another class on American women writers, as well as at a colloquium and a town forum.
I have never been more warmly welcomed in any place than I was in Alaska. Bruce and I were invited to dinner by several of Ginny’s class members, and we enjoyed a potluck supper one night, where we sampled some native dishes, including moose stew. After I spoke to Ginny’s class, the students presented me with a picnic basket full of small gifts—a dream catcher and homemade mincemeat, Alaskan cookbooks, a cassette tape, and other delightful surprises. The students said they had been reading about Southern hospitality and wanted to make me feel at home. Somehow they found out my birthday, and the following October, back in Berea, I received a dozen roses from the class. I also received letters and telephone calls from them during the holidays.
Word got around about Ginny’s class, and other students became interested. A petition asking that Professor Carney be allowed to teach the course again was circulated, and it garnered 224 signatures. The university complied, and Ginny taught two more classes on Appalachia, one of them focusing on contemporary Appalachian women writers.
Ginny and I kept in touch. She asked me about the doctoral programs at the University of Kentucky (UK). She planned to drive to Berea to meet me when she came to visit her mother in Tennessee later in the spring. I made telephone calls to UK and set up appointments for her; during her visit she spent a day on the UK campus. She then applied and was admitted to the doctoral program.
Ginny, with her four adopted children, moved to Berea in July 1993. Her husband remained in Alaska. I helped her find a big house for rent in the country. She and her landlady, Etta Anglin, became good friends and allies as they pursued their higher education goals and cared for their children. Ginny’s children enrolled at Silver Creek, Foley Middle School, and Madison Southern High School.
Living out in the country, Ginny says, enabled her to get in touch with her roots again. She talks about sitting on her front porch and listening to the evening and night sounds, watching the moon come up and millions of stars light up the sky. She says this healed her body and soul. She in turn has formed an amazing network of teachers and writers throughout Appalachia.
Going to Alaska was a tremendous boon in my own life. It also enabled Bruce to fulfill a longtime dream: to walk on a glacier. While in Alaska, we saw two big glaciers; we saw salmon trying to swim upstream—though they were dying because it was late in the season. We saw a huge iceberg near one glacier but were barred from going any further because bears had been spotted nearby.
Ginny Carney is one of the strongest women I have ever met. Knowing her has made me stronger and renewed my enthusiasm for being a writer and member of the Appalachian network of educators and writers.
While she was living in Kentucky, Ginny told me she wanted to visit Stoney Fork and meet some of my relatives who were still living there. We drove to Stoney Fork on a Sunday. Our first stop was at a subsidized highrise building for incapacitated and elderly people. My disabled brother Jeems was living there in a tiny apartment that shone with cleanliness. Several of his foliage plants and smaller dish gardens we
re in his living room, and family photographs were hanging on the walls.
After a short visit with Jeems, we drove up the Right Fork of Straight Creek to the mouth of Stoney Fork to visit with my sister Della and her husband, John. They lived in the old Ritter Lumber Camp, which was built in the early 1950s. When the mill closed down, the company offered to sell the houses on an individual basis. Della and John bought one, and their house is neatly painted and tidy.
While Della and I caught up on family news, Ginny and John talked. John had to quit school after the eighth grade because there was no high school close enough for him to attend, nor school buses to the county high school fifteen miles away. Perhaps as a result of his lack of formal schooling, John does not read much except perhaps a weekly newspaper, but through television he keeps up with what is happening politically in the nation. He talked with Ginny about local, state, and national politics and their impact on Appalachia.
We drove up Stoney Fork and turned into York Branch, where my childhood home used to be, and then up Bingham Hollow to the place where my grandparents had lived. Relatives of mine still lived in small homes along the road from York Branch to the head of Bingham Hollow. To my surprise, what had always been a dirt road was now paved. “Somebody around here must know the right politicians,” I said to Ginny.
My paternal Aunt Betty and her husband, William, still live at the old home place. Betty is now in her eighties; William is a decade younger, but has been on crutches for many years, having lost a leg as the result of a timber-woods accident. The road literally stops in their front yard. When we drove up, we saw that they had planted flowers everywhere—alongside the little creek, beside a dead stump, at one corner of a shed, among rows of corn and beans, in back of the kitchen—each plant looking as if it had grown there naturally. Their five-room house was neat, the front porch and yard around the steps were swept clean.
My Appalachia Page 10
