NEWS FROM THE HILLS
There is a mumble of thunder in the distance as another summer storm moves closer. Dog days set in rainy, with frequent showers that inspire the gardens—and weeds—to grow by leaps and bounds. In spite of the rain, it is still hot and muggy. Midsummer has settled in for now.
It was on days such as this that we children would flee to the barn to play for hours. It would be too wet to work in the garden or pick blackberries, so we had a free day. The barn was our own private hideaway from the world, and our imagination knew no bounds.
With the rain drumming on the tin roof, and piles of sweet-smelling hay all around us, we were a pirate ship sailing on wild and stormy seas. Sometimes we girls were the beautiful captive maidens frightened by the evil captain who threatened to throw us overboard to the hungry sharks threshing about in the water below.
It seemed so real that we actually got scared. Imagination makes a wonderful companion at play. Those happy, carefree days of childhood—they just didn’t last long enough. But you can never go back and live them again.
Today’s children who stay indoors and watch television or play their video games are missing out on something precious. I am so thankful that the Lord placed me right here in the hills where I can still be close to nature. I wouldn’t change one thing about my childhood.
Blackberries are hanging black and juicy on the vines now. This is another of the wild foods from the hills, free for the picking. It was a staple when I was a youngster. We picked gallons of them for Mom to can, make jams and jellies, and blackberry cobblers. It was also the only source of making money for school supplies. It was hot, hard work, but almost every day found us going to the berry field with our buckets.
I love these hills.
The month of August has been called “the bridge from summer to fall.” It is bordered on each side by Queen Anne’s lace, which spreads her dainty white doilies beneath the beaming sun. Black-eyed Susans stare boldly as we cross the bridge, and the mauve heads of Joe-Pye weed wave a warm welcome.
The touch-me-not (jewelweed) jingle their bright orange and yellow earrings and flirt shamelessly. An orange and black Monarch butterfly hovers above a cluster of purple milkweed and stirs the cloying, sweet fragrance through the air.
Morning glories are twined around the cornstalks, adding a bright note of color to the garden. These are properly regarded as “the Glory of the Morning” as they close quickly in the sunlight. They are beautiful to behold early in the morning with a sparkle of dew hanging on the velvety blossoms.
Beside the bridge the evening primroses begin to bloom in the evening, and close by noon the next day. As twilight falls, their lemon-scented, pale yellow flowers burst into bloom and like the morning glories, close up their petals when the sun grows bright. It is growing dark as we linger on the bridge. Lightning bugs rise up from the grass below and sparkle in the gathering dusk like miniature stars that have fallen to the ground.
The lonely quirr of the tree frogs is heard, and now katydids begin their high-pitched quarreling. “Katy did!” sounds from a treetop, and an answering “She didn’t!” is flung from another tree. In the background, the continuous din from the fall insects goes on and on. Although the weather is still quite hot, the sounds of the insects are pure fall.
This bridge is pleasant to observe in the dimming light, as the night shadows fall and darkness creeps in slowly. The porch swing is a companionable place to rest and let the soothing night sounds drain away the stress of the day. As children, we used to gather in the porch swing at nightfall and sing, “Twilight is stealing over the sea/ Shadows are falling dark on the lea/ Borne on the night winds, voices of yore/ Come from that far off shore.”
We didn’t really comprehend what the words meant, but even in our childish minds there was a bittersweet longing for something vague. Now as I sit here, more words come to my mind. “Come in the twilight/ Come, come to me/ Bearing some message over the sea/ Cheering my pathway while here I roam/ Seeking that far-off home.”
Now that I am nearing the other side of the bridge, the words have much more meaning. And that far-off home isn’t so far away now. Twilight in the porch swing seems to bring nostalgic memories of yesterday, and loved ones who lived then. In our minds, they appear and laugh and converse with us. Memories truly are a gift from God.
Thanks to our readers, we have had some wonderful response to the request for the words to “When It’s Lamplighting Time.” Cousin Ellyn Dawn came through as usual, and my friend Carol Kerns from Bethany Beach, DE responded quickly. Eileen Stanley of Kenna sent the words and added, “We sang it when I was a teenager in Ritchie County—now I am 85!”
Logan Browning of Summersville sent the words with this note, “It’s a blue grass song. I pick the banjo and play blue grass gospel and blue grass music. I am 20 years old and go to Concord University in Athens, where I am a third year accounting student.” Now that’s a boy after my own heart!
I am using the version that was sent by Elizabeth Eloise Mann of Elkins, as she has an extra verse.
LAMP LIGHTING TIME IN THE VALLEY
There’s a lamp shining bright in the cabin
In a window it’s shining for me
And I know that my mother is praying
For the boy she is longing to see.
Chorus: When it’s lamp lighting time in the valley
Then in dreams I go back to my home.
I can see that old lamp in the window
It will guide me wherever I roam.
In the lamp light each night I can see her
As she rocks in her chair to and fro
She is praying that I’ll come back to see her
Still I know that I never can go.
So she lights up her lamp and sits waiting
For she knows not the deeds I have done
But I’ll change all my ways and go meet her
Up in heaven when life’s race is run.
When it’s lamp lighting time in the valley
And the shadows of night gently fall
It is then that I long for the valley
And I miss you dear mother most of all.
Miss Phyllis Marks of Glenville is searching for the words to “My Pretty Quadroon.” I remember hearing Mom sing that when I was just a little girl.
Alyce Faye Bragg can be reached at alycefaye@citlink.com or 2556 Summers Fork Road, Ovapa, WV 25150
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