A Father’s Tale

Dad’s been gone for a little over 6 years now. It hardly seems possible. He grew up all over Virginia, but mostly the Shenandoah Valley. Dad was the son of a preacher man, which sort of made them a family of drifters. He was the oldest of five children; three boys and two girls. One of his sisters, Polly, died as an infant. That was pretty traumatic for the family, as it would be for any family. A traveling doctor came through, as I remember it told, and gave my dad, Uncle Jim and Polly each a shot for the flu or something like that. Polly did not do well with the shot and was quickly gone. Dad and Uncle Jim were later joined by Aunt Alice and Uncle David. I remember seeing a picture of Aunt Polly. They took it after she died, realizing that they did not have a picture of her at all and they had no choice.

I think granddaddy studied to become a minister in the Methodist Church in Washington, DC, so they lived  there for a few years. I believe they had other family there at the time too. I remember Aunt Alice talking about some relatives in that area. I also remember Granddaddy saying that he was walking down the street in DC one day and along came President Harry S. Truman. I kinda thought he was just making up tales, but he was a preacher, so he could not lie! As a kid, I didn’t know that Truman was known as The Incredible Walking President. I later did a report in school on President Truman and realized that Granddaddy may be the only person I know that has met a United States President. Who knows, I may change that one day.

I think dad was too small to have known if he had seen the President, and most of his childhood was spent in the Shenandoah Valley. When they lived in Winchester he attended James Wood High School and he met a girl there named Barbara Barton. On Christmas Eve, he proposed and in June of 1963 they were married. Dad and mom both were born into the era of WWII and married in the era of Camelot. It was a promising time and a scary time too. The threat of nuclear was imminent and President Kennedy was killed not long after they were married. It had to be tough having that much life ahead of you and the realization that it could all end in a flash, literally. 
Dad worked very hard to provide for his growing family. He worked two jobs most of his life. One of his jobs was at the Virginian Truck Stop. It was a great family owned and operated business. Even though it was a truck stop, it was a family stop too. Lots of people ate there on Sunday after church. My very first job was there as well. Everyone knew me as Harry’s boy and the owners took care of me like I was their own. Which meant that if I screwed up, they had permission to straighten me out. I remember them wanting to make sure that my grades were always good and they even gave me rides home if my parents could not. The old saying “It takes a village to raise a child” was true in my case. They also had kids my age in school, so they knew what it was like to keep the family going.
Our dad was also a volunteer most of his life. He began volunteering for the fire department as a teenager. The fire hall became his second home. If he wasn’t at home, we always knew where to find him. He and mom also volunteered at church a lot and were our youth leaders for many years. They both believed in giving to the community. It may have been partly because of the way dad was raised, with granddaddy always being in service to his community.
When dad passed, the entire county Fire, Rescue, and Police paid their respects. I had never seen anything like it before. He never took us to a funeral for a fireman. Toms Brook Volunteer Fire Department, where he had volunteered for most of his life, provided a truck to carry him to his final resting place. We drove through all of Shenandoah County on the way to the cemetery. As we made our way through each town, there were fire trucks, rescue squads and police cars waiting for us. Hats in hand, full dress uniform and lights without sirens welcomed us, comforted us and bid a deeply felt fond farewell. I knew he was a good father, a good son and a good man. I did not know how much of a good neighbor he had been until that very moment. I was unprepared, to say the least, but it was one last blessed lesson from the man I knew, who was sent to teach me so much. He had been a part of that “village” since he had been a boy, raising his boys and seeing his grandchildren begin to grow. He gave to the community and the community gave back. His fire department still holds blood drives in his memory.
My very first Father’s Day after my dad passed was also my birthday. It was a day I will never forget. It was a day that destiny laid it’s hand on, and who knows, maybe my dad did too. That day I met for the first time, the man who would later become my Father-In-Law. My future in-laws had no idea it was my birthday. I was joining them for a family Father’s Day lunch out. They had been told that my dad had recently passed and I think they wanted me to have a good day. I knew the moment I met him that one day I would call him dad too. Some people call it “sight” or “knowing”. I think I get it from my grandmaw Barton. She always had visions and knew what was going on. I come by it honest. It was a great day. 
Happy Father’s Day!

Hoe your own row

A garden was, and is, very much a part of the landscape of Appalachian homes. We didn’t have a garden growing up, but Charlie and Mary had a huge one. I helped in the garden every year. Several of us neighbors did and we all reaped its harvest.

Charlie taught me to operate the tiller. He kept a watchful eye though the first few times. He worried that it would get away from me and I would get hurt. But I did well and mastered it enough that he found me a couple of jobs tilling up gardens for some friends of his. His was a front tine with the plow bar. He would also get out his hatchet, a couple of wooden stakes and string to lay a row, and we would hoe the row to plant.

Corn was always at the upper end, followed by potatoes. Their grandkids would come visit for a couple of weeks every summer, so we all helped pull up the potatoes. We would get good and dirty and then we could play with the water hose. Beans were next and there were usually a couple of varieties. Cabbage and lettuce, squash and cucumbers, watermelons and onions and a few other things finished up the quarter acre. There was a strawberry patch that was separate from the garden, peach trees and a cherry tree that filled out the rest of the back yard. There was just enough room for the clothes lines and their old beagle.

They first taught me to shuck corn and snap beans. Mary would pick what she needed fresh from the garden as it came in and cooked with it that day. The rest was put up. It was a full-time job when that garden started coming in. We would snap the beans and get jars from the cellar. When it was all over, quart size jars of the most beautiful green beans lined every surface in the kitchen. Corn would be prepared and cut from the cob, jarred up and then we headed back to the cellar to store everything. There, a bin also held the potatoes.

The cellar was half dirt floor and half concrete. They poured just what they needed. It was always so cool down there and smelled very earthy. It was also very dark, so while it felt and smelled good, it was not somewhere you wanted to spend too much time. To get into it, you had to pull up the heavy metal covered doors and descend the stairs to the next door. Our grandmaw Barton had the same kind of basement entrance, but she never let us in it.

For dinner, Mary would slice the yellow crookneck squash into 1/2 inch rounds, dip them in beaten egg and then dredge them in finely ground cracker crumbs. Then she would fry them up, lining the pan as she prepped each one. As they would brown on the underside, she would flip them with a couple of forks and let them brown on the other. Then she would move them to a paper towel-lined plate until she finished the whole batch. She could be at the stove frying up squash for nearly an hour as the rest of the meal cooked. I hardly have the patience for that. If I want the flavor of her fried squash, I’ve been known to short cut the process and fry the squash un-breaded. then as it’s almost done, I take a couple of eggs and whisk them up, break up a handful of saltines and pour that over the squash. Then I toss it around until it is all cooked through. It is not nearly as pretty as hers was, but the taste is pretty close. I just don’t look at it while I eat it and I hope she don’t look down.

Mary always wore her apron when she was workin’ around the house. She was preparing Christmas dinner when I stopped by to check on her. I miss her to this very day.

I moved away as Mary’s health began to decline. She lived to be about 88.

Now, I told you that I got my Bread-N-Butter Pickle recipe from Mary. It is a simple recipe that takes the better part of a day to complete. First, you wash and slice your cucumbers, then you clean up your onions and slice them into large rings about a quarter inch thick. Next, you have to get a big pan, tub or bucket and you begin to layer the cucumbers and onions rings. You take your non-iodized or pickling salt and shake it evenly over the top. Here is the critical part. You must cover them with a thick layer of ice and let it set for 3-4 hours. This is the step that will help maintain that crispness to your pickle chips. The second most critical step is to make sure that after they have set long enough, you remove any remaining ice and rinse the cucumbers and onion rings several times in cold water. You must get all the salt off of them.

While your cucumbers and onions are setting in their salty ice bath, you need to prep the rest. Your jars will need to be cleaned and sterilized. You have to gather your white vinegar, pickling spices, sugar, turmeric and a pan large enough to get everything into, on the stove. Mary used her enamel roasting pan, so I do the exact same thing. Once you’ve rinsed your cucumbers, you begin putting everything together in the pot. It only has to come to a boil and cook about five minutes, so you have to make sure that you also have your lids and rings boiling and ready to put on your jars. You also need to have your canning pot filled and on the stove boiling away, ready to receive your jars once they are filled and closed. Another ten minutes in a boiling water bath and you are almost done. You take your jars of pickles out of the pot and set them on a kitchen towel on the counter. There they must set until they cool. As they cool down, you will hear that beautiful tink, tink song of the jars as they sing their way to sealed. When I hear that I instantly yell out, “Sounds like pickles!” They are not quite done until they have set in a cool dark place for about two weeks, though. Then you will have pickles to enjoy for the next year.

With just the right blend of vinegar, spices and sugar, Bread-N-Butter Pickles compliment any meal!

I know I could have given you my actual recipe for my Bread-N-Butter Pickles, but I am still saving that for some time in the future. I make so many each year, that I have become a little famous among my friends and co-workers for them. They look forward to them now. We only eat a jar or two ourselves each year. I love them, but I love making them more. The last time I made pickles with Mary was probably thirty years ago. It makes me feel connected to her again when I make them, when I taste them and when I give them away. I still have the recipe written down on a piece of paper from a notepad she kept on her kitchen table. I made notes as she made a batch. If anyone saw it, they probably could not make heads nor tales of it, but I know exactly what each line means. It is a true occasion of reading between the lines. Mine may be a little different as every cook plays with a recipe once they know it, but how they are made is the same.

My In-Laws put out a garden for us each year because we live in town and they are convinced there is just not enough room for us to do it here. Their garden is just about as big as Charlie’s. Most of what they grow is for us. They eat very little of it themselves. Mom was so proud the day she learned that I bought my own pressure cooker for canning that you would have thought I told her she was about to become a grandma.

The broccoli has been coming in fast and furious. I made the best pot of Broccoli Cheddar soup I have ever had, just the other week. Red potatoes are on the menu for tonight. Cabbage has been bustin’ to get out of the garden and I ate on a pot of it for a week. Lot’s of zucchini bread is in our future and I have to make sure that all of my pickling spices are at the ready. I will also make Green Mater Pickles, Pickled Okra, and Squash Pickles. That reminds me, I need to get a couple of more gallons of vinegar too. When I make my Bread-N-Butters I make sure to make up a little extra brine. I use it all the time for potato salad, deviled eggs and I’ve been reading lately that it’s great for cocktails. I have to admit, I’m more than curious about that.

Life is good. Gardens are big. Hoe your own row, unless you’ve got someone by your side you can trust.

A Tale of towheaded boys

Here we are, summer ’71. Towheaded and buzzed within a hair of being scalped. That’s with Granddaddy and Grandmaw Edge and Aunt Joan. Grandmaw was never without a smile.

Memorial Day was not the official start of summer for us growing up. We didn’t get out of school until the first week of June usually. The official start was when Mr. Pearson announced free buzz cuts in his barber shop for summer. Dad would load us all in the car, even though it was less than a mile away, and head on up the road. I’m sure he figured that if we walked, someone was bound to disappear on the way. We didn’t want a buzz cut. But, it was free and what parents of four boys are gonna pass that up. I think dad got one too.
Walking in was always an experience. His shop was once his back porch, all closed in. It was very long and narrow, with a door at one end and the door to his house in the middle. The big chair was at the far end. His shop was more than just a barber shop, it was also a minnow shop. Just as you walked in, on the left-hand side, behind the door, were sinks full of minnows. There were other fishing-related items and a pop machine next to that, and the chairs for waiting were on the right.
Each of us had to take our turn in the big chair while Mr. Pearson took the clippers from one side to the next. It didn’t take long. This was not a salon. The only salon we had been to at that point was in the other direction and mom didn’t take us too many times. She didn’t like for us to hear all the stuff they talked about in there. It interested me a whole lot more than the fishing and hunting stories of the barber shop. She probably left us in the car most of the time. Crack the windows and we would be fine. You could do that back then, it was not considered child abuse I guess. But anyway, when he finished, he would take his big brush and sweep your neck with talc and we would jump down. Next!
When we were done, we looked like the smallest and most pitiful military regiment you could imagine. Towheaded and sorrowful. Everybody would say we were so cute. We didn’t think it was so cute. I am not sure why he did this at the beginning of every summer. We didn’t need another hair cut until it was time for school again in September. We were a cash cow for a barber shop. It was his community service I guess. He was a nice man. I can’t fault him for his kindness. His marketing begged understanding.
Summer lasted forever. We only had someone watch us a couple of summers. Mom was home with us at first, but she started working when I started school. So when my oldest brother was a teenager, he was in charge. There were lots of kids in our neighborhood, so we ended up all over the place, but everyone knew who we were and everyone looked after everyone else. It was an easy way to grow up actually.
Evenings were spent outside until way past dark. We would get our big peanut butter jars ready for catching Lightning Bugs. Holes had to be punched in the top so they could breathe, but not so big that they could crawl out. A stick or two and some grass for a natural habitat was essential. The jars were glass and they were big and heavy. Just as it began to get dark, the front yard would light up. It seemed the Lightning Bugs were always just a few feet away and you had to chase them. But, when you caught one, you had to be very gentle with it and quickly throw it in the jar and slam the lid back down. It was hard to be gentle and forceful at the same time. That took some practice. Once you had a few in the jar, it was time to go in. We would get cleaned up and take our jars to bed. I would just lay there and stare at it, watching each one light up, and eventually I guess I would fall asleep. I don’t remember them being there the next morning. Maybe mom set them free, back into the wild vastness of the front yard to live with the ones that evaded capture. Lightning Bugs still fascinate me today. Here in East TN, they call them Fireflies. I like that.
Chores were something else that meant it was summer. We had our regular chores to do all the time, but not many. But, when school was out, we had plenty to do. It did mean that on Saturday mom could take us to the pool though if we got them all done. She had to work lots of Saturdays but usually got home about 11 or noon. We would have everything done and she could just come in change and off to the pool, we would go. There was always a line to get in and next to that line, was another line. The second was full of kids that didn’t have the money to get into the pool. Mom would always be suckered into paying for one. I remember one black kid in particular. It got to the point that he knew when we would get there and we would see him coming through the parking lot as we pulled in. Eventually, he just got in line with us and we all went in together. I want to say his name was Reggie, but I don’t remember. I have no idea what ever happened to him. He went to school in the next town.
Mom always packed lunch and drinks for us, but occasionally we could buy something from the concession stand. Their french fries were the best in the world. I think it had to do with the combination of the chlorinated water, grease and salt. Most of the time, we would just pick at our lunch because of the one hour rule. We didn’t want to have to stay out of the water for an hour after we ate, and we didn’t want to drown either. It was a lot of pressure on a kid to weigh that decision out when you had a boat of french fries, let me just tell you. Sometimes the lifeguard would make the decision for us. They would blow the whistle and tell us it was time to clear the pool. Then they would open the pool for the adults to swim for a little bit. We would raid the cooler and fill up while mom was doing the backstroke.
The smells, sights, sounds and tastes of summer are still so vivid in my mind. The talc of the barber’s brush, mixed with the minnows. The Lightning Bugs adding a glow to my bedroom at night. The lifeguard’s whistle and the taste of those fries. We didn’t have money for big vacations in the summer. Summer was our vacation and it was pretty cool.

Hey mom, I’m goin’ up Markley’s

“Hey mom, I’m goin’ up Markley’s” was something heard quite often in our house. If one of my brothers or me didn’t say it, it was “Who’s goin’ up Markley’s for me?” from mom. Markely’s In-Between Store was a general mercantile I guess. It was the Walmart of our little town before we ever knew what Walmart was, or any chain store for that matter. And, we didn’t actually go up, because it was south of us. For some reason, we all referred to south as up and north as down. When we went up Markley’s, we just meant that we were going up to. I don’t know why we dropped the “to” either. It was our Appalachian shorthand I guess.
Like I said, they carried all general merchandise. We mostly went in for the pop and a candy bar, but dad bought more than one pair of work boots and coveralls from them over the years. We may have even ordered a wood stove from them. I don’t remember, but I know they had them. All that kind of stuff was in the back of the store and it was dark back there, so we stayed to the front where the good stuff was anyway.
When you walked up the wooden steps and onto the front porch of the store, you were greeted by a huge and heavy set of screen doors, followed by wood and glass double doors. If it was nice out or summertime, the wooden doors were propped open. The screen doors had big metal handles on them made by Sunbeam Bread or something like that. Every time we would come flying through the door, Mrs. Markley would say “Don’t let that door slam!”, just as it did just that. We’d reply “I’m sorry Mrs. Markley!” and keep on going.
There were coolers down the left-hand side of the store when you came in. In one of the coolers was always a big ole cloth bologna. If you wanted, they would cut off a thick piece with a butcher knife, grab a couple of slices of white bread, slather on some mayonnaise and there you had the best sandwich you ever tasted. They didn’t worry about putting on plastic gloves or even getting a clean knife to cut the bologna with. The best they could do was rip off a piece of wax paper and put it down on the counter. When they were done, they used that to wrap up your sandwich. We were probably barefooted to begin with, so germs were not a concern anyway.
The isles were not very long, but they were tall, and they were stocked to the gills. Although as a kid, it probably seemed bigger and more stocked than it probably was. I could look up and down those isles for hours I think. I would look over the Hershey bars, Sugar Daddys, Big Chew bubble gum, Tootsie Pops and penny candy in between. All it would take was .35 cents to get a pop and a piece of candy or two. They had a big chest freezer with sliding glass doors on top to hold the ice cream. Oh, on a hot day, an ice cold pop and a Nutty Buddy was pure heaven. There were also regular groceries, but I was not one bit concerned about something I had to prepare. I wanted something right then. I remember getting a bag of Bugles and a pop on Friday nights so I could watch Donnie & Marie and have a snack.
Mr. & Mrs. Markley ran it every day, all day long. I only remember a time or two that they had someone else mind the store. They eventually retired and their son and his wife took over. By then I was a teenager and I could drive. But up to that point, goin up Markley’s meant a walk about a mile away. That was nothing for us as kids. We did it all the time. We even did it for neighbors if they needed something. And, when we went for them, they usually paid for our pop and candy. By the way, if you have not figured out by now, a pop was any soda. It could have been a Coke, Pepsi, Mountain Dew or anything in a bottle. And as a kid, they all came in glass bottles which were returnable for a refund. That was another source of income for a pop. There was this one time that a neighbor told me that she had called Markley’s and had them put something at the counter for her. All I had to do was pay for it and bring it to her. When I got there, sure enough, there was a bag on the counter and they were waiting for me to pay. I got myself a little something, paid for what was in her bag and began walking back home. I, of course, got a little curious, so I looked in the bag. It was a box of feminine products. I knew what they were by looking at the box because there was a box just like it in the linen closet at home. I just didn’t know what feminine products were for. I didn’t care. I had what I wanted too.
When we walked, we had two routes to take. One was the road. We lived just off the main road that connected all of the towns around us. There was a sidewalk for part of the walk, but that didn’t start until you actually got into town. Lots of times, though, we would take the alternate route, which was the railroad tracks. That was the real scenic route. The tracks ran right behind our house. They actually touched our backyard. We pretty much knew when the train would be running, so we knew if it was safe to walk the tracks. And, if our calculations were off, there was usually enough room to get off the tracks if the train came rolling on by. I didn’t care for being that close to the train, ever. I didn’t really like it being that close to our house. My brothers would try to scare me with stories of Dracula and The Werewolf getting off they train at night and coming to the house, but I’ll leave my daily torments from my brothers for another post… or several.
Markley’s In-Between Store has been closed for a couple of decades now I think. It served it’s purpose well when it was open. The store had actually been there for about a hundreds years before they bought it I believe. It was called Clem’s Store then. I had even read once that the store used to set on the hill behind where it was when we knew it. It had apparently been moved on logs down the hill. Which is pretty amazing when you think of the size of the two-story building and the steepness of the hill. Today it would not be moved unless a dump truck took care of it.

Markley’s In-Between Store as it looks today. I would say the building is about 150 or more years old. It served it’s community well. In its heyday, it was one of three stores in a row, on what was thought of as Main Street.

We had the best Mom, and that’s no Tale.

We had the best Mom. The Creator knew exactly what he was doing when he gave us her. I’m not so sure he gave her a fair deal with us sometimes, though. We had to say goodbye to mom over a dozen years ago now. It sounds like forever and feels like a moment ago.

I can still hear her voice. Some people would say that she and I sounded alike. Some would say that I looked like her. “Oh, that’s Barbara’s boy for sure!” They’d say. I got her temperament too. Well, maybe more like her temper. You could get her dander up, and she would commence to slamming cabinet doors in the kitchen like you have never heard cabinets slammed before. I remember one time she started slamming doors and when she opened the next door, a wine glass fell out and popped her on the head. It shattered and glass cascaded all around her, and she began to laugh. She got the message loud and clear. Laughing at yourself is important.

Mom was funny, even when she was upset about something. I think it was her way of coping with things that bothered her. She did love to laugh and she thought we were hilarious sometimes. She liked to sing too. I don’t think many people knew that about her. You would catch her humming something or singing while she was busy. But I don’t remember her ever joining the church choir or anything like that. I don’t think she thought she could sing, but she could. I remember her telling me that when she was a little girl, she somehow discovered that if she would sing into the gas tank on the car, it had this incredible echoing sound like you were singing into a microphone on a big stage. So, she did that one day with her father’s car. They soon found her passed out, apparently from inhaling too many of the fumes. That may have stunted her desire for the spotlight.

She was a lot like her own mother too. She grew up staying busy, being faithful and knowing that you contributed to the household. That is how she raised us as well. We all had chores to do, but we never took care of as many things as she did. Her mom was straightforward. She told you exactly how it was and how it was going to be. Mom was kind of the same way, but maybe not as direct. Maybe I just looked past it. She went to church pretty regularly and for a few years, she and dad were the leaders of our youth group. She volunteered for lots of things at the church. That was another thing she believed in contributing to; your community. She didn’t do huge things because she was not in it for the glory, but the gratification. She mostly did the small things that people didn’t usually think about. Cleaning the bathrooms at the church. Washing dishes at the fire hall. Collecting donations door to door.

She was a strong woman, but she had her weaknesses. She battled cancer three times, but a moth flying around her could bring her to tears. She called them “cattlebats”. It took me forever to figure out why she called them that. I think I asked her once and she just said that’s what they are. But, I think it was just her way of saying “candle bats”, which would make more sense. Her reaction to one did not make sense, though. One time there was a cattlebat flying around in the car and she broke the door handle off trying to get out. You always knew where there was one around. She was the first to spot it and then she would yell “Cattlebat!!” That meant, drop whatever you were doing and save her. We are all so grateful that she didn’t like the smell of moth balls, or they would have been everywhere in our house. I don’t remember her being scared of much more, though. Cattlebats was enough.

I am sure we were hard on her at times, but she remained dedicated to us. She loved all of us equally, which meant that we were all her favorite. I just happen to know I was her favoritest favorite. Don’t tell my brothers. I’m not sure they could handle the truth at this point. Her favorite color was yellow. Her favorite flowers were irises and roses. I grow both and think of her often when they bloom. I remember the hillside at the bottom of our yard when we were growing up, being filled with irises. We also had a triangle shaped bed of them by the back door. We never grew roses, but my grandmother had several in her yard. On Mother’s Day weekend, we would have visited and they would have walked around the yard, looking at all of grandmaw’s flowers. Grandmaw would give us cuttings of things. Not much survived, but we did have some Rose Of Sharon trees that she started for us and I am sure that’s where the irises first came from. I also have Rose Of Sharon in our garden today. So much of what we have, I know mom would love to walk around and look at and talk about.
My mother-in-law will be over for dinner this afternoon. We will walk around and look at all of the flowers, shrubs and bushes and anything else that is in bloom or growing right now. If she sees a weed she will pull it. I could use the help. I take in those moments. They make me feel even more at home. I am blessed to have had such a great mom. I am blessed to have a great mother-in-law too. No matter how old you get, you always need your mom. No matter how old she gets, I think she always needs to be a mom too.

My yellow irises. We never had yellow ones growing up. I think most of ours were blue and pink, but these make me think of mom. I took this a couple of days ago. Today there is just one bloom left. I think she was holding out for Mother’s Day.

Our yellow roses. My grandmaw had a yellow rose bush behind her garage. It was not out where you could really see it with the rest of her flowers, but she enjoyed it just the same.

A Tale of Charlie and Mary

I mentioned in the previous post, the one about porches, my neighbors who used both of their porches. I didn’t tell you their names. They were Charlie and Mary. They had been married for more than 60 years when Charlie passed. Mary followed him a couple of years later.
When I was just a kid, probably six or seven, I began visiting and hanging out at their house. They lived just a house away, in a white block house that Charlie built. It was stuccoed on the outside, but you could still see the outline of the cinder blocks in some areas. They had a building just a few feet away from the back porch that they called the smokehouse. It had not been used to smoke anything in years, but it still had that smell that was somewhat offensive to your nose, but familiar to your senses. They had another building they used to smoke meats in. It was at the back end of their property. It was the old outhouse. I know, who would smoke meats in an old outhouse? Well, they did. It did not sit over the hole anymore. They had moved it thankfully. And, Charlie did not smoke too many meats as the years went by.
I’ll just refer to the building near the house as the smokehouse since that’s what we called it, and you can just forget about that smokin’ outhouse. So, the smokehouse was a bit of a catchall for garden tools. It also had the wringer washer in it. There was a workbench and a huge chest freezer. It was always dark in there. There was a small window and the old wooden door for light. Mary had curtains at that little window, even though it was just the smokehouse. You could see it from the road, so appearances were important.
There was a wash day to observe each week, and it was still a chore. They used that old washer every week. They never had a modern washing machine or dryer. All the clothes were washed with Borax and anything white was bleached regularly. The clothesline was up next to the huge garden, which was shielded from view by a row of boxwood. Mary would always be wearing her apron when she was working and she had a huge bag of clothespins.
The freezer in the smokehouse was full of wild turkeys, squirrel, dove and deer meat that Charlie would hunt. He never hunted for sport, it was always to provide. I went hunting with him once, and once was all it took. I think he knew before that day even came that he was not going to bag one single animal. This was just to take me out for the experience. I had shot a gun before. We had guns in the house growing up. Today I don’t care for them much and you won’t find one in our house. I respect them and they had their purpose back then. Anyway, Charlie had me out in the woods at 5 am and we had to wait quietly and patiently for the sun to come up. That old phrase “It’s always darkest before the dawn” is true when you are squatted down in the woods at 5 am and the temperature is hanging somewhere around freezing. It was one of the darkest moments of my life. I prayed that we would not see a thing. I appreciated the sacrifice but did not want to be part of it. I understood it, and I respected it, and I never went again. We left the woods about 7 am and headed home for some breakfast. Charlie never asked me to go again either.
Mary was always busy around the house. She never stopped much, until the evening. Then it was time for a cup of hot tea and a cookie or two. We could sit for hours talking then, or retreat to the living room to watch Jeopardy and Wheel Of Fortune. Mary taught me so many things. I had two incredible grandmothers, but being with her was like having a third. Charlie was a wealth of knowledge too, but he had strong opinions and they did not always match mine. Even as a kid, teenager, and young adult, we did not see eye to eye on lots of things, but I respected him and I rarely challenged him. It was not worth it. He was not going to change, and he was not going to change me.
I would help Charlie outside with mowing the yard and helping put out the garden. He loved passing on what he knew about growing corn, potatoes, squash and such. He taught me how to use the tiller, how to make a potato hill and how to tie off the rows to make them good and straight. They always had a huge garden. We would be working away and if he got tired he would always say “Whew! Boy, I am all petered out!” Rarely would we run the water hose up to the garden. Most of the time we would drop the watering can down in the cistern and fish out as much as we needed, which was always a lot. I would help him put the garden out, and I would help Mary put the garden up. She taught me a little about canning. Although when she used the pressure cooker, she wanted everyone out of the house. It was not until I was much older that she would trust me to stay. She passed on her Bread & Butter Pickle recipe to me. I make them every year now and there are some that wait for me to put a new batch up. I give her all the credit, but I have to admit, they are pretty darn good. She first showed me how to make refrigerator pickles. I made some that year and canned them myself. I entered a jar in the Shenandoah County Fair and won first prize in my category. I don’t remember if my category was just pickles or pickles made by a 13-year-old boy, but I won. Today I pickle just about anything that will hold its own in a jar of vinegar.
She also passed along her secrets to making fresh homemade bread and rolls. She would make it all the time and it looked so easy. She even told me how her grandfather taught her how to make bread and this was his recipe. She said that he made bread for the soldiers in his camp during the Civil War. Well, I was honored to learn the trade, but something got lost in translation. I still have that recipe, but I have tried it several times and I never got more than a door stop out of mine. She also taught me how to make pie crust. Now that I can do. The secret to that is ice cold water, cold fat, and even cold hands. You don’t want your dough to become warm while you mix and work it. Also, don’t overwork it. Be very careful to just knead it only as much as necessary to  incorporate all the flour, or it will be tough. Then chill it again before rolling it out on a cold surface. If the fat in the mix warms up while you mix it or it rests; your crust will be greasy. You want it flaky and tender. There now you have the secrets to the best pie crust in the world! I bet you thought I was going to pass on my prize winning refrigerator pickle recipe or my now famous Bread & Butter Pickle recipe. That might come, but you will have to wait.
Their cellar was truly a root cellar. They would lime the potatoes to keep them from going bad. They had wooden shelves that lined the right-hand side as you got to the bottom of the stairs. The shelves were always filled with jars of whatever she had put up. There were beans, corn, peas, carrots, squash and soups that she would make and can. To get all of that ready, we would sit for hours on the back porch snappin’ beans, hullin’ peas, shuckin’ corn; you name it. There was lots of work to growing and putting up your own food. But, it was a way of life that they knew. It was not part of a movement for them, it was merely what they knew for survival.
Charlie and Mary taught me lots of other things as well over the years. Things that you only learn by observation, not by doing. Well, at least not until doing on your own some time later. Like when Charlie was sick and in the hospital, just a couple of weeks before he passed away. I was there with his daughter and we were off to the side of the hospital room while Mary was by his side. He was about to go into surgery and he wanted to talk to her. He apologized for not building her a bigger house, for not giving her more things, for not… and the list went on. She listened for just a minute and told him she had all of those things with him. The house was bigger than they needed, and they never wanted for anything, that they had all they ever needed. As he went into surgery, they both said what they needed to say and heard what they needed to hear. He came out of his surgery fine. He just didn’t have the strength to come back home after that, and he passed the day before he was scheduled to go into rehab.
What they taught me there was that life is not about the what, but the who. It’s not about the how much, but what you need. I learned that even more when my parents were both gone and we had to clean out the house. My brothers and I each took a few things that meant something to us and the rest was just stuff at that point. It wasn’t useless, but it wasn’t necessary. For me, even a while after bringing stuff home with me, I found myself realizing that some of it was just more stuff. I packed some things up, to pass on one day. It does have meaning, and that is its usefulness now. The rest is all stuff, and you don’t cherish those things as much as you do the moments and memories that you have.

Sittin’ on the front porch….

There’s a song by Dolly Parton that has always painted such a vivid and realistic picture for me. It starts out “Sittin’ on the front porch on a summer afternoon, a straightback chair on two legs, leans against the wall. Watch the kids a playin’ with June bugs on a string, and chase the glowin’ fireflies, as evening shadows fall.” That’s what we did as a kid too, and it’s what we still do today. We may have called them lightnin’ bugs back then. You knew the moment you saw lightnin’ bugs, that it was summer. I can’t wait to see them in a few weeks.
The porch has always been a place to gather and to gander, relax and reflect, entertain or retreat, and many times its the best place to do a little work. That is where I am right now. We celebrate our warmest welcomes there and bid our fondest farewells. It can be a step, a stoop or an outdoor room, but it has forever been an extension of our home.
Growing up we didn’t use our front porch too much. Friends knew to come to the back door to visit. But, on a few occasions, we did roll out our sleeping bags on the front porch and sleep under the stars. It was a great camping spot. The dog would keep us company while she kept guard over us too. Bootsy, our collie growing up, also used the front porch as her watch tower. She could keep an eye on everything up there. If a salesman were to come by, they never knew she was around. They were not friends, so they didn’t know to use the back door. Once they got to the top of the stairs and knocked on the door, there staring them down at the base of the stairs was Bootsy. The porch was her lair and she would let you in, but you were not getting out without her permission. One of my brothers bought several books once because she had the guy’s book bag on one side of the railing while he hung from the other.

The house that I grew up in, just as my parents were building it. The porch was not huge, but we made good use of it. One of my brothers lives there today.

                                                                                                                                                              My neighbors back home would use their back porch for work and the front porch for relaxing. If they were on the back porch, it was to snap beans, hang clothes out on the line or make a batch of dandelion wine. The front porch had a great glider, a rocker and a cart full of geraniums all summer long. Everyone who walked by was welcome to stop and talk. Iced tea, lemonade or kool aid was in constant supply. I remember they had a set of green nubby glasses with matching pitcher to serve with. When their grand kids would visit, we would play out on the front porch for hours.
My grandmaw Barton had a sleeping porch. Today many people would think of it as a sun porch because it had three walls of nothing but windows. She would open the windows at night and it was always the right temperature for the best night’s sleep you’ve ever had. The back porch had been closed in and she would bring all of her plants in to winter. At Christmas it was like walking through a jungle sometimes to get into the house.
My great grandparents on dad’s side had a wonderful porch. It was big and had a swing or glider at one end. I don’t remember much about my great grandparents, but I do remember sitting on that front porch and great granddaddy smoking a cigar. I thought it made him look like George Burns. He was always dressed in a white shirt and dress slacks, at least when we were there. I also remember that the pockets of his white shirts had dark spots and burn marks in them from tamping out his cigar and sticking it in his pocket. Their house sat right on East Main St. in Buckhannon, WV. The strawberry festival parade went right by their house, so they always had front row seats. I think we were there for a festival, but I was so young, I don’t remember. I just remember being told about it. When my grand parents inherited the house, I went to visit for a couple of weeks one summer. I spent so many hours on that front porch. I thought of myself as an artist back then. I was taking art in school, so I decided to draw the house. I would sit a few hours across the street, just like a real artist would do, and look at the house as I would sketch. I also took Polaroids so I could sit on the porch and finish. I figured the lighting was best outside. I have no idea where that sketch ended up after that summer, but I sure would love to see it. I still have the Polaroid though.

The Polaroid of the house in Buckhannon, WV. Unfortunately the house is now gone. The horrific flooding in the mid 80’s did so much damage to this part of town, and the house was torn down.

As I said, I am writing this while I sit on our porch today. We love our porch. It serves as a living room, dining room, as a great place to have a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. We have family dinners out here as much as possible, gather with friends as often as we can and enjoy a meal just for ourselves too. We built is as a screen porch, so we make use of it about three quarters of the year. The cats enjoy it as much as we do, as we made sure to include a ledge for them to sit on and gaze out through the screen. We can see the skyline of our little town during the day and at night, the lights across town look like fallen stars in the distance. We hear the train whistle as it passes through town and the sound echoes up toward our porch. That reminds me of home too. I don’t see any fireflies just yet, but I do hear the crickets begin to chirp. The night air is turning crisp as I finish this up, and the stirrings of neighbors are slowing down.
Soon though, those fireflies…. and those June bugs.

The best inspiration in the world. Our porch today.

Home is where the heart is.

I’ve been a little tied up, so I haven’t been able to post as much as I wanted to this week. I am on a business trip for work. It’s my first official out of town business trip, and it’s taken me all the way across the country. In the past week; my feet have touched four states in one day, I’ve been in two different rental cars, walked through four different airports (and about to check out a couple more), and I’ve had the pleasure of meeting the nicest people from one side of the country to the other. I feel a bit like a politician running for office.
This trip takes me back. Back, to the first time I remember being taken to the “big city” as a kid. Now we lived close to what was called a city. It even had a mall. And, my grandparents on my dad’s side lived in places that were considered cities as well. But, the first time I was allowed to walk around among the skyscrapers was when I was 13.
We had some new neighbors who had come from Maryland about a year or so before. The father worked just outside of Washington, DC. In elementary school, we took a trip to DC nearly every year to see the museums or the zoo, but we were not set free in the cement jungle. Well, our new neighbors had a daughter, who was the same age as me. We became fast, lifelong friends. Her mother arranged to take several of us to Ford’s Theater. Yes, the one where President Lincoln was shot. We went to see a production of Peter Pan.
The trip to DC took about an hour and a half. We got to town early, so we would have enough time to explore. The buildings were so tall and some took up entire blocks. I remember going into Macy’s Department Store and the girls wanted to see the fur coats on the 5th floor. They were so enamored with the coats. I was so enamored with the fact that we were on the 5th floor itself.
The theater was so impressive, so much more than anything I had seen before. It was the first production of any kind, outside of a school play, that I had seen in person. The stage, the actors, the effects; all had such an impact on me. I think I talked about it for weeks afterwards. I’m sure my family got tired of hearing about it.
There were many more trips to Washington, DC over the years, and we’ve even vacationed there and got married there, now that I live in East TN. I don’t know that any other city could have prepared me for the shear mass of buildings  and staggering number of people here in San Diego, CA. It’s beautiful here. The hills remind me a little of the mountains back home, but they are not the same. The ocean air is intoxicating to an Appalachian boy. The waves crashing against the rocky coastline, which is peppered with sunbathing sea lions, just doesn’t compare to anything back home. That’s neither good nor bad, it’s just what it is in its own right.
The city is a nice place to visit. The coastline and beaches are beautiful, and I definitely hear the siren’s call. This trip was fun and it certainly was functional. I needed the training I received to improve my work. But, it’s not home. I can be comfortable for a while in this environment, to get done what I need done. That is all for now though. Home is where the heart is, and my heart right now is in East TN.

Good Night no more

Earl Hamner, Jr passed away just a few weeks ago. Now, some of you may know who he was, others probably know the characters he created. Most notably was John Boy Walton, which was also modeled after himself. The other family members and neighbors were made up of family and friends from his past.
Earl grew up in the mountains of Virginia during the depression. Like many families of that time, they had to survive off the land, make ends meet and keep faith alive. The rest would take care of itself.
He left the mountains to do what he did best; tell stories. The stories of the Walton’s resonated with people. They could relate, perhaps because they were part of a large family, or they knew hard times. But, some I suspect enjoyed the romance of a loving family that survived life intact. Not everyone did.
I remember many of the episodes. You knew right away that it was coming on when you heard the first few seconds of the theme song. You could see the house as the episode opened up and you always knew how it was going to end. Those two things always remained the same, while everything else in the middle would make you laugh till you cried or cry till you laughed.
Our grandparent’s, on dad’s side, lived in Scottsville, VA, during part of the time The Walton’s was on the air. Scottsville was just outside of Charlottesville, so we kinda felt like we had a connection to the Walton Family. Especially when we visited our grandparents. Granddaddy was a Methodist minister, so they moved often. But, I remember this house very well. It would have been closer to the Baldwin Sister’s house than the farmhouse the Walton’s lived in. It wasn’t as grand and I doubt there was any recipe tucked in a secret room, but it was a brick house. It had a central foyer and stairway. To the right was the dining room. Behind that was the bright kitchen, with windows under the sink and a half bath under the stairs. To the left was the living room, which took up the left side of the house and off of that was a huge screened in porch. All the bedrooms were upstairs, but I don’t really remember those. I guess we spent most of our time there, like we did most of our time together; playing, talking and eating. I remember a few occasions when we were there along with our Uncle Jim & Aunt Joan and their two kids. My Uncle David was just five years older than my oldest brother, so he was still at home then too. When we were all there, it was a huge family with three generations.
I remember Sunday dinner at their house always meant Grandmaw’s roast beef, gravy, mashed potatoes, slices of white bread and deviled eggs was going to be on the table. She would be up before any of us on Sunday morning, and before church, she had everything prepped and the roast in the oven. It seemed like we would only be back for 10 minutes and it would all be set. We all ate together too, no matter how big a group we had. They would add a kids table to the end of the big table, but we were there together. Grandaddy would get out the ice cream bucket on summer days too and we could take turns helping to crank it. It felt like that took hours before we would have anything to celebrate, and the celebration was that we finally had ice cream!
Every morning at their house meant waking up to the smell of bacon, toast and scrambled eggs. Grandmaw would be in the kitchen in her robe, with her hair wrapped. Granddaddy always sat at the head of the table and he ruled the meal. He would get mad at us if we used our knife to butter our toast and then stick it in the jelly too. Grandmaw was running around getting everything to the table. Mom would help her, but she would always have it ready to go. We all sat down together for meals at their house and we ate from sun up till right before bed, then we would have a snack. A sandwich and Ginger Ale. It was pure heaven. And, it was something we only did when we were there. I’m sure we had our own version of “Good Night John Boy”. It probably ended with mom telling us we better stop and to go to sleep!
Earl Hamner, Jr. was a great story teller. I was affected by what he wrote and the characters that he created. I honestly didn’t know that he was still living at the age of 92 in California, but I kind of miss him. It may be the nostalgia for it all, it may be because I had just started to write this blog when I found out. Whatever the reason, I will miss him just a little bit. It’s kind of sad to know that no one will write another good night.

This was Christmas at their house in 1973 or 1974. That was the living room that took up the entire left side of the downstairs.

A Tale of four siblings

Since today is #NationalSiblingsDay, I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to write about the three other people in my life, that know as much about my growing up as I do. I am the youngest of four boys. I don’t know how my parents survived as long as they did. Both of them are gone now, but they did see us into adulthood, or at least past the age of 32. Being adults is something I think we are all still struggling with.
My parents had the four of us in the span of just five and a half years. We are probably closer now than we were when we were kids, but that’s just a part of being family. You don’t always appreciate what each other brings. After all they’re just family, what do they know! I think all of us being in a relatively small house, made us want to expand our own worlds a little bit. Now we can appreciate, even if we don’t necessarily understand, what we each bring to our relationships.
Our parents always made sure that whatever they did for one of us, they were able to do for all of us. One year for Christmas, we all got new bikes. Lots of Christmases we would get up to find each of us had our own pile of presents, with our names next to them, where Santa had written a note to each of us. And, both our parents came by it honest; the idea that we be treated equally. Grandmaw Edge once made us all robes for Christmas, and in the pocket of each one was a small Whitman’s Sampler. Grandmaw Barton didn’t often give us presents, it just wasn’t done. But, every now and then, we would each get a Kennedy Silver Half Dollar.
My brothers and I, at times, seemed to test the boundaries of life and limb. The registrar at the ER knew who we were when we came in and would simply ask “Which one is it this time?” There were sprains and broken bones, minor stabbings with an inanimate object or two, and trips over the handlebars of our bikes. Yes, two of my brothers did that.
There was one afternoon that I was playing in the front yard, when suddenly I felt something sting my knee. I looked down. I didn’t see anything, but man did it hurt. I started rubbing it and then I heard someone laughing. I looked up, only to find my oldest brother, hanging out of a bedroom window, laughing his fool head off. I also noticed the BB gun in his hands. A laugh and a point was all it took. I let out the most blood curdling scream I could manage. Mom didn’t know what had just happened either, until she looked up. My brother suddenly stopped laughing and hiding was not an option. She was in the house and at the doorway before he had time to pull himself back in the window. As I said, our parents believed in treating us equally. So, since I felt pain from the BB gun, so shall my brother. She turned that thing around and with one whack, the butt end met the butt end. It was snapped in two after that, but I think he managed to salvage it for a little while. He never shot me or anyone else again, that I know of.
We didn’t always try to hurt each other. Sometimes that was just part of the fun. We were there for each other when it counted. That is also part of being family. My brothers all have kids now and even as cousins, they treat each other like siblings. Hopefully not as intensely as we did, but as importantly as we do. So, Happy National Siblings Day to my brothers, and now to my sister-in-law and brother-in-law.

The Appalachian Tale

Memories, recipes, and Tales of an Appalachian Boy.