NEWS FROM THE HILLS
After days of gloomy and cloudy weather, the Lord looked down upon our West Virginia hills and sent a day worthy of the finest springtime. White clouds dissipated this morning and allowed blue skies to rule the heavens. Temperatures were mild and sunshine prevailed. A cardinal raised his voice in praise to the day, as his melodic notes floated through the air.
A reflected sunset bathes Pilot Knob in a golden glow this evening, a yellow pyramid that shines against the darker background. This is a day that makes a person grateful to be alive, and feel privileged to live here in our hills.
The fevered excitement of the holidays is over, and we settle down to the routine of everyday living. Winter looms ahead, cold days of ice and snow and indoor living. It is time to experiment with new recipes, read some good books, and enjoy the companionship of friends and family.
Many folks detest cold weather, but winter doesn’t really last that long (it just seems to!) and we can look forward to springtime. In the meantime, we need to be thankful for every day that the Lord gives us, and make the most of it.
I have a backlog of requests for recipes, poems, and other things. Since the holidays are over, we will try to catch up on these.
There have been two requests for the old-fashioned sweet cakes made with molasses and spices (and stored by Grandma in a flour sack.) Do you remember the flour sacks that were blue on the inside? Maw Jett used to make the sweet cakes for us each Christmas and deliver them in a flour sack. We miss her, and the sweet cakes.
Jean Ball of Hewett writes that her grandma used to make them, and adds that she misses the old fashioned recipes that she enjoyed while growing up. The recipe that I have came from Mattie McMorrow’s daughter, Opal Ramsey, who graciously shared it.
Mattie McMorrow’s Old-Fashioned Sweet Cakes
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup molasses
1 cup vegetable shortening (old folks used lard)
2 eggs
1/2 cup warm water
5 cups flour
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon soda
1 teaspoon salt (optional)
1 teaspoon ginger
Chopped or ground raisins
Chopped nuts
Mix together and drop by spoonful on greased baking sheet. Bake at 375 until lightly browned around the edges. (Pat tops of cookies with water before baking to prevent browning too quickly.)
It must have been coincidence that I received a letter from William “Bill” McMorrow of Elkview today. He was inquiring about his great aunt and uncle (Willis and Mattie McMorrow) who lived near my husband’s family many years ago. Of course the old folks have passed on, but her sweet cake recipe lives on.
Marion Tanner of Fayetteville is looking for the recipe for old fashioned stacked apple pies. She goes on to say that as we grow older, the simple joys of childhood become more precious. She adds that she always looked forward to the homecomings at church because of the stacked apple pies. I have never made them, but I am sure some of our readers can help.
I’ve had a request for a poem, “Somebody’s Mother.” I was visiting Mom in the Personal Care Home recently, and quoted a few lines of the poem. To my amazement, she could remember quite a bit of it, with a little prompting. This poem will forever remind me of my mother.
SOMEBODY’S MOTHER
by Elizabeth Akers Allen
The woman was old and ragged and gray
And bent with the chill of the winter’s day.
The street was wet with a recent snow
And the woman’s feet were aged and slow.
She stood at the crossing and waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng
Of human beings who passed her by
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.
Down the street, with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of “school let out,”
Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.
Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way.
Nor offered a helping hand to her—
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir
Lest the carriage wheels or the horses’ feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.
At last came one of the merry troop,
The gayest laddie of all the group;
He paused beside her and whispered low,
“I’ll help you cross, if you wish to go.”
Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.
Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.
“She’s somebody’s mother, boys, you know,
For all she’s aged and poor and slow,
“And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,
“If ever she’s poor and old and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away.”
And “somebody’s mother” bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was “God be kind to that noble boy,
Who is somebody’s son, and pride and joy!”
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