NEWS FROM THE HILLS

Mild and gentle May has spread her green skirts over our hills, and ushered in a delightful season of budding springtime. I recall Mom reciting a charming poem that I also learned in school. It was amazing how her mind retained many of the old poems.

I know a place were the sun is like gold,

And the cherry blooms burst with snow,

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Down underneath is the loveliest nook,

Where the four leaf clovers grow.

One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith,

And one is for love, you know,

But God put another in for luck,

If you search, you will find where they grow.

But you must have hope, and you must have faith,

You must love, be strong and so,

If you work, if you wait, you will find the place,

Where the four leaf clovers grow.

By Ella Higginson

I wonder now if Mom, as she slept in her recliner, ever found the place where the four leaf clovers grow.

She had a hard life growing up on Big Laurel Creek. Her mother died when Mom was only 11, leaving a family of seven girls, four boys, and a grieving husband. Mom was the youngest daughter, with one younger brother. The older children were married, but her dying left four younger ones without a mother.

She recalled a time or two, the hot summer when her mother died. The diagnosis was tuberculosis, but Mom says it must have been cancer. She lay dying that whole summer, attended by the older girls. Mom said she remembers how they fanned her, in a time of no electricity, no electric fans, and no ice.

Even the little ones knew she was dying. One day Mom told her, “Oh, Mommy, I don’t want you to die!” She answered, “Yes, but think about poor little Gene.” He was the younger brother who was stricken with osteomyelitis when he was five years old. They called it bone scrofula at that time, and he suffered with it all of his life.

I don’t know which is the more heart-rending—a mother who knew she was dying and leaving a family of children, or the children who were left without a mother. Mom ached for a mother. When the school would have a special program or other activity where the parents were invited, Mom would inch up close to the mothers hoping one of them would draw her close and hug her.

Of course the older girls did their best, but no one can take the place of a mother. It was rough growing up on Big Laurel Creek. Time passed though, and she grew up, married my father, and became my mother.

It is hard to determine when you first become aware of a mother as a person. At first she is food and warmth, comfort and security. A mother’s arms contain all of a baby’s needs. Then as we grow and our world expands, we learn to recognize other family members as well as our surroundings.

When I try to think back to my very first memories, they are scattered and vague. There is a little rough house on the edge of the creek bank, with red rambler roses growing up the outside wall of the kitchen. The front yard is bordered with bright cosmos flowers, and a tall Lombardy poplar tree reigns over all.

It is the springtime of Mom’s life, and she is hanging out clothes on a line that stretches from the tree to a post set in the ground. The first babies have appeared, and she sings happily as she goes about her daily chores.

I recall more clearly the summer period, when all seven of us youngsters were underfoot. Grandpa O’Dell lived with us, and life for her was busy. Even now, I marvel at the work she accomplished. She cooked three meals a day, washed mountains of clothes on a wringer washing machine and hung them all to dry on the clothesline—summer and winter. Then she sprinkled them down and ironed them.

She sometimes milked, and took care of all the milk products—reading the Bible while she churned. She made all our clothing on a pedal Singer sewing machine, braided pigtails for four girls, canned a cellar full of garden produce and wild blackberries, made jams and jellies by the quart.

Autumn came then, and heartache came with it. After 42 years of marriage, Daddy suffered a massive stroke. The strong arm that she had always leaned upon was gone. When he passed away three years later, it seemed as if the joy of living had left her also. She was now leaning upon her children.

We look back at her life, and the valuable lessons that she taught us, and realize that you cannot overestimate the worth of a mother. Her love for God has been a beacon, and her love for Daddy has taught us how to love our husbands. The love she had for us children, and still had for the little ones who played around her chair, is an example we followed.

She has since passed away. But I recall her snoozing in her chair. Perhaps she was dreaming of a “place where the sun is like gold.”

We have some odds and ends to wrap up, and hopefully we will get to the most of them. Shirley Phillips of Saulsville wants to know if I’ve ever heard the word “quope?” Then she added, “How do you call a horse?” That sounds like the word Daddy used. Criss says “cope” was the word they used, but it has to be said with a certain inflection. Horses responded to it.

When Mom and Daddy called the milk cow, they said, “Swo-o-o-k!” The cows would hear that call and come barreling off the hill. These are words rarely heard any more, along with many others. Lawton Posey recalls one of his relatives exclaiming, “Well, I swiggie!” when he was astonished at something.

Ray McCune of Fort Wayne (native of Braxton County) remembers his brother using the phrase, “Lord love a duck!” Patty asked me where this came from, “nothing peckin’!” meaning “no way” or “I won’t do it.”  We still use that.

This question may be a little out of season, but Phyllis Carroll of Gassaway inquires, “What is the difference between an Easter snow, a robin snow, and an old woman snow? Is a cow storm the same as an old woman snow?” I must confess that I don’t know, but perhaps some of you old timers can straighten her (and me!) out on this. I just hope we have seen the last of any snow until winter again.