Father’s Day has come and gone, and I find myself still thinking about my father. He has been gone for almost 41 years, yet there is hardly a day goes by when I don’t remember something about him. Father’s Day is a special day for remembering, . . .
April gently sprinkles our hills with springtime beauty, and with plenty of showers to encourage the grass to grow green and lush. The apple trees put forth their fragrant pink and white blossoms, promising fruit in the future. There is a forecast for frost in our hills, so hopefully it won’t freeze the bloom.
The redbud trees are blooming now, and the white dogwoods are putting out their blossoms that bless our hills. Redbud trees have always been special to me. My brother Larry planted one for Mom in our front yard when I was growing up, and it was beautiful even when it was not blooming. Heart-shaped leaves that turned yellow in the fall made a spot of beauty there. I’ve always been attracted to the pods that come after the flowers are gone, and I once found a recipe for stir-fries containing them.
They must have been past their prime, as they tasted like a mouthful of dry leaves or hay. They have to be picked while they are pink and tender. The flowers can be used in a salad (my sister Mary Ellen has used them often) and my flower book says that they can be fried. That is something I’d like to try. Our hills do produce many wild foods that can be eaten.
One of the best wild food is now being found, and that is the mushrooms, which are called morels. We call them “merkles,” and some folks know them as “Molly Moochers.” No matter what you call them, they are one of the most delicious wild mushrooms that abound in our hills, and probably the most widely recognized. They are cone-shaped, and honeycombed. The black and half-cap morels have been found for a little while, but now the yellow ones are appearing.
These are choice edibles, and can be found on the ground in old apple orchards and burned areas. Sometimes they are found under dead elms, poplars, ash, oak and beech trees. I used to find them along the creek, where the soil was rich and moist. In fact, we used to call these yellow ones “creek merkles.” I can remember the first one I ate. Mom was working in the upper end of the bottom, and she found a fat one under a sycamore tree. She fried it and gave it to me on a biscuit. That began a love affair that has never ended.
There are many ways to cook them, but I like them best simply sautéed in a little bacon grease or butter, with salt and pepper. That way, you can taste the full flavor of the mushroom. Criss likes them rolled in flour, and then fried in oil or bacon grease. My nephew Doug’s wife Sally stuffed them with cream cheese and I don’t know what else. They lived in Nebraska where the morels grew really big. She froze a lot of them, brought them home and shared them. They were so good!
You can use them in any recipe that calls for mushrooms. I have chopped them and added them to spaghetti sauce, and also sautéed them and put them on a pizza. They should be cleaned where you find them, by cutting off the bottom of the stalk. When you get home, slice them in half and soak them in salt water to get rid of insects and debris. I didn’t realize until I read just now that morels are best when dried and then dehydrated, preferably in cream. They never last that long in our house!
To dry them, slice them very thin and place them in a food dryer or a barely warm oven. To rehydrate, soak for one to three hours in warm cream or water. I have tried freezing them, but was not too satisfied with the results. Perhaps I didn’t use the right formula, which states that that after they are cleaned, they should be blanched or parboiled. They are then plunged into ice water and drained, and then packed in freezer-safe containers.
Along with ramps, which are in their glory right now, and new poke greens that are sticking their tender little heads through the ground, we can almost live off the land. There is another spring wild food that I love, but since my mother is gone, I am deprived of it now. Each spring she cooked a big mess of creasy greens, and shared them with us. With an iron skillet of hot cornbread dripping with butter, there is no better eating. Creasy greens grew in her garden each spring.
I am happy to report that my husband found a large sack of yellow morels, fresh and tender. After soaking them in salt water all night, they were rolled in flour and fried in bacon grease. There are some things that require bacon grease, although it is frowned upon by many health food cooks. I can’t imagine a pot of fresh green beans right out of the garden without using bacon grease to season them.
April seems to have gathered her flowery garments about her and fled to a warmer spot for right now. She will return …
With a lavish hand, October has spilled the gold of autumn all over our hills and valleys. The warm, mellow rays of the sun reflect the increasing gold of the beech, the elm, the hickory and the poplar. The goldenrod and the evening primrose vie with the sunbeams for brightness, and the yellow eye of the tiny wild asters add a golden note.
The beeches are scattering leaves of burnished gold over the ground, although most of their gilt flakes will hang stubbornly on the trees for weeks to come. There is gold in front of us, gold above us, gold below us, and gold all around us. Truly, this is a season of gold.
How I love our hills in the autumn season! The tangy fragrance of fall hangs in the air—spicy with the scent of wild asters warmed in the sun. It is mingled with the lonesome smell of wood smoke, as folks begin building a morning fire to ward off the chill. There is a blue haze on the distant hills and a lingering mist in the morning that burns off to another golden day.
The earth itself wears that indescribable perfume of autumn—that warm, brown smell of hot sunshine on rich soil where leaves are falling once more. I even like the bitter, dry scent of frost-blackened weeds and flowers after the first freeze comes. We haven’t had a hard frost yet, but it is on the way.
A walk in the woods this time of year is a solace to the soul. Oh, how I miss this! The dry leaves crunch underfoot, while a sudden gust of wind brings a showering of floating, fluttering golden leaves to join the ones on the ground. Time seems curiously suspended; the only sound is the sharp chirk of a ground squirrel sounding an alarm—an intruder is in his territory. High in the blue sky a hawk sails, and there is a sudden outcry from a flock of crows.
Acorns and hickory nuts are scattered under the trees, and here and there gnawed hulls point to where the red and gray squirrels have been gathering them. The milkweed pods are bursting, scattering their gossamer floss through the air. Overhead, a flock of songbirds gather, break apart and come together again once more as they depart on their southern journey. A cricket chirps, a lonely sound in the dry grass, and then the woods are silent once more.
It is so peaceful here in the woods. Stop and rest quietly on a fallen log and you will soon see that the seemingly silent woods are teeming with life. There is the sassy bark of a squirrel high in a hickory, and a sudden scattering of hickory nut hulls fall through the leaves. A fallen log that was deserted just minutes ago is now occupied by a curious chipmunk, its quick, jerky movements attracting the eye. Then nearer still, a mother chipmunk and her young one pop up out of a hole in the ground and look around. Spying the stranger on the log, she turns in alarm and quickly shoos her little one back in the hole. All around, the small woods creatures are busy storing their nuts and seeds for the cold weather ahead. October is putting the land to bed for her long winter’s sleep.
Right now, it is so pleasant here in the autumn woods. A flash of blue reveals a scolding blue jay, and a deer berry vine twines across the soft moss—red berries contrasting with the bright green underneath. One is loath to leave this spot, but there is a growing coolness in the shaded nooks and the clear sky speaks of frost to come tonight. From the path, a curl of wood smoke can be seen drifting lazily from a chimney, beckoning one to warmth and cheer, food and family. It is time to go.
There is a tinge of sadness at summer’s passing and the death of another season. November enters our hills, and winter looms ahead. We can look forward to ice and snow, and long, cooped-up days in the house. Nature, just as humans, needs this time of apparent dormancy to restore energy. Where each burnished leaf has lost its hold on the weathered brown branches, a new bud will take its place. The fallen leaves will feed new life into the tree, and we will rejoice again in another spring.
The beauty of the earth is not over, however. In many places, leaves have already fallen, revealing the huge and enduring beauty of our rock formations. These immense boulders are scattered all over our hills, and with colorful, fallen leaves covering them, they are truly a thing of beauty. I have always loved the rocks, even the huge ones that line our river bluffs.
Twilight trails dusky fingers across the land tonight, cooling the edges of the sun-scorched day and bringing night to the hills once more. There is a definite note of fall felt in the air now, reflected in the cooler nights and seen in the more flamboyant . . .
We awoke to snow covering our home in the hills, but the sun comes out sporadically and tries in earnest to melt it. There are bare spots showing now, but the air is still quite cold. The songbirds still flock to the bird feeder, with lots of bright . . .
The sun is trying valiantly to peek out this morning, after several days of rain. This month has behaved in true February fashion, with soggy ground and plenty of rain. The yard looks bare and forlorn; with all the snow gone, winter’s debris can . . .
Winter hit our hills with a vicious blow this past weekend, after we were used to the mild, although rainy, days of the past few months. It began with the snow and ice that covered our hills and highways, and then the temperature dropped lower and . . .
A heavy frost covered the ground this morning, sparkling in the approaching sunlight that is beginning to bathe our hills. I am reminded of Mom’s remarking on a frost such as this, “It looks like a young snow!” Our days have been unusually mild . . .
There is more than a whisper of rain in the air this morning, just as there has been for quite a few days now. The clouds are blotting out the sun that is trying to shine, and a restless breeze ruffles the treetops. A few yellow leaves are scattered on the ground, while most of our trees remain green. The frost will come.
It’s time to gather the wild peppermint. The last time that the lawn was mowed, the aromatic, minty fragrance of wild peppermint drifted up behind the mower, along with the clean, herbal odor of ground ivy. Ground ivy can be a nuisance, as it practically wiped out our last bed of strawberries. It does make a tea that can be used for a variety of things, including a common cold. I like peppermint tea better.
A person can gather masses of peppermint, spread it out on newspapers to dry, and then store it in plastic zip-lock bags. A teaspoonful of this dried mint can be brewed like any “bought” tea, and it can be brewed fresh. It takes about a cupful of the crushed fresh mint to a pint of boiling water. Steep no longer than three minutes, as prolonged brewing destroys the essence of the oil.
By accident, I found the best method for making peppermint tea. I gathered a pint or more of fresh peppermint, and crushed it thoroughly. Then I placed it in a quart jar, covered it with cold water, and put it in the refrigerator. I forgot all about it for two or three days, and when I heated a cup and tried it out, it had a strong, robust flavor that was superior to any mint tea I have ever drunk.
A cup of this brew at bedtime will relax you and induce a good night of rest. It is very good for a nervous, upset stomach, as it is one of the ingredients used in most stomach medicines. I drink it because it is just plain delicious, just as I favor sassafras tea. No commercial preparations can equal the wonderful flavor, fragrance and goodness of fresh peppermint. In referring to ground ivy, it is almost one of the first tiny flowers that we find blooming in the spring. (Except for the tiny, yellow flowers of the coltsfoot, which is earlier.)
Peeping up through the grass in the lawn, wee purple flowers are found blooming on the tips of a low, growing vine with small, rounded eaves. This plant has many names. I have heard it called “ground ivory” but I like best “gill-over-the-ground.” It is a relative of catnip (which we always used for a baby’s colic) and highly regarded as a medicinal herb. It is high in ascorbic acid, but not nearly as high as wild strawberry leaves or violet leaves, and must be used fresh.
This should be no problem as the vine grows prolifically around most every lawn, and in most damp, shady places from early spring until up in the winter. My mother-in-law used it for cough medicine, along with honey, black oak bark, and other herbs. I have made cough drops from coltsfoot, which was quite effective. Yellow root, or goldenseal, is still used by country folks, and is one of the best sore throat remedies available.
Growing up in an area where doctors were scarce, we learned to rely early on home remedies and treatments. One of the injuries that we contended with all summer was stone bruises. You never hear of such a thing nowadays, as children wear shoes, when we always went barefoot all summer.
Turnips remind me of the late Roy Bullard, whose house was situated right across from the Hagar Grade School. He always planted a crop of turnips in the fall, and when they got big enough to eat, he would invite the schoolchildren to help themselves. Each recess and noon hour, one could witness a flock of children chomping on a turnip. I am sure these were much healthier than the snacks that children eat today.
We would gather them until the ground froze and the turnips would freeze. I can remember how good and crunchy these turnips were as we ate them raw. I am still fond of turnips, cooked with a little bacon grease. I also need a turnip or two for my vegetable soup. My dear husband has no luck with raising turnips—I think he has finally given it up! One year he had a lovely crop of turnips come up, with green flourishing leaves. In came a rain shower, and the next morning, his crop of turnips had all wilted over.
As the weather cools, we get in the mood for baking, or at least I do. Since pawpaw’s are in season, I found a recipe given to me years ago by my sister Mary Ellen. It is for pawpaw cake, and more than the recipe, she brought us the cake she had baked. It was absolutely scrumptious!
PAWPAW CAKE
Mix together in a large bowl three cups of flour, two cups of sugar, one teaspoon soda, one teaspoon salt, one teaspoon cinnamon, and one cup chopped nuts (pecans or walnuts.) In a medium bowl beat three eggs, one and half cups of oil, one and half teaspoons vanilla, two cups mashed pawpaws, and one eight ounce can of crushed pineapple. Pour this over the flour mixture and mix well, but do not beat. Pour into a greased and floured 13X9 inch cake pan and bake at 325 degrees for 35-40 minutes.
Frost with cream cheese frosting. Soften one 8 ounce package of cream cheese and ½ cup butter or margarine at room temperature. Cream together with one pound confectioner’s sugar and one teaspoon vanilla. Sprinkle with one cup chopped pecans and store in refrigerator until ready to serve. Be sure and cool cake completely before frosting. Mary Ellen used pecans in this cake, but she said our native black walnuts would be delicious in it.
Schoolchildren generally like pawpaws. This banana-tasting fruit hangs in the trees at this time of year, free for the taking. After the green turns black, they are ready to eat. Patty remembers a little boy in grade school (many years ago) who brought them every day for a snack. The only problem was, he carried them in his pocket. Have you ever seen a ripe pawpaw after it has been carried in a little boy’s pocket all day? That reminds me of my dad. He went to Hagar School when he was a kid, and he told me all he had to take for lunch was a baked sweet potato that he carried in his pocket. Needless to say, his schooling didn’t last long. However, he was self-educated and very well read.
It is time to gather peppermint, and hang it up to dry. It makes a delicious tea, and is so soothing to an upset stomach. I’ll never forget trying to cure my son Andy from a stomachache. He came in from work holding his stomach and complaining of intense pain. I was going to fix him a nice cup of peppermint tea, and he got disgusted with me and called Mom. (She was always the one that we hollered for when we needed help or advice.) This was years ago.
Thank goodness for Mom—she immediately called the doctor and got him an appointment. The doctor promptly socked him in the hospital, and the next day he had a “hot” appendix taken out. I reckon there are some things that peppermint tea won’t cure. We do rely a lot on yellow root, as it is one of the best remedies for a sore throat. The boys are good to gather these wild plants and bring them home to dry.
I think that the pawpaws are beginning to ripen. They are also called “West Virginia bananas”, and custard apples. They do have a creamy, custard-like texture, with large, lima bean-like brown seeds in them. I really like them. Someone asked me for a recipe for a pawpaw pie, and I found one that sounds good. The last one I made was so bad that the hound dog wouldn’t eat it. Here it is: Mix ½ cup of firmly packed brown sugar, 2/3 cup of milk, and three beaten egg yolks together. Cook and stir until thick. Remove from heat; add one cup of pawpaw pulp (sieved) and chill until almost set. Meanwhile, beat three egg whites with ½ cup sugar and a pinch of salt, and a teaspoon of flavoring. (Wonder what rum would taste like?) Beat until peaks form, and then fold into the first mixture. Pour into a graham cracker crust and chill until set. (This is not the recipe I made that the dog wouldn’t eat.) Sounds good to me.
Time does fly by on pale, whispery wings, to brush your cheek for just an instant, and then it is forever gone. It was just a short time ago that my brothers and sisters and I were in school together, and then it was my own children, my grandchildren—and now—my great-grandchildren.
We have always been a very close-knit family. Michael lived in Louisiana for several years, and then moved back to the hills to stay. When questioned about going back to his former residence, he would retort, “I never left anything down there!” We are quite a large family; in fact, I think Mom had 50+ descendants when she passed away. Some of us live on the same old property that great-grandpa Huey O’Dell once lived.
We helped raise one another’s children and grandchildren, as they gravitated from house to house. One generation of children grew up and went their way, and another generation would take their place. One of these groups included Joshua, son of Kevin and Sarah. From birth, we were with Josh. He was a good baby, and grew into a good toddler. As soon as he was old enough to follow me around, he was my constant companion—except when he was with Patty!
We hunted wild plants, and gathered peppermint and spearmint. He made cucumber boats, and floated them on the creek. We would follow a certain leaf, or a bark of wood on the creek until it floated out of sight. He was best friends with Benjamin (Andy’s son) and they played and fought some all their childhood. Of course, he grew up, married and had children.
Then his son Hunter came along. He became another sidekick, and grew so close to me. He was my constant help, and would come home from school, open my door and call, “Mommaw, do you need anything done?” He would reach up and lift things for me that I couldn’t reach, help me make cookies and do anything that I asked.
They just moved to another state. I know that other families have gone through this, and that the Lord will help us. I told Hunter that I was afraid that he would grow away from me, and he assured me that he wouldn’t. Of course, our young ones grow away from us. They are supposed to do that. They don’t grow away from our prayers, however. May God keep them safe and in His arms. May they find the way to salvation, and walk in the ways of our Savior. Oh, God, please hold this family safe and secure.
The hectic pace of summer is beginning to slow some, as the country housewife looks at the filled cellar shelves and packed deep freezers with satisfaction. It is a more restful time also as the schoolchildren board the yellow school buses for another season of learning.
The autumn season brings a greater awareness of the swift passage of time. There is a feeling of melancholy in the air, and the katydids are singing a farewell to summer. The dead and dying gardens testify to the fact that the cycle of life has ended once more, and a deeper response within us reminds that we too are mortal, and our cycle of life has an end. Still, this is my favorite season of the year.
I love stripping the garden of the last of its produce and knowing that you haven’t let anything go to waste. There is a secure feeling when you walk in the cellar and know that your summer’s work has been canned, preserved, pickled, and frozen. It is the same feeling you get when you see the neatly stacked pile of winter firewood, and can rest assured that you are ready for cold weather.
Blending in with the yellow of the goldenrod, the blue of the gentian and purple of the ironweed is the bright yellow of the school buses as our children start to school once again. Some mothers feel a bit of sadness when their children leave the nest and venture outside the home, but it was always a time of relief for me. With six children all in school at one time, and summertime losing its appeal, it was a relief for them too.
Although it has been quite some time since our own boarded one of these buses, the sight of them brings a remembered pang to the heart. It seems just a breath ago that our children were in school, and not much longer than that, we were going. Time passes so fast that it is hard to grasp. I have to confess that I still have dreams of trying to get them ready to catch the bus on time. It’s more of a nightmare!
When my first little one (Mike, who wore size 5 clothes at that time!) reached school age, there was a different kind of feeling in the pit of my stomach. There was the sad, bittersweet knowledge that my son was leaving the days of babyhood forever behind. I am sure that many a mother has the same sinking feeling as they see their own tots begin their great school adventure. This is just one milepost in a series of mileposts that pile up faster and faster as the years go by.
I must confess that I experienced quite a qualm when Crystal, our last little chick, started to kindergarten. Our pastor’s wife, Diane, and I took Crystal and Shelly for their first day. We were both tearful, as this was her first one and my last, but Crystal and Shelly ran to the toy cupboards and children’s kitchens, and never looked back.
This coming May, Crystal’s oldest daughter, Alyssa, will finish pharmacy school and receive her title of Pharm.D. (Doctor of Pharmacy.) My, how the years have rolled on since we took Crystal to kindergarten! Another milepost, and we don’t have any idea of what the future will hold. Our Job as parents are to bring up our children in the way of the Lord; to instill in them a reverence and love for the things of God. We must pray for them each day as they go out into the world, and ask our Heavenly Father to keep them in His care. Now we are praying for grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Without going into an organ recital, I will say that a person shouldn’t stand on one leg like a stork and attempt to pull off their knee-high hosiery! The problem is that I have broken so many bones that I’m having to start over on ones that were previously broken. I’m running out of bones.
I am so blessed in having a husband who takes care of me like a baby, does housework, and has made pickles, and canned green beans and tomato juice. With my right arm in a sling for six weeks, there was little that I could do. I had made the comment some time back that I wished I had time to read. Be careful what you wish for—it just might come true. I had plenty of time.
The fullness of summer seems to have enveloped us. The Rose of Sharon bushes have bloomed and bloomed, while Queen Anne’s lace blossoms are light and airy. The showy blue of chicory flowers brighten the roadsides. However, the first note of autumn creeps in with the Joe-Pye weed towering over the shorter flowers high on the road banks. My sister Mary Ellen declares that she has heard katy-dids chanting at dusk for a while now. That rasping, mournful cry warns us that summer is dying and autumn is coming soon.
The early morning mist seems to linger a little longer each day, and grass and trees have a tired, weary look. Gardens are producing now, and canning and freezing the vegetables are the duty of the country housewife. It is hard for me to admit that my canning days are over, although I have a cellar full of canned goods that I did in the past. I did promise my youngest daughter some pickled corn, but my better half will have to pull the corn, shuck it and carry it to the house. I think I can put it in a churn!
I feel as if I am walking down the autumn phase of my life. I have been told to be thankful for what I am still able to do, and not to worry about the things that I can’t. Thank goodness, I can still cook some, and I love to read recipes. I found a recipe that I used several years ago, and would be good for those folks who are still harvesting an abundance of zucchini.
ITALIAN ZUCCHINI AND SAUSAGE
Use one pound of pork sausage (the hot type is better), one medium onion, thinly sliced, five small zucchini, cut into ¼” slices, one clove of garlic, mashed, one eight ounce can of tomato sauce, one teaspoon of dried basil leaves, ½ teaspoon dried oregano leaves, ½ teaspoon of salt, ½ cup of shredded Cheddar cheese, and grated Parmesan cheese.
Panfry crumbled sausage over medium heat for about 15 minutes; drain grease. Add onion, zucchini and simmer about 25 minutes or until zucchini is tender. Sprinkle with Parmesan cheese. Serves 6. My sister Susie serves it over cooked noodles, and teamed with salad and bread, it will make a complete meal.
The beautiful tiger lily blooms at the corner of the house, brightening the yard with its brilliant orange blossoms. The plumy flowers of the tall meadow rue constantly invites bees and butterflies to partake of its nectar, while the Monarch butterfly, with its burnt-orange and black markings, feast on the perfumed milkweed blossoms. Out in the meadows, the purple-headed sneezeweed, looking much like its cousin the black-eyed Susan, dots the landscape with its daisy-like blooms.
In the blackberry fields, there blooms a pink flower we used to call St. Anthony’s cross. It has a sweet, spicy scent and small shiny blossoms and always blooms in blackberry season. We found out later that it is a type of dianthus, or pinks. It will forever recall my memories of blackberry picking, as just a whiff of it transports me back to the berry field.
These warm summer evenings takes my mind back to childhood days and joys of long ago. (It is true that older people like to walk around in days of yore and relive their childhood!) I see a dirt road meandering along in Ovapa, and there is a gang of barefoot children playing. The blackberries have been picked earlier in the day, handed over to our mothers, and we are free in that hour or two between chores and bedtime.
Supper has been over for some time, dishes washed, the kitchen swept and water carried from the pump in zinc buckets for the night. A late evening hush falls over the hills, and the air is beginning to cool after the hot summer sun has gone down. Songbirds chirp sleepily, and a whippoorwill’s lonely call echoes from a hillside.
We are playing hide-and-seek, and I can hear Margaret Ann reciting from the sycamore tree, where she has her head hidden in the crook of her arm. “Bushel of wheat, bushel of rye, who’s not ready, holler I!” We are quiet as church mice, hiding behind the tall stock tanks, Bud Coon’s garage and the pump station. Then comes the call, “Bushel of wheat, bushel of clover, who’s not ready, can’t hide over—I’m coming!” And the hunt was on.
The game breaks up when Jeuell Beth and Janice Carole have to go home, as their hour is up. We gravitate to the Virginia office porch, and launch into our favorite game of “Old Witch.” It is a fancified version of “Base,” but is adapted to the three-sided porch that runs around both sides and the front of the office building and tool house. As the oldest girl, I usually have to be the old witch. Cody tolls me away from the big metal tool chest that is my base, while Allen Wayne rescues Larry from my clutches.
We have already exhausted “Pretty Girl Station” with its sing-song chant, “Here I come—where you from?—Pretty Girl Station—what’s your trade?—lemonade—what’s your initials?—get to work and show us something!”
Summer memories, like sun-dappled shadows, come and go, full of children from the past. Shadows lengthen and grow darker. I can hear Opal calling for Reva to come home and Mary has called Margaret Ann for the second time. Allen Wayne’s house is adjacent to the Virginia office, and we see Maxine stepping out on the porch to call him in. We know that it is just a matter of minutes until Mom is calling us in to get ready for nighttime devotions, and Cody is on his way home.
We troop to the house and are instructed by Mom to wash up, and scrub our feet good. Of course they are dirty from running over the dusty dirt road, and I can hear Susie admonishing us, “remember girlth, clean sheeths!” We take a “wash pan” bath, put on our white feedsack gowns, and gather in the front room for our bedtime prayers.
We perched like little birds on the couch, chairs and sometimes sat in the floor. Daddy would read from the Bible, and then he would pray aloud as we knelt on our knees. When it was our turn to pray, some of the smaller ones would be fast asleep on their knees and would have to be carried to bed. I can still hear their childish voices saying, “Now I lay me down to sleep—“ two of the little tow-headed boys have taken their eternal sleep, to be awakened on Resurrection Day.
Long-ago children—where are they now? Scattered here and there, and some, like Cody and Allen Wayne, are gone forever from this life. Janice Carole and Margaret Ann are gone also, and each year more of those children are called home. Yet, in these long summer evenings, they play and romp in the meadows of my mind, young and happy once again. I hear Mom calling, “Alyce Faye, Larry and Mary Ellen—it’s time to come home!”
Editor’s note: This article presented to you from our archives. Alyce Faye Brag recently had an accident and it may be some time before she can submit another article. We wish her well and are hoping for a steady recovery!
Spring slides softly into summer as the leaves on the trees hang full and green. June is a “growing month” as seeds dropped in the ground sprout and spring up in just a few days. The early crops are lush and abundant, as summer squash and cucumbers are ready to pick. True, the weeds abound along with vegetables, but the same sun and rain that nourishes our crops nourishes the weeds also.
It seems to be a never-ending job to keep the weeds out, but just like the weeds in our personal life, they must be dealt with early and consistently. It is so much easier to pull them up while they are young and tender, instead of waiting until the roots grow and become entangled. Seeds of doubt, seeds of discontent, seeds of discouragement—these need to be pulled out, and the roots allowed to die in the sunlight of God’s love. Seeds of unforgiveness are probably the worst, for they will turn inward and grow roots in the heart of the unforgiver.
God has promised to keep us in perfect peace if we keep our minds stayed on Him, but we must keep the weeds out. How much better to sow seeds of love, mercy, joy, peace, gentleness, goodness and faith—these seeds produce perfect fruit. This crop will produce abundantly if it is cared for faithfully.
June, roses and brides seem to go together. It was a perfect time for our mock weddings when we were kids. It didn’t take much to have one—just an old window curtain for a bridal gown, and a willing groom. We always had an ample supply of brides, but grooms were a little harder to come by. I remember one beautiful wedding we had all planned out, and my brother Larry reluctantly agreed to play the groom to Janice Carole.
I made a clay mud cake decorated with rows of pink and red rambler roses, and was ready to perform the ceremony. (I was always the minister; as the oldest, I naturally took charge.) Janice Carole was a beautiful bride in her lovely gauzy window curtain gown, and was standing at the altar, when at the last minute Larry got cantankerous and backed out. (Maybe he was afraid he’d have to kiss the bride!) I threw a temper tantrum and stomped the wedding cake, and in the face of my terrible wrath, Larry ran away and wouldn’t play with us the rest of the day.
There were seven of us children, and normally we played together pretty well. Actually, the boys tended to play among themselves, and we girls had our own games. I loved my brothers dearly, but sisters seem to bond together at an early age. My youngest sisters were usually our babies, but Mary Ellen and I were “buddies.” I‘m five years older than she, but we were close all our growing-up years, and still are. If fact, all four of us have a relationship that is more than close—we are best friends even today.
Editor’s note: Alyce Faye Brag recently had an accident and it may be some time before she can submit another article. We wish her well and are hoping for a steady recovery!
I can still see him coming down the hill from the Ball Diamond carrying a bouquet of wild flowers that he had picked as he walked along. The flowers were always arranged in symmetrical perfection; rows of blue and purple encircling a center of yellow. These were always offered with a shy smile and an offhand, “Here, I picked you some flowers.” He could no more walk through a field without picking a bouquet than he could pass a bird’s nest and not look in it.
These soft spring evenings make me think so much of him. How he loved to sit on the porch as the twilight shadows deepened, and the long day’s work was over. A whippoorwill sounds its pure, liquid notes in the evening air, and a pang goes through my heart as I remember how he loved its call. The fireflies flicker their miniature lights off and on, and somewhere in shadows, a tree frog makes its melancholy sounds. I can hear the squeak of the porch swing, and the tone of his voice rising and falling as he recounted a tale of long ago.
No one loved a practical joke better than he did. In my mind, I hear his laughter echoing even now. His face would swell up and turn red; he would gasp for breath with streaming eyes, and whoops of laughter would turn into squeaks. It was so contagious that we would be forced to join in, even when we were the victim of the joke. Sometimes when we were punished, we would pout. He would say, “Bet you can’t look at me without laughing!” Then he would stare deadpan into our eyes and try as we did to keep a straight face, we would both soon be overcome with laughter.
He loved romping with us, and then it was the grandchildren. I remember how he used to swing Andy on his foot and sing, “Here comes Andy with a snigger and a grin, groundhog grease all over his chin!” Of course, the toddlers loved it and begged for more. He would swing them, carry them, and throw them up in the air. (Then I see his grandsons, Freddie and Andy, carrying him from his hospital bed to his wheelchair. These memories cut like a knife.)
I can see him coming out of the garden, tired and sweaty, after a long day of plowing and hoeing. He would wipe his forehead with a bandana, and ask someone to bring him a glass of cold water. He was such a perfectionist—the rows of vegetables in his garden marched in orderly fashion, and no weed dared rear its unruly head. Everything he did had to be done right. Remember the brush pile we burned, and had a wiener and marshmallow roast at the same time? Jeannie declared that he took a level and squared it up before he allowed us to strike a match to it!
I miss him most of all in church. I can envision him sitting in the first row, with his arm around Mom, eagerly waiting for the service to begin. He has on the blue plaid sports coat that he favored, and his face is bright and shiny. It must have been the goodness of God shining from his countenance.
He prayed more than anyone I ever knew. Hours were spent down over the hill in the woods—he called it his little patch of red brush—and we could hear him calling on God in prayer. I wish he could see how his heritage is carried on—grandson Matthew and great-grandson Josh preaching, and nephew Eric teaching Sunday School.
He always seemed so young and handsome to me. I don’t know how he got old, and so worn out before my eyes, and I didn’t see it. He was Daddy, and he was always here. Now he is gone, and I still miss my Daddy. Father’s Day is empty without him.
Fathers are so important to their children. It is sad that so many children are being raised without a father. God has a perfect plan for the family—fathers first, the mother by his side, and children following in their footsteps. I was so blessed in having a father who set the right example for us children. May God bless the fathers on their special day, and may they lead their children in the right way.
Instead, as fate would have it, I was born in a little cabin on the banks of Big Laurel Creek, where the rhododendron grows and the scrubby pines line the landscape. Except for that first year, and a couple of years when we lived in another county, I have lived my entire life in this Clay County community—almost in the same spot. What is it that holds me to these hills?
It could be my kinfolk who inhabit these same hills, where our great-grandparents settled here so many years ago. There are now seven generations who live here on the same farm. It is the same with most of our neighbors, whose parents and grandparents settled here and the generations following still live here.
Grandpa Andy O’Dell and Grandma Ellen (Mullins) O’Dell came here from Muddelty and brought his father and mother, Huey O’Dell and Mary (Bailey) O’Dell with them. They originally came from Tazewell County, Virginia, except for Grandma Ellen, who came from Enoch, West Virginia. I think about their journey, by horse and wagon as they crossed Peach Orchard Road, which was called Devil’s Backbone Mountain at that time. Their journey would have taken several days, as they carried all their household plunder and several children in the wagon. I wonder how Grandma Ellen felt as she looked at the steep mountains falling away on each side of the road.
They would have to camp along the way, cooking their meals over a campfire and bedding down for the night. I’ve often wondered why they came to this rocky, hillside farm, unless it was the oil fields that were booming at that time. We live in the midst of gas and oil fields and it was in their infancy that they arrived. The womenfolk must have been shocked at the raw way of living, as men lived in tents and boarded wherever they could. It must have been like the gold rush in California at that time.
I wish I had questioned Aunt May about Great-grandpa Huey and Great-grandma Mary Bailey, because she remembered them. The pictures I have of them show a very dignified older man with a snow-white beard and hair. He looks so kind and gentle. I asked Aunt May about him one time and she said, ”He was meaner than hell!” Of course, that may have been just a child’s perspective. I guess Great-grandma Mary suffered from some type of dementia, for she would go out in the cornfield and take all her clothes off. Uncle Myles said she smoked a long clay pipe. I’ve often wondered if she was kin to “Mad Anne Bailey.”
Is it by chance that we live where we do? I was born here in Clay County over 80 years ago, and here I aim to die. My parents and my grandparents lie in the family cemetery, under the huge old oak tree, and I will join them there. My roots go down deep, as deep as the roots of the oak tree, and when my Savior calls, I will answer. It has been a good life here in the hills of Clay County.
DADS WATCH
It seems we dads are always on watch.
We watch as our children are born, as they grow, and as they go out into Life.
We watch their school plays, church pageants, graduations and the myriad other important events.
Dads watch—
Sometimes from near,
Too often from afar,
But we always watch.
From our eyes but mostly
From our hearts and spirits.
As you walk through your life
Always remember:
Whatever our past sins and trials,
Dads watch.
Most important—
Dads Love.
I have a poem written by my good friend Ross Fortner, which describes growing up here. I want to use part of it here:
MOUNTAIN CHILDHOOD
How blessed can we be, we children of the hills,
To have grown up free, and close to the land?
Having been born to the natural world, all around,
And learning and growing, in love and grace,
In the shelter of these hills,
In this magnificent place, this place we call home.
Sometimes it is more a mystery when we like to roam.
How splendid it was, and when possible, still is,
To wade in the little creek that runs through our land,
And learn how it feels, on our bare little feet,
The rocks slick with moss, and the minnows so fleet,
And how about the feel of soft summer clover,
Watch out for the bees, they think they own it.
And, well, maybe they do, for we are just a part
Of God’s Perfect Plan, for this, our Mother Earth.
Speaking of clover, remember how fragrant it is,
As its aroma drifts on the wind,
Even days after it is mowed?
A sweeter smell I have yet to find,
Even after 50 years, I can’t get if off my mind.
These childhood memories are precious, and looking back, I wouldn’t change one thing in the way I was raised. It was an old, Jenny Lind house, with a tarpaper roof, which sometimes leaked, surrounded by the johnny-house and tool house. The tool house was used in the fall to smoke the hams and bacons when we butchered. The house had never had a drop of paint on it, and the boards on it had turned a silvery-gray by the winter weather.
On the front porch was a homemade swing, hung on a pole above us. It was well used and loved, as it was occupied by a gang of kids crammed close together, and also was used to lull countless babies to sleep. That end of the porch was covered with woodbine, which made a welcome shade when the sun was hot. I can still hear youthful voices singing, “Twilight is stealing over the sea, shadows are falling dark on the lea, Born on the night wind, voices of yore, Come from that far-off shore.” We didn’t have the foggiest idea of what a “lea” was, but we sang loud and clear.
Mary Ellen and I swung the babies to sleep-she with Susie on her lap, and I with Jeannie. We sung, “Go to sleep, my little buckaroo,” and “The sandman glides from street to street, with busy hands and quiet feet.” Soon our little ones were fast asleep. Now our “little ones” have children, and grandchildren of their own. They are rocking babies and singing lullabies to them. And the generations go on.
We didn’t have much of this world’s goods, but we were rich in the things that counted. We were secure in Mom’s and Daddy’s love, and had plenty to eat, even if it was mostly rough farm grub—which is the best kind! Our clothes may have not been the latest style, but they were clean and warm. Most of all, we were secure in our Heavenly Father’s love, and taught from babyhood of God’s care for us.
I guess it is natural, as you grow older, to look back on your life, and reminisce about bygone times. It seems that the hard times and heartaches grow dimmer, and the blessed good times grow brighter. Memories are precious, and God’s gift to us. I wish now that I had paid more attention to Daddy’s memories before he had a stroke. There were lots of family history lost when he passed away.
It is so important for a family to make good memories for their children. It doesn’t have to be vacations to Disneyland (although that does makes good memories) but it can be simple little things that they remember. I remember one time when Mom took an iron skillet and some potatoes up in the woods near our home and fried them for us children. Later, my brother Ronnie remarked, “Boy, I’d like to go on another “tater picnic!” When all the kids started to school except Andy, we took peanut butter and jelly sandwiches up in the woods and listened to the squirrels and birds. I don’t know if he remembers that or not, but I do!
Most of our excursions centered around nature, and that is where my favorite recreation still centers. I’m sure that museums and parks are great places to go, but, give me the rugged beauty of a mountain stream, a campfire glowing brightly in the darkness or patch of spring beauties in their low and modest state. My heart thrills to hear a whippoorwill in the twilight, or, see the sunrise through the rosy clouds at dawn. I love it all!
Yes, I am supremely happy for my mountain childhood, and also, for the warm memories that remain. I thank the Lord for them.
The month of May is a balm to the soul here in the hills, with wildflowers springing forth from every nook and cranny. The trees are blooming and putting forth tender, new buds. The sarvis (serviceberry) trees are blooming late this year, but this has been a peculiar spring with more than our share of rain. The redbud trees are covered with masses of showy pink flowers. They march along the highways in thick masses, cheering spring onward and blessing our senses. According to an old myth, Judas Iscariot hanged himself on the related Judas-tree of western Asia and southern Europe, and as a result the white flowers turned red with shame or blood. Their color always reminded me of fresh blackberries mixed with thick cream—one of our childhood delicacies.
The crabapple blossoms have stuck their wee pink noses out, decided the weather was to their liking, and promptly burst into full bloom. Apple trees, not to be outdone, are adorned with their delicate pink and white blossoms, and their heavenly scent wafts through the air. The modest violets peep shyly through the soft green grass and spread their blue mantle thickly beneath their flowery limbs.
Hummingbirds have been sighted, and I saw a pair of goldfinches darting in and out near the bird feeder. They will soon nest, but right now they are checking out the field where the purple thistle grew thickly last year. I am watching for the bluebirds that always nest in the bright red birdhouse, but they have not been sighted yet. The air is full of the color, the sound, and the smell of spring. May is such a delightful month here in the hills, and it makes you glad to be alive.
Dogwood trees, with their white, cross-shaped blossoms tinged with brown, and just now beginning to bloom. Legend says that the cross upon which Christ was crucified was made from the wood of the dogwood tree. Seeing the trees distress at the use of its wood, He made a promise that it would never again be used for this purpose. Instead, this once-stately tree would grow small and twisted, and the flower petals would be shaped like a cross with bloodstained edges.
The center of the blossom would resemble a crown of thorns, so that all who observed it would remember His death on the cross. Of course, this is merely a legend, but I always think of the cross of Christ when I see a dogwood in bloom. One of the most beautiful sights in the spring is a hillside thickly sprinkled with blooming dogwood and redbud.
This is an abundant mushroom year. The earlier dark morels are gone, but the bigger, light ones, called the yellow morel, are being found along the creek and under poplar trees. They range in color from blonde to yellow-brown and are meatier than the dark ones. A lot of them are big enough to stuff, and Sally, my nephew Doug’s wife, is the expert when it comes to that. She is an excellent artist, besides being a gourmet cook.
We call them “merkles”, my late brother-in-law Howard called them “muggles” and many folks call them “Molly-Moochers.” No matter what you call them, they are considered to be the best-tasting mushroom to be found in the hills. Someone asked me how you could be sure that they are the edible variety, and I don’t see how you could mistake them.
They are honey-combed, hollow and attached to a thick, whitish stalk at the base. Many times they are found in old apple orchards, and under poplar, ash and other trees. Sometimes they spring up in burned-out areas. One spring we found several big fat ones where we had burned a brush pile the previous fall. They seem to pop through the ground almost like magic after a warm rain.
A genuine merkle hunter guards his territory like the prospectors did their gold claims. It is a breach of mountain etiquette to inquire closely where someone found a prize specimen. You will receive a mumbled reply about as specific as the continent of Africa. Family ties and lifelong friendships have no meaning when it comes to revealing your private mushroom patch. To this day, I don’t know the location of my husband’s secret patch. He took me one time (no, he didn’t blindfold me) but it was such a roundabout route that I’d never find it again.
They are called “the highly esteemed morels of haute cuisine” by my mushroom guidebook, but I reckon we fix them “country style.” Their flavor is so delicate to fix them any way except simply sautéed in butter with a hint of garlic, but many folks like them rolled in flour or cracker meal and fried in butter or oil. They can be used in spaghetti, pizza or mushroom soup, or in any way that you use commercial mushrooms.
It is a good idea to split them and soak overnight in salt water, though. There is a tiny bug that seems to like them as well as we do, and it takes soaking and repeated washing to get rid of them. I figure that we have eaten several of these tiny little fellows, but I don’t worry about it. A bug that likes merkles can’t be all bad.
And so, the West Virginia hills are beginning to offer the delicious wild foods that are abundant throughout the year. I am waiting anxiously for poke greens, which are best when they are gathered while four or five inches high. I can’t scramble through the fields and woods as I once did, but, have to depend on a kind-hearted soul to share them with me. The fiddlehead ferns are ready now, but I’ve never had much luck with them. I cooked a mess one time, and they tasted like ferns!
Happy foraging!
SYMBOL
By David Morton
My faith is a doubtful thing,
Wove on a doubtful loom,
Until there comes, each showery spring,
A cherry tree in bloom;
And Christ who died upon a tree
That death had stricken bare,
Comes beautifully back to me,
In blossoms, everywhere.
Our mountain folk have plenty of superstitions, besides April snow, with Friday the 13th being one of them. Friday has been considered unlucky since medieval times. In Britain, Friday was the conventional time for public hangings, which certainly was unlucky for the victim. There were supposedly 13 steps leading to the noose. It is generally considered bad luck to start anything on a Friday—new journey, job, marry, business projects, giving birth, among many other things.
In many tall buildings, the number 13 is omitted when numbering the floors. In a lighter vein, it is considered by many folks to be unlucky to cut your fingernails or hair on a Friday. In the Christian faith, the number of guests at the Last Supper was 13, with Judas Iscariot being the unlucky number.
Mom would vow that she wasn’t superstitious, but there were certain things she was sort of leery about. One was bringing a garden hoe in the house, and another was opening an umbrella in the house. She would say half jokingly, “That’s bad luck!” She really did believe in tokens, or omens of death, because she had experienced quite a few. She was the seventh daughter.
Seven has always been a mystic number, and the seventh daughter means “Supreme and Blessed.” The seventh daughter of the seventh daughter was purported to have second sight, and my mother really did possess a sense of clairvoyance that was beyond explanation. Even when she was small, she saw a token (a beam of light shining on her bedroom wall) and told her parents that a neighbor was dead. Sure enough, word came that morning that he had died.
When she would recall these incidents that had happened to her, I was so frightened of seeing a token that I was afraid to go by myself to the barn to get the dry onions stored there. She did explain to me that I would never see a token, since I was afraid of it. One night she and I were outside after dark, and the moon had strange, misty shadows on it. “There’s blood on the moon tonight,” she remarked. I quoted a blurb that I had read advertising a movie, “When there’s blood on the moon, death lurks in the shadows.” I said, “I bet that is a good movie.” She replied, “I didn’t know that was a movie.”
The next day we received word that a neighbor nicknamed “Moon” had fallen out of the back of a truck and was killed. For awhile, I was afraid of my own mother.
Winter seems to be giving up its relentless grip on our hills, as warmer sunshine is coaxing out the early spring flowers to bloom. I can imagine these tiny anemones and bloodroot flowers waking up from their long winter’s nap, and stretching their little rootlets through the warming soil. The power of the warm sun propels them to poke their tiny heads up through the rich earth and spread their petals in the air. What hope we feel when we spy a green-striped Jack-in-the-Pulpit preaching to a congregation of dogtooth violets (spotted trout lilies.) We can rest assured, that after a cold and wet beginning, that spring is really here.
Proverbs 27:25 reads, “The hay appeareth, and the tender grass sheweth itself, and the herbs of the mountains are gathered.” Daughter Patty and husband Bob have harvested some morel mushrooms already. They are always the first in the family to find these tasty little wild mushrooms, and I wonder sometimes if they don’t dig them out of the ground. A few days of warm sunshine should encourage a crop of them. Ramps are up and ready to dig. West Virginia woods are beginning to offer their wild foods to grateful foragers.
I found a poem written years ago by my youngest sister Susie. As we say farewell to winter weather, here are some memories we’d like to forget.
ARE WE EVER SATISFIED?
By Susie Loomis
All summer long,
while I slaved in the sun,
I longed for the winter,
and thought it would be fun
To sit by the fire,
with a book on my knees,
And not have to hoe gardens, mow yards or shell peas.
I seemed to forget the snow and the mud,
The eternal dishes;
the cooking and crud,
Wading the snow to feed the horse
To burn the trash,
no one wants to of course.
Getting up at night and feeding the fire,
Everyone is asleep
—I bet that they are!
How did I know Noel would be kicked out of school
For thirteen days for breaking the rule.
Why would I think that I would have to
Clean snow off the porches
And the crummy car too.
And why in the winter does a hubby grouch
And spill popcorn and tea,
As he lays on the couch?
And who gets to dump the ashes—you guessed,
Feed the dogs, pups and cats, and do all the rest.
Who has the honor of cleaning the tub
Of scrubbing the sink,
and fixing the grub?
Who picks up the clothes strung all over the floor,
And brings in the firewood? Shall I tell you more?
Where is the leisure I thought would be sweet
When the dishes are done; they holler, “Let’s eat!”
No, I’m not crying,
I just have a cold
I’m too big to cry,
I’ve often been told.
I just wonder how long it will be until summer,
I hope it is soon, winter sure is a bummer!
Happy springtime to Susie, and all of us who have waited patiently (or impatiently, as the case may be.)
“It’s here—it’s here!” I heard the songbirds trill this morning. Enjoy it!
Today there is a stiff breeze valiantly trying to dry up the landscape. Dandelions are appearing all over the yard, shiny yellow discs that give hope that warmer weather is on its way. The earliest spring wildflower is the lowly coltsfoot, which has appeared earlier along the road banks and ditch lines. This tiny flower, which resembles a dandelion, pops through the muddy soil and blooms long before any leaves appear on it.
Later on, in May, when the leaves are mature, they can be harvested for herbal medicine. Coltsfoot has been used for centuries as a respiratory remedy. I remember one spring when we were camping on Williams River, the coltsfoot leaves were growing in abundance. I gathered a handful and made cough drops in the camper, after boiling the leaves down to a strong essence. After straining the solution, I added sugar and cooked it to a hard “crack” stage and poured it onto a cookie sheet. After it cooled it could be broken into pieces. It was effective for a cough or sore throat. It tasted somewhat like horehound candy.
We’ve heard the spring peepers the last few nights, although daughter Patty says she heard them weeks ago. I read an article once that stated wood frogs actually freeze in solid chunks of ice and thaw out when warm weather comes. Coltsfoot blooms may be the earliest harbinger of spring, but nothing can thrill me like the first shrill piping of the spring peepers.
The smoky smell of burning off a garden is almost a thing of the past. This drifting springtime perfume brings back a flood of memories of when we used to do this every year. The air might be sharp and biting, but we would rake and gather up last year’s accumulated debris and light a bonfire. Dry cornstalks, dead weeds and brown, dry leaves made a spring incense that nothing can equal. That, and the song of the spring peepers, can transport me instantly back into the past.
One of the earliest signs of spring when I was a kid were the marble games that exploded with the first warm days. The playground at Hagar Grade School was packed hard with hundreds of running feet, and after the mud dried up, the marble games began. The boys played “keeps” with a vengeance, drawing a circle around their hoard of marbles and gambling away their whole collection. (We weren’t allowed to play “keeps” as Daddy considered it a form of gambling.)
The boys didn’t let that deter them however, and with their “kimmies” and “steelies” and “best shooters” they formed tight circles and played all over the hard-packed playground. With loud cries of “you’re fudgin’!” “knucks down” and “I’ve got dibs on you!” they played at morning recess, all through the noon hour and again at evening recess.
We girls had our more sedate marble games, but played we did. With our pigtails flipped out of the way, and knobby knees to the ground, we played “four holes and a peewee.” We would dig four cup-shaped holes at each corner of a large rectangle, and a tiny hole the size of a marble in the center. We would take turns shooting from hole to hole, and if someone else hit your marble, you had to start over. Three times around the rectangle, and the first one to the peewee was the winner. (Now I am wondering just who taught us that game?)
Hopscotch was another early spring game, with blocks marked off in the hard-packed dirt with a piece of glass. The squares were numbered with the same piece of glass, and also used for our markers. Boys didn’t play hopscotch, nor did they jump rope, considering those games too “sissy” for them. We didn’t think marbles were too masculine however, and there were several sharpshooters among the feminine sex. Yes, these were the good old days!”
I am afraid that nearly all of these games, if not all, have been relegated forever to the past. It has been years since I’ve seen little girls hopping on one foot over a crudely drawn hopscotch game, or a bunch of little boys kneeling over a hot marble game. The battle cries of “You’re fudgin’!” and “Dibs!” are no longer heard, and, would fall strangely on the ears of our younger generation. These things were the authentic signs of coming spring, and I miss them.
A voice out of the past came across the telephone lines this week, all the way from Oregon. It was Katie Jones Summers, who lived on Grannies Creek her growing-up years. She said she was the only surviving member of the Corley Jones family, and kept mentioning the good memories she had of living here. I remember our family going to William’s River to camp with their family, and indeed there are many warm memories. Growing up here in our hills was truly wonderful, and I’m so thankful for the memories.
God knew where to place us, and I am so thankful that He placed me here in the majestic hills of West Virginia. With the exception of a couple of years, I have lived my entire life in almost the exact spot where I grew up. God willing, when my life ends, I plan to be buried here in the family cemetery where my grandparents, parents and other members of the family rest beneath the outstretched arms of the huge beech tree—in the hills of West Virginia.
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn:
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.
From I Remember, I Remember
By Thomas Hood
I would change the last line of that poem—I am so happy that God permitted me to live and love here in this place.
They wrapped their robes a little tighter against the early morning chill, and talked in muted tones about their beloved Master, Jesus. The uppermost thought in their minds was the huge stone that was sealing the entrance to the sepulcher, for none of them were able to roll it away.
Events had happened so fast the past few days that they were still quite bewildered by it all. Jesus, whom they had loved and followed, had been taken and crucified three days before, and placed in the tomb of Joseph of Arimathaea. They were sorrowful, and confused, and somewhat apprehensive. It was that darkest hour just before dawn, and undoubtedly the darkest hour of their lives. Their whole world had fallen apart.
Thin streaks of light were appearing in the sky as they neared the tomb, and daylight was breaking fast. To their amazement, the huge stone that they had worried about was rolled away from the door of the sepulcher! Entering the tomb, they found that the body of Jesus was gone! They were much perplexed, and uncertain, and just a little bit frightened.
There were confused accounts afterward, but suddenly there were two men in shining garments who appeared beside them. They told the women that Jesus of Nazareth, whom they were seeking, was no longer there but that He had risen!
The message today is still loud and clear, “He has risen!” Sadly, to many people the celebration of Easter means only a new outfit, and that one trip to church to display it. They will never darken the church doors again until Christmastime. How sad!
Most children connect Easter only with baskets of candy, colored eggs and the Easter bunny (whatever that is!) Even folks who know that Easter is the commemoration of our Lord’s resurrection are untouched by it, unless the experience of salvation is in their own hearts.
As I thought about the women who went to the tomb in the darkness of the early morning, I thought of my own life and how dark it was before I met Jesus. I walked in darkness, in fear and in dread. There was a heavy stone on my heart and I couldn’t begin to roll it away. Then in that darkest hour just before dawn, when it felt as if my world was also falling apart, the Spirit of God rolled the stone away and Jesus came in and began to live in me.
The burden lifted, and Jesus told me that He cast my sins away, as far as the east is from the west, to be remembered against me no more. He gave me “beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.” (Isaiah 61:3) The wonderful thing is, that it didn’t stop with the work of salvation. Not only does Jesus save, but His spirit has power to keep us from repeating the old sins.
It has been many years since I was first saved, but Jesus is still alive and joyful in my heart. He walks with me every day, for he promised that He would never leave nor forsake me. He is truly sweeter today than He was the day I was saved because of the long road that we have traveled together. He is my Guide, my Counselor, my Hope and my Comfort. I can recommend Jesus to you because He is the best Friend that I have ever had. If He has not risen in your heart, my friend, then you are missing it all. When you find Him, then you can say with me, “Rejoice! King Jesus lives today!”
There are many symbols of Easter that are used today. One is the lamb, which represents the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world. (John 1:29) Another is the Easter lily, which signifies purity. (1 Cor.:15-52) Eggs have always been a symbol of new life, and early Christians dyed eggs red to symbolize the resurrection of Jesus.
I’ve always wondered why new clothes were worn at Easter, and I found that they do have a religious meaning. New white garments were once worn by newly baptized Christians which represented new life through the death and resurrection of Jesus. Of course, the cross has always represented victory over the power of sin and death. (Rom. 3:25-26.)
So, let your little ones hide and hunt the colored eggs, and explain to them what the symbol means—new life through Jesus Christ our Lord.
As they grow older, they can be taught what Easter really means—hope for us all.
The bird feeder is swinging in the wind, but it doesn’t seem to deter the bright cardinals as they perch on the ledge and continue to feed. A bluejay crowds his way in, while the smaller birds feed on the ground where the seeds are scattered. Brown leaves still scudder across the yard, where grass is growing greener each day. The land is changing seasons.
St. Patrick’s Day is here, and there is a saying that on this day, everyone is Irish. I have always been fascinated by everything Irish. When I was just a young’en in grade school, I read a book titled, “Sean O’Day, a Boy in Ireland,” or some such title. I fell in love with Ireland then. Since my maiden name was “O’Dell”, my heart’s desire was to visit Ireland.
My Aunt May O’Dell Hungerford was lucky enough to go there. She had researched our family name and discovered that the O’Dell family had left Ireland during the potato famine, and gone to England. They lived there for a hundred years, and then emigrated to America. She also found an “O’Dell castle” in England.
I corresponded with Helen Lykins Reed (lots of people remember her husband, Jake Reed who taught math at Clay County High School for years) for some time. She wasn’t well at the time, but, wrote that she was realizing her lifelong dream of going to Ireland. She wrote, “I figure this will be my swan song, as I am off for Ireland for two weeks starting Saturday. My mother’s people came from over there during the potato famine, and I’ve always wanted to go there.”
Her next letter came after her trip to Ireland, and she was bubbling over with her descriptions of the Emerald Isle. She made Ireland come alive to me—the many, many rocks and the different shades of green. She said the hills reminded her of the West Virginia hills, except they had no trees on them—just brush. The English had cut all the timber long, long ago and shipped it out of Ireland. Curiously enough, Ireland imports most of its potatoes—the country is too rocky to grow them economically.
She was there in June, and it must have been the height of the growing season. She described the many flowers growing beside the hillside roads; one entire hillside was covered with flowering rhododendron and wild roses. (No wonder our ancestors who immigrated from Ireland loved our hills and wild flowers!) She described the Ireland mists as what they call “soft rain” and the coast as wild and beautiful. She saw old castles, and churches, and a college established in 1502. The trip was a delight to her, and it was her “swan song.” It wasn’t long after she returned home that she passed away.
I like to think of her being back in her beloved hills. High on a hillside overlooking the city of Clay, she is home to stay. The spring flowers will bloom above her; the autumn leaves will fall and cover her resting place. She has gone to her long home. I miss her.
I love the March wind—even when it sometimes carries snowflakes and blows fiercely. March, with all her shifting moods, is a prelude to spring and welcome in the hills. March wind, when I was a kid, meant the mud would soon be dried up and we could bring out our carefully hoarded marbles and begin the springtime games. The earliest sign of spring, after the spring peepers began their musical chorus, was the tight circle of little boys ringed around a serious marble game.
We girls played marbles too, but far it be from us to join the boys. They would have withdrawn in scorn, and anyway we played “sissy” games like “Four Holes and the Peewee,’ while they played “Keeps.” My brothers were forbidden to play for keeps as it was considered gambling. They always had their pockets full of ill-gotten gains anyway. It has been years since I’ve seen a group of little boys playing marbles. I guess it has gone the way of hop-scotch and rolling a hoop.
I am content in my West Virginia home, where the hills are wooded and comforting. Yet, when I hear the nostalgic song of “Danny Boy,” there is an unexplained longing that comes over me to see the land of my ancestors. “Ðanny Boy” is one of the most hauntingly beautiful songs in the English language. It was written by an Englishman, Fredrick Weatherly, and set to the Irish tune of “Londonderry Air.”
DANNY BOY
Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,
From glen to glen, and down the mountainside,
The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling
‘Tis you, ‘tis you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow,
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.
For I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow;
Oh Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy I love you so.
But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying,
And I am dead, as dead I well may be.
Ye’ll come and find the place where I am lying,
And kneel and say an “Ave” there for me.
And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me;
And all my grace will warm and sweeter be,
For ye shall bend and tell me that you love me;
And I shall sleep in peace until ye come to me.
And so, March marches on, with sunny days and cloudy days; blowy days and snowy days. The last part of a poem that Mom used to say ends with this:
“No matter whatever the weather, just whistle awhile and sing,
The North wind may blow, but you always can know,
That just ‘round the corner is spring!”
There is still time to go through your files and update paperwork– clear out old material and clean out clutter. My problem is, that I can’t bear to discard anything in print, and thus I am overwhelmed with a mountain of old papers. I did go through a file of “grandchild memories” and ended up keeping every bit of it. It is invaluable to me, and I hope there will be someone to treasure it after I am gone.
Since we are still mostly housebound, it is an ideal time for cooking and baking. We have had several requests for different recipes. We heard from Ella Williams of Richwood who writes, “I have lost my deep fried oyster recipe that I cut out of the Gazette several months ago. I tried to “’wing it” but refused to serve the end results at a Christmas gathering. If anyone has this recipe, send it to me and I will use it in my column.
Kitty Severn of Leon is looking for a recipe for “Head Cheese.” Mom always made “Souse,” and I inquired of my sister Mary Ellen (the family advisor since Mom is gone) what the difference was. We both did some research on it, and, found that it was almost the same thing. The biggest difference that I can see is that souse uses vinegar. Mom used the whole pig’s head, plus the feet. Ms. Severn wanted to use a round pork roast that contains some fat, and Mary Ellen sent me a recipe that called for pork meat. It still uses a pig’s foot, which gives the final product the jellied consistency.
HEAD CHEESE
10 cups water
2 ½ pork meat (roast?)
1 pig’s foot
2 teaspoons salt, divided
¾ lb. onion, chopped
1 tablespoon parsley flakes
1 tablespoon celery flakes
1 cup green onion, chopped
1 teaspoon black pepper
¾ teaspoon red pepper
Measure water into five-quart saucepan. Add pork meat, pig’s foot and salt. Cook until meat is tender and pig’s foot can be easily boned. About three cups liquid should remain in saucepan.
Add chopped onions, parsley flakes, celery flakes, chopped green onions, the remaining teaspoon salt, black pepper and red pepper. Cook three minutes and remove meat.
Place in food processor bowl. Chop fine but don’t puree. Mix chopped ingredients and reserved liquid. Pour in shallow pan (9X13X2”).
Chill thoroughly before slicing.
Mom cooked the pig head and feet, and, mixed the other ingredients in raw. She used fresh horseradish (which we grew in abundance) dill pickles, celery, onions and vinegar in the meat, which she then poured into loaf pans and refrigerated. It was simply delicious!
Some folks may be squeamish about using a pig’s head, but it is the making of your head cheese. She also used the pig ears, cooked them along with the head, and chopped them along with the other meat. If you have never tasted home cooked pickled pig feet, you have missed something. They are not like the commercially made pinkish product you find in the supermarket.
One cold winter day, Criss and I decided to try our hand at making scrapple. We had a wood cook stove on the back porch of the old house, which was enclosed and warm. After stoking the stove with firewood, we put the freshly cleaned pig’s head in a large kettle (probably a pressure canner) and boiled the meat until it fell off the bone.
After picking the meat off the bone, we mixed it with the cooking broth, adding salt, sage and cornmeal, and then cooked it. After pouring it in loaf pans and refrigerating it, it could be cut into slices. Dipped in flour and fried in oil or bacon grease, it is a welcome addition to your breakfast meal. Scrapple got its name from the scraps of meat left over after butchering, for nothing was to be wasted. I’ve heard it said that Mom used everything from the pig except the whistle!
Our grandparents were pretty self-sufficient, even down to using home remedies for common ailments. I remember Daddy concocting poultices for the many stone bruises we suffered in the summer time from different plants. He used sassafras leaves and cabbage leaves wrapped in a white rag to draw out infection, and I remember his putting scraped potato on a bone felon I once suffered.
Come to think of it, you never hear of a stone bruise nowadays. Perhaps it is because today’s youngsters wear shoes now, when we romped all through the summer with bare feet. It probably didn’t help that we jumped out of the barn loft without shoes. I’ve never heard of a bone felon since, because it is probably called by some other name. I do know however, that when Daddy took me to Dr. Smith, he lanced my finger and along with a lot of infection, a sliver of the bone came out.
It seems that a lot of today’s parents are looking for some home remedies for their babies (going back to nature?) and my friend Gloria asked me if I’d ever heard of putting a slice of potato in an infant’s sock to ward off a common cold. As Mom would say, “I never heard tell of such a thing!” I have heard of greasing the sole of a baby’s foot with Vick’s salve for nighttime coughing.
We were never subjected to having a bag of asafetida tied around our necks to ward off diseases, although it was a common practice in earlier generations. I am told that it was an extremely foul-smelling substance that was worn day and night. I did notice a necklace of amber-colored beads around a toddler’s neck that was supposed to help with teething.
The Lord has sent us a beautiful, sunny day that has melted yesterday’s snow and cheers up the heart. He wants cheerful people. “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. Serve the Lord with gladness: come before His presence with singing.” Psalms (100:1-2)
I heard a song bird this morning singing a spring song of cheer. My heart is singing along with him.
On this cold and freezing day,
The Russian sage does gently sway,
And miniature roses perfume the air,
I can see them blooming there.
Though days are short, my vision’s clear.
And through the snow, the buds appear.
In my mind, clematis climbs,
And morning glories do entwine.
Woodland phlox and scarlet pinks,
Replace the frost, if I just blink.
My inner eye sees past the snow.
And in my mind, my garden grows.”
– Cynthia Adams
It is a dreary February day, with rain dropping from a gray winter sky and trying to turn to snow. It would be easy to slip into winter doldrums and let the grayness overtake you, but my friend Mary reminds me, “This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.” (Psalms 118-24) Each day should be valued and lived to its fullness—whether cold and dreary, or warm and sunny.
Yet, in our mind’s eye, we can see a springtime scene, with flowers blooming and soft, velvety grass underfoot. We can daydream about it, but one day soon it will be a reality. The Bible says, “Hope deferred maketh the heart sick, but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life.” It seems that the longer a person waits for something; the sweeter it is when it finally appears.
February has always been a gloomy month, muddy and depressing, with leftover snow and soggy ground. Icicles hang from rock cliffs and melt into sodden piles along the ditch line. It is the shortest month to feel like the longest. Blessed are the ones (like me!) who can stay indoors and watch the songbirds at their smorgasbord through the window.
February is an in-between month, spanning the gulf between winter and spring. Sometimes it leans toward wintry weather, with record snowfalls and sub-zero temperatures, and other times it reaches a tentative hand toward spring. It seems that after Groundhog Day, all signs point toward spring—and six weeks do pass swiftly. February is the traditional month when we dig the pungent sassafras root for tea. When the fragrance of sassafras drifts through the house, it sooths a winter-weary spirit and warms the body the body with a delicious age-old tonic.
Mom always told us that it thins the blood and tones the body after the dull days of winter. Even if it has no beneficial effect, I drink it because it is purely delicious. The freezing rain and intermittent snowflakes puts a damper on digging sassafras roots right now, but harvest time will come.
My Cousin Bobby (also known as Frank Sheldon Monroe Samples) writes from warmer Florida, “My mother (my Aunt Vanna) used to say an old quote from an unidentified author that has been in my thoughts from time to time. It went like this, ‘The mills of God grind slowly . . . but they grind exceedingly small.’ I wonder who wrote it?”
I, like a lot of other folks, once attributed this quotation to the Bible, but that is not where it originated. It is from the ancient Greek, translated as, “The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind small.” It was translated by Longfellow as this, “Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience He stands waiting, With exactness grinds He all.”
There are other quotations that mean basically the same thing. My sister Jeannie uses the phrase, “What goes around, comes around.” Or, we can say, “It is Karma.” When we see an injustice done, and long to do something about it, you can be sure that somewhere along the line, it will catch up with the wrongdoer. When the Bible says, “Be sure your sins will find you out,” you can rest assured that it will come to pass.
A reader from Elkview sent me Apple Pan Dowdy recipe, which I plan to make in the near future.
This is probably a Pennsylvania Dutch dessert, and it sounds delicious.
APPLE PAN DOWDY
Sauce:
¼ cup Bisquick
½ cup brown sugar
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vinegar
1 cup water
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 tablespoon butter
Cobbler:
5 cups sliced apples
1 teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon nutmeg
¼ cup sugar
1 ½ cups Bisquick
1/3 cup milk
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
Grease 8-inch square casserole dish
Sauce: In pan, combine first five sauce ingredients and cook over low heat; stirring until thick and clear. Remove from heat and add vanilla and butter. Set aside.
Cobbler: Place apples in prepared dish, sprinkle with cinnamon, nutmeg and sugar. Combine the 1 ½ cups Bisquick with the milk and spoon over the apples.
Sprinkle with additional sugar and spices, if desired.
Pour sauce over all. Bake at 400 degrees about 35 minutes. Serve with ice cream or whipped cream.
Here is a more modern piece of advice from Ogden Nash:
A WORD TO HUSBANDS
To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup
Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;
Whenever you’re right, shut up.