NEWS FROM THE HILLS
I love living in a rural county, and in a small neighborhood. It is a pleasure to live where you are known not only by your own name but also by the names that your parents and grandparents carried. Perhaps it is a country thing, but one of the first questions we ask a stranger is, “What were your parents’ names?”Some time ago a strange man knocked on the door, and when I answered it, he introduced himself, “I’m John O’Dell.” Without thinking, I blurted, “Who was your grandpa?” After a startled look, he told me. Then I explained that I was working on the O’Dell genealogy, as my maiden name was the same. Sure enough, he was a distant cousin.
The population turnover here in our community is practically nonexistent, and many of the descendents of the pioneer families who first lived here are settled on the same farm that their forefathers owned. There is a certain kinship between neighbors who have always known each other, and who also remember your grandparents.
In the country, you are not just a number. You are a respected individual who is greeted by your first name as you walk down the street (or down the road, as the case may be.) I digress here, but when we were youngsters, we called most neighbor men by their first names, but their wives were always called “Mrs.”
It was Dewey and Mrs. Spencer, Lovel and Mrs. Everson, Homer and Mrs. Oxley, and Jim and Mrs. Butler. I guess the exception was Lemon and Hettie Brown — we called them both by their first name. I remember one time when Daddy, who was known for his tangled tongue, invited Hettie in and added, “Have a heat, Settie!”
We were not being disrespectful — it was just our custom. Older men were addressed as “uncle,” even though they were not related. One of my children asked me once just how “Uncle” Howard Jarrett was related to us. I had to explain that he wasn’t; it was merely a title of respect.
Where else, except in a small town, can you phone the local pharmacy and ask for a refill on medicine and not even identify yourself? I can call the Foodland Pharmacy and Candy, Tammy or Amy recognizes my voice immediately and gives prompt, friendly service. Girls such as these will brighten your day.
Some of my children had the same teacher that I had in grade school. Valley Fork Elementary has seen three generations of our family pass through the doors, and there are many more to come. I love the close-knit feeling that exists between faculty and families.
The old-timey customs still prevail here, as they do in most small communities in the mountains. Folks don’t have to be invited to visit; they still just drop in. If it is mealtime, you will be invited to join the family. (Wouldn’t this tear up a city dweller?)
Grandpa and Grandma O’Dell were known for their hospitality. They were real “clever” folks. Scarcely a meal passed that someone didn’t join them at the table. I remember Grandpa telling about a neighbor lady who always “just happened” to drop in at suppertime every evening.
They would invite her to eat, and she would run to the door and yell to her husband, “Ho, Har’son (Harrison), if’n yore a’wantin’ anything to eat, you’d better be gottin’ yourself down here!” Har’son would be hiding in the woods until the call came. Needless to say, that has become a favorite family saying.
When there is a death in a family, neighbors rush to the home with dishes of food as expressions of sympathy. It seems that the offering of food is one of the best expressions of love.
I am glad that we still cling to the old customs. Hospitality is a Bible teaching, as far back as Abraham. He really started from scratch, when he had a calf butchered to feed three strangers (Genesis 18:7). The New Testament admonishes us to “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” (Hebrews 13:2)
Speaking of old customs and old ways, I left out one of the phrases that we used to say about milk. On raw milk, the cream will rise to the top, and when it is skimmed off, we called the remaining milk “blue John.” Come to think of it, I saw the same thing in the grocery store labeled “skim milk.”
Give everyone my love,
Cousin Alyce Faye
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