The Melungeon Gift

We called him Lidgie which is short for Elijah. Everyone knew that Lidgie was a Melungeon from off Newmans Ridge because his last name was Collins and he had many of the Melungeon physical features including coal black hair, blue eyes and olive skin. Lidgie came into my life when my Uncle Rector hired him to help with farm work; later my father hired him to help on our farm as well.  Lidgie and wife Liddie were always a part of my growing up years. 

During the 1950-60's Melungeons were considered by the US census as 'freed people of color' which meant that they were not African Americans, but in a category of their own.  However the only part of that definition that ever seemed to matter where I lived was the words, "of color". Melungeons were treated as negros in that they were socially shunned; got little to no education; were bribed for their votes; were paid low wages, and lived on poor land on Newmans Ridge. They survived by hard work and truck farming.

Uncle Rector returned to Hancock County following WWII with an honorable discharge after his aircraft bomber was shot down in enemy territory in Yugoslavia. He survived with the help of local peasants and eventually found his way back to the Allies and his platoon.  When he returned to Hancock County he went to work as a high school math teacher.  A few years later he was made principal of the high school, then he ran for county superintendent of schools.  It didn't take him long to decide that he didn't care for politics. He never ran for public office again.  Instead he took up farming and became a rural mail carrier. Lidgie was hired to help with the chores that Uncle Rec could not manage with his other jobs.  Lidgie was also hired to help with our farm work when my father became disabled following a severe heart attack.  

I don't know if it was his war experiences or whether it was just who he was, but when Uncle Rec hired Lidgie the social rules changed with regard to how Lidgie would be treated. He paid him a very good salary; provided him with health and dental care and the transportation to get it; had him sign up for Social Security; encouraged him to vote for who he wanted; and built a new house for him on the farm complete with running water, electricity, and an indoor bathroom with flush toilet and a bathtub. When he worked for us we paid his social security and the same wages he was paid by Uncle Rec.  He always ate at our table and attended our Christmas and other social functions.

Lidge loved the apple trees on our farm. He was especially fond of the red delicious apple tree in the pasture field across from the kitchen window.  The whole community loved these apples and, like Lidgie, looked forward to them each fall.  During the summer one year the red delicious apple tree blew down. It was a sad sight for Lidgie to see the roots of his favorite tree all exposed.  He was given the job of chopping up the tree for wood. Two years after the tree blew down Lidgie was still talking about how he missed that red delicious apple tree.  

Somewhere between Thanksgiving and Christmas on the second year after the tree blew down Lidgie paid us a visit and he brought with him two new brooms and two new jar mops.  This was a surprise because Lidgie had never given Christmas gifts, but he said these were gifts for us and for Aunt Fay and Uncle Rector. He said, "I want you to look at them handles on the brooms and the mops; they's not a knot or splinter on 'em."  "Now, rub your hands over 'em and feel how smooth they are!"  Then without much pause, he said, "I just couldn't let that apple tree wood be burned up in the stove so I saved some of it and used it to make the handles on the brooms and the jar mops." There was a longer pause and he continued, "I saved back some of the wood from that apple tree and let it dry out real good."  "This year I made the broom and jar mop handles from that wood so that the tree could live on in a new way."

Uncle Rector had the vision that Lidgie's life could be better if he saw that he had access to the things others had.  Lidgie had a vision that an apple tree that he loved could live on in a new way if it could be transformed into four useful handles for brooms and jar mops. What I learned from each of these two men was that the visions they had for themselves and others can live on long after their passing.

Putting Out The Welcome Mat

My growing up years were spent surrounded by the relatives of both my Daddy and Mama.  Daddy had 7 brothers and sisters; Mama had 9, and added together I had 16 aunts and uncles who for the most part lived within a 20 mile radius of my house.  A few uncles and aunts lived in Indiana and other states, but most were no more than 10 miles from my home.  Mama and Daddy were among the older children in their families so this meant their siblings often came by our house for meals, overnight stays and holidays. Home for me was kinda like living in a boarding house with a constant influx of relatives on any given day. Always welcoming and supportive, Mama and Daddy were accustomed to constant adaptations to whoever and whatever came through the door. Both of them seemed to love these drop in visitors. They made these visitors feel welcome and connected to us.  It was often hard for me to think of my family as just us kids, Mama and Daddy; instead it was all of us, Daddy's family, and Mama's family on any given day.For the most part everyone got along, tolerated each other, and shared work and laughter.

My family and my extended family were focused on each other and afraid of the outside world. They visited each other, shared work, worshiped together, and believed in the same things.  Most were Republicans and did not understand Democrats. They had grown up with only one or two Black families in the county and they had no interaction with them. I heard many negative things about Blacks and anyone who was different from us.  I'd never met anyone from another country; I did not know world geography, and I had teachers who didn't know a lot about the larger world. In my small county we referred to anyone outside our community as 'from off' which meant they weren't from Sneedville. My family seemed to distrust anyone outside our community and were always suspicious of people different from them. 

Even after my brothers had served overseas in the military and came back home with slide shows of other countries and stories about people from foreign lands, my family appeared to have little interest in the stories and the people. Actually, it seemed more like fear. Unlike my parents and extended family I was very excited to see the pictures, hear the stories and to imagine what it would be like to visit some of these places and get to know some of the people. I quietly promised myself I would travel one day and see this all for myself.  In this respect I rejected most of the beliefs of my family and hoped one day to have my own different experiences.  My brothers had laid the groundwork for further exploration.

Now fast forward fifty years. With the above background still in my head, I have kept my promise to myself to explore and love a larger world. I have gotten to travel to many continents and counties, have friends across the world, and serve now as a host to foreign exchange students who visit the college campus where I taught. For the last two weeks my husband and I have hosted three Danish students who were here to study in the health care field. Our previous guests were from South America; our next group will be from Mongolia. Every time we serve as hosts I'm very excited to learn about them and what I need to see from their world. I only hope I will live long enough to get to see all of this great big world and it's many people and their wonderful cultures. While it's my job to share my world with them, I find their world to be more exciting. 

For many US citizens 'people from off' are still just that, "OFF". I find this to be sad and believe it to be a result of chosen ignorance. How do you move from being taught to fear the world to actively embracing differences?  I still know the messages my family gave me about people different from me, but I have chosen to trust my own experiences now more than what my family taught me. I believe isolation and little to no experience leads to many wrong ideas and beliefs about the world and its people.  

What I have taken, however, from my family has been the strong sense of hospitality that I learned from them as they welcomed me and other family members.  I know how to make connections to a broader world because I first learned how to make these connections to my family members at home. As my family worked together, shared food, solved problems, and cared for each other we learned respect and tolerance. It's the same hospitality.  I have only learned to cast my net farther into the ocean and across more mountains than the ones I knew as a child.

The Season of Apples

As fall comes around each year my thoughts eventually drift to memories of getting the farm chores done before the 'first cold spell'.  It was routine each year to gather in sweet potatoes, turnip greens, apples, and walnuts before the hard frosts came in November.  There was usually some unspoken sense of urgency about it.

Apples were the most fun because there were so many things that could be done with them.  They could be used to make stack cakes, apple pies, apple dumplings, apple butter, apple jelly and fried apple pies. Mama always had a million ideas for their use. Usually I was involved in the process because Mama firmly believed her job was to teach me every mountain skill she knew so that I would be ready to become a housewife.  While she never said it, I think she believed the Appalachian lifestyle had enormous value economically; 'A penny saved' was truly, 'a penny earned'.  In her case it was more like an apple saved was an apple you didn't have to buy. Mama really didn't relish buying anything if it could be grown on the farm.

On our family farm we had apples, tons of them, which to Mama meant you tried to save as many as you could.  Most of our cooking in the fall revolved around apples; stewed, baked, fried, canned, frozen, preserved, and dried. Every day we had apples in one form or another, for the last five years, some twenty years past Mama's death, I still feel the need to do something with apples in the fall. 

Recently I have been on a quest to find the best apple stack cake recipe to see if I could duplicate Mama's. Mama didn't write her recipes down so I didn't have her blueprint to follow. I asked Appalachian friends, searched a gazillion books, called my relatives, and even consulted with The Apple Barn for a recipe. Each one that I got was different in some way.  I also had to search for dried apples, dark brown, sun-dried apples, not the ones in the grocery store that are white and dried with chemicals. Eventually I began to make progress.

Today I am happy to report that I am decent maker of Stack Cakes.  While they are not Mama's, they are very close.  Close enough to serve with pride to folks who have never had an introduction to them.  If you as a reader would like to know the process, send an email.  I'd like to talk 'stack cake' and would love to have your thoughts and comments.

I'm from...........

Recently I have become a huge fan of Minton Sparks.  She is a spoken word artist here in the Nashville area.  Last year she was the main attraction at the Midnight Cabaret of the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough. She's a poet, a storyteller, buck dancer, and has a wonderful guitarist, John Jackson, who accompanies her. I've never seen anything like her in the storytelling world I live in.  She makes me laugh and sometime her humor is so poignant it takes my breath away. Here's the link to the website. http://www.mintonsparks.com

One of Minton's most loved pieces is "Where are you from?"  This morning I woke up with part of this piece in my head and this blog is my attempt to describe where I am from.  

 I'M FROM........

I'm from people of the mountains; quiet people who don't let you inside 'em for a long time.

I'm from rural country with muddy roads that go nowhere or to a lonely shack.

I'm from Minnie and Ewing, Issac, and Edward, Phrona, and Dona. Seventeen aunts and uncles who came and went out of my life.


I'm from hog killings, chicken butchering, cattle dehorning, bull castrations, and bee keeping. I learned biology and animal anatomy before I knew my own anatomy. 


I dodged spittoons, ambeer, pork and bean cans, and Aunt Ruby's spit that could travel 6 feet. I know Days Work and Garrett's Snuff and the feel of spittle on my hands from chewing 'tbacker'spills.


I'm from illiterate, fist pounding, Bible waving, foaming at the mouth preachers screaming scripture and ignorance in my face. I'm from February baptisins' in frozen creeks and ice clinging to my pure white dress pinned between my legs. I'm from preachers who knew a woman's place and when on the road for revival meeting visited those wet, warm places.


I'm from Aunt Ruby who loved me like her own and helped me forgive my Mama when she "didn't know no better!"


I'm from green, thick mountains that change clothes ever season; mountains where rugged, dirty people survived a cruel civil war and then family feuds.  The Hatfields and the McCoys are in my bones along with the Greene - Jones feud from my own ancestors. Folks fightin' so long they almost forgot what they were fightin' agin.


I'm from clapboard schools built by the WPA, three rooms, three teachers, a coal pile and two outhouses and still I know the capitals of all the states, the order of the presidents, and the love of folks like FDR and Eleanor who thought we were something. 


I'm from mountain creeks filled with leeches, minners, smooth rocks and skinny naked kids. Creeks now full of toilet paper, plastic milk jugs, refrigerators, pesticides, coal bi-products and blown away hillsides from strip mining.


I'm from runnin' shine in muscle cars, meth labs, oxycotton addiction, and good people who say, "There ain't nothing you can do about it."

I'm from Ewing who told his youngins they could make it in a larger world if they got educated, tried and left the places where they had learned to survive one kind of life. Ewing, who could not escape himself because his wife could not imagine a bigger world than she knew.


I'm Patsy with three brothers who loves the PBS series about the Appalachian Mountains and still holds hope for all that is good and right in Appalachia.

A Visit With John Denver

It happened right there in Kroger's while I was shopping for a frozen box of spinach. Herman was picking up a prescription in another part of the store. I seldom hear the background music in stores when I am shopping, and if I do it's usually a catchy, upbeat, dance piece; but, somehow today was different. There I stood looking at the freezer items singing out loud to John Denver's "Sweet Surrender" totally lost in time and space to the lyrics. I did not miss  

single word!

And I don't know wht the future is holdin' in store

I don't know where I'm goin', I'm not sure where I've been.

There's a spirit that guides me, a light that shine for me

My life is worth the livin' I don't need to see the end.

Sweet, Sweet Surrender

Live, live without care

Like a fish in the water

Like a bird in the air.

I never commented to Herman about my behavior or my thoughts as we drove home and resumed our separate routines. About an hour later Herman comes down the stairs with our old John Denver album and puts it on the turntable. Neither of us comment while we continue with lunch preparation and emails.  

I was lost in images, lyrics and so many memories I could not wrap my self around it all. Our oldest son, Cree, was born during the John Denver years.  The first song he ever sang was, "Thanks God I'm a County Boy"; our first major vacation outside Tennessee was to ........yes, Denver. "On the Road" followed us as we moved to the Chesapeake Bay area, and "Grandma's Feather Bed" brought memories of Herman's Granny, and "Annie's Song" was heard as we traveled through a June snowstorm in the Rocky Mountains. It was really a love song written to his first wife Annie, but because of where we were driving when I first heard it, for me it was always a song about nature.

While teaching learning theory in my general psychology classes I usually illustrated classical conditioning with song lyrics and learned emotional reactions. On those days when I discussed how memories and songs are intimately tied to the human experience, I asked my students to provide their own examples of learned emotional experiences.  It always seemed to be one of their and my favorite class days.

Yesterday was a revisiting of my early adulthood years. It was too powerful to share with Herman or with my readers. Today has brought some distance and this article.  Today I am focused on the lyrics of "Sweet Surrender" and what it says about where I am now.  I find most news, no matter whether it's television, magazine, email, text messaged, etc., quite depressing, and I often get too consumed by what has forced it's way into my life.  Somehow rediscovering John Denver and having a conversation with him through his lyrics was the meditation I needed for where I am now. I hope you have some artisans in your life with whom you can engage in a conversation. 

Barbecue Dinners and Krispy Kreme Donuts

Growing up in Sneedville provided limited opportunity for social events outside of the church so when the annual Rural Electric Membership meeting occurred each year it was a big deal.  Like most Tennessee communities, the electric cooperative included all the families who received their electricity through the cooperative office in Jonesville, VA. The bylaws called for an annual meeting of the membership each year, and this meeting was like a big company picnic.  The cooperative provided the main dish of fried or barbecue chicken and the dessert which was always Krispy Kreme Donuts from Knoxville. Each family brought other dishes to round out the meal. Held in September at one of the local schools in Sneedville or one of community schools such as Greene Lawson or Flat Gap Elementary Schools, nobody in their right mind missed this meeting.  

For me this meeting was the only opportunity I had to be with people outside of my little community in the Seventh District of Hancock County. It was so exciting to go to this event because of all the people and the food.  Every year my family either talked with the Kyle Lawson family or sat near their table. My Dad and Kyle had both been on several county boards with each other.

It was here that I first remember seeing Herman, Kyle's son.  He came from a family that loved food and ate plenty of it. What I remember was his 10 year old round body and red hair cut in a flat top. He was friendly, but odd to me in some sort of way. I remember his Granny slipping him money under the picnic table which also seemed odd to me.  I had not had any experiences like this in my family so it seemed strange. But the thing I remember most was the barbecue chicken and the Krispy Kreme donuts. We never had barbecue chicken at home and donuts were out of the question since we didn't travel to Knoxville. The night consisted of eating, playing chase with other kids and catching lightning bugs while our parents talked till after dark. It was such a special event and I always looked forward to it each year. Years passed and I eventually married Herman Lawson, that red headed boy who slimmed down in adolescence.

This week as Herman and I were celebrating my birthday in Nashville we stumbled across the Krispy Kreme Donut shop on Church Street across from the Baptist Hospital. While I never eat donuts at my present age, I will confess to buying a whole dozen, eating three of them, and having a lot of conversations with Herman about donuts and the Electric Cooperative's annual meetings.

Hummingbirds and Pigs

Today a friend sent me a power point presentation about hummingbirds. Knowing that I have a love affair with these tiny creatures, she perceived that I would enjoy receiving this.  And I did.  As I shared it with others who I knew had the same love affair I shared the story of discovering why I had so little luck this year, and last, attracting them to my feeders.  

I got my nectar solutions out early both years and hung them in places where I could enjoy watching the hummingbirds dine. I rarely saw these tiny birds at the feeders, or they came quickly, looked at the feeder and promptly flew away.  I could not figure it out.  Two years ago I had many hummingbirds; now there were none.  What was the issue?  

The other day I spotted one coming in for a landing. I stopped to watch closely. It stuck it's beak into the plastic flower, quickly extracted it, and flew away. A voice in my head spoke for the hummingbird saying, "You surely don't expect me to eat this s***!"Suddenly I had an insight. Perhaps they were unhappy with the taste of the solution. 

Two years ago I had made my own feeding solution from sugar.  The last two years I had used a commercial solution that I mixed in water. Hummingbirds are noted for having gourmet tastes. Why had I not remembered that until now?  Immediately I grabbed the feeders, poured out the solution and put a new batch on the stove.  While I did not remember the proportions of sugar to water, I did know that sweetness is important. As soon as the solution cooled, I put it in the feeders.  The next day I saw three or four coming by the feeders; then I began to see the characteristic air fights that hummingbirds have waiting their turn at the feeders.  THEY WERE BACK!!!  It was the solution. 


As I shared the power point with other hummingbird lovers, I sent along my home recipe for the solution along with comments about changing the solution often, keeping the feeders clean and whether or not to add red food coloring to the solution; supposedly hummingbirds are attracted to the color red. I also mentioned that they tended to be 'gourmet eaters' and could be finicky about cleanliness and not sharing the nectar solution with other hummingbirds.

By the time I had finished with my email and instructions I began to wonder what had attracted me to these little, finicky, gourmet creatures in the first place.  Why would I bother to work so hard to please them and become annoyed with their peculiarities?  I never got this question satisfactorily answered, but I did decide that I might enjoy watching pigs more because they are known to eat anything and can live with filth quite well; but, then, there is the issue of having one housed in the back yard.......

The Season of Weddings

It's June, the wedding month, and once again I'm taken back to a memory fifty years ago.  It was the first wedding in our family; a 'fancy affair' of sorts in East Tennessee which thrust our family out of our comfort zone in a big way.  We weren't fancy people and had little confidence in our ability to participate in a wedding affair. Mama and Daddy chewed tobacco daily, farmed our 65 acres and lived a simple Appalachian lifestyle.  The plans for a fancy wedding took us not only to a new place, but also to a new way to act. We had to learn how to act the part of, "the grooms family" and do our best not to embarrass ourselves and the rest of the family.  It was weeks and months of learning what NOT to do which all climaxed on the day of the wedding when Daddy surprise himself, and horrified the family, by having an emotional outburst of crying and wailing just as the minister said, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."  Mothers are usually the ones to cry at weddings, not fathers, and he didn't just cry he WAILED and, try as hard as he could, he could not stop himself.  Being 12 at the time and very self-conscious this was enough to take me over the edge in terms of embarrassment. I've never wanted to run away from my family as much as I wanted to run away at that moment.

In two week we will have the first wedding of one of our two sons. This fifty year old story is now back to haunt me, and I'm just now beginning to experience some of the same feelings my Dad had at his first wedding. Recalling memories of your children as they grew and learned about life is just part of the wedding experience regardless of whether we show or talk about them.  While the events at the time may have produced feelings of anger, disgust, inadequacy, embarrassment over our child's or our own behavior at the time, in an event such as a wedding twenty or thirty years later these feelings  wrap themselves around a sentimental story moment that defines us and our children.  We're all pretty prone to fall apart and weep because this is really personal history that has shaped us as a family.  

Somewhere in this mixture of stories and memories I am trying to find the right way to welcome my son and new bride into their new life as a couple and to accept the change in our role as parents.  I really do not desire to create an emotional display like the one my father did over fifty years ago, but I am very aware now that the potential is there. In some way, I suppose his emotional outburst made him more real as a person. 

Are there some similar experiences in your life? Feel free to comment.

Good Story Listeners

Over the past ten years I have been very involved with my family stories and getting others to see the richness and beauty of daily life as it has been lived by others.  I also perform stories for companies, non-profits, assisted living facilities, and I speak at a wide variety of events.  Over these years I have begun to notice folks who are especially good story listeners. For every good storyteller there is also a need for a good listener. Below I will outline some of those features.

Good story listeners are curious about what they hear. They ask questions at appropriate places which help to draw out details of the story.  They also do not interrupt the teller while they are speaking. They wait for the appropriate time to ask and usually open with, 'I'd like to go back to something you mentioned earlier and have you tell me more about it."

Good story listeners, really listen and pay attention to the person who is speaking.  They are not 'pretending to be listening' and really just waiting to butt in with their own story or funny thought.  Probably nothing is more of a turn off to the teller than someone who won't let you finish or immediately jumps at any time to tell their own story.  These insensitive folks usually begin with,''If you think that's interesting, I have something that will knock your socks off!" A true listener knows when it is time to be the listener and NOT be the teller.  No one wants to be cut off to hear another person's story or their insensitive remark. 


Sometimes elderly people get lost in telling their story and a good listener can usually bring them back to the story with a question or two about the comments just before they got lost. A good question at this point may even bring the person back to new ideas and thoughts.  When you don't understand what the person said, wait for the appropriate time and go back to the point in the story where you got lost. This is where you will ask for further clarification.

Good story listeners understand that humans are infinitely connected to each other through our basic make up.  We differ largely only by the experiences we have had.  It is here in these differences of experiences that we need to connect.  This part helps us understand different cultures, different customs, and the things that often separate us from others.  A good listener can accept that we are all defined by experience and somewhere in this knowledge is the way we begin to accept and forgive others.  Stories help us see the picture from the other side.  


It's my genuine hope that you are a good story listener first and a good storyteller secondly. 

Doodles

It happened every February. The rural mailman drove into our driveway to deliver Mama's annual order of Doodles from the hatchery in Knoxville. The order was always 100 week-old baby chicks, 50 males, 50 females. The only thing that changed was the breed of the chicken; sometimes it was white leghorns, sometimes Plymouth Rocks or Rhode Island Reds.  This new 'crop ' of chicks would become both our laying hens and our food supply for the next year.

After opening the box in the kitchen near the stove Mama and I sorted the baby chicks into two categories, well and not well. The well ones were sent to the heated brooder in the chicken lot near our out house; the sick ones became my charges, either to nurse them back to health or to find a burial spot. This was my first experience to ever care for another living thing.

For three months we watched these doodles transform themselves into three or four pound chickens. They grew beautiful wing feathers, larger webbed feet, and larger vocal cords for bigger sounds than 'peeps'. While it was exciting to experience the weekly changes, always looming in the background was butchering day, sometime in June, where every male would be sacrificed except the one that Mama had chosen to keep around, "to keep the hens happy." The females would be spared because they were to become our egg supply.

While I was expected to help with the butchering each year, I always hated the process. It never seemed right or fair, yet I was told it was necessary for our family to have food. The slaughtered chickens were put in our Philco freezer for eating later.  Nobody talked about having a chicken as a pet or eating vegetarian.  

Farm life has many hard lessons about birthing, growing and dying. It also has many lessons about caring, nurturing, and surviving.  While I eventually came to accept each of these lessons, I think I'll always wish that all 100 of the doodles that arrived each February could have survived. Couldn't Mother Nature find another way to make this food change business work out another way?

Late Adulthood Love

The month of February found me working with stories gathered from assisted living personnel and children with elderly parents. It's been a long interest of mine to understand the complexity of late adult love and sexuality.


Many parents never talked about sex with their children and the silence has lasted a lifetime. Many adult children assume their parent or parents no longer have sex and have no interest in it only to get jarred into reality when they learn that mom or dad has a new friend at the facility. Or their mother finds out that dad, who has alzheimer's and lives at the facility, has a new girlfriend at the facility. Recently Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Conner revealed the story that her lifelong husband who has alzheimer's has fallen in love with a resident at his facility. Now not knowing who Sanda is, he spends his time at the facility with his new friend.Justice O'Conner's response to this has been to still visit him every Sunday and to have lunch with he and the new girlfriend.
 
Here is a story I encountered when I spoke on late adult sexuality at a Knoxville facility fifteen years ago.


Having just finished my presentation, I noticed an elderly couple standing nearby seeming to be waiting till the other attendees had left.  Finally after the last person walked away from me, the man and woman came up and said, "'We want your opinion on something." They took turns sharing their story. 


Both had spouses who had been permanently institutionalized for several years with severe alzheimer's and no longer recognized them as their spouse. The couple with me said they had begun a friendship with each other due to having to deal with similar situations, and gradually over a years time had fallen in love with each other and were sexually active. Both said they felt very guilty about this relationship since their spouses were still alive and quite sick. The question they asked me, "Do you think we are wrong to have done this?" I swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried to deal with what I was asked the best that I could. I basically tried to avoid answering the direct question I had been asked and tried to talk about their fears and concerns.  They were afraid of their children finding out and how their kids would react to the news.  They were concerned about other friends finding out and judging them, and they especially were afraid of the personnel at at the facility finding out.  They were carrying a huge burden. 

I talked with them for about 20 minutes; I asked non-judgmental questions and tried to listen well. By the time the conversation ended I had not answered their question and they returned to it.  Finally I responded with, "who am I to judge you?" "I know this is a difficult situation to be in. I hope that you find an answer that allows you remember the love you have for your spouse and honors the good in your present relationship. If you can come to peace with these two things then who am I to judge you."


I returned home and still after 15 years I remember their story as though it were yesterday. As I interview assisted living personnel now I realize that the complexities of love, forgiveness, and understanding continue right up to the end of life. Some say it's even more complex in late adulthood.

Apples and Valentines

I was in Ms. Daugherty third grade class at Seals-Mathis Elementary and I was eight.  By the end of January we were being reminded that Valentine’s Day was approaching as we cut out red hearts to decorate our classroom, and Ms. Daugherty told us to be sure to buy our cards before Turner’s Drug store sold out.  At home, Mama was doing her usual rant about spending money on Valentine’s cards and the whole event.  Being Baptist and an environmentalist she never seemed to understand the concept of St. Valentine’s Day, the idea of romantic love, or why you buy cards, sign your name, and then throw them away. It was all a waste of money, time and effort when you could just simply tell someone you loved them.  Of course, Mama and Daddy never gave Valentine’s Day cards. She also said I was way too young to be thinking about courtin’.

This year I had my eyes on Fred Johnson.  I knew he liked me because he chased me at recess and when we played, “Red Rover, Red Rover” Fred always tagged me to run to the empty link in the circle. I also knew that Fred flirted with Glenda Clonce. I had known for weeks that my most special Valentine would go to Fred.  The only problem was how to say what I felt for him.  ‘I love you’ seemed too extreme, and I knew Mama would kill me if she discovered I had put that on a card; and signing my name wasn’t special enough, so I finally decided to put, “Your special friend, Patsy.”

As soon as all the kids got to school on Valentine’s Day we put our valentines into the big red crepe and white hearts box that sat on Ms. Daugherty’s desk. We wouldn’t distribute them until the end of the day. Early that morning Fred came up to me and Glenda and said, “I shore do like both of you girls, and today, by the end of school, I’m going to decide which of you I like the best.” Pulling a large red apple from his pocket, he continued, “I have brought this apple from our farm and I intended to give it to the one of you I like the best!” Well, from that point on the competition was on between Glenda and me.  She tried her best, and I tried my best to earn Fred’s affections all day long. In one day’s time we were now competitors and this was serious business. Glenda shared her lunch with Fred; I helped him with his spelling words; we both yelled, ‘choose me’ when we broke into teams for the spelling bee. Meanwhile, everyone had heard about the contest and had picked sides. The apple had been passed around, dropped, bruised, thrown back and forth, and now looked more like an old Christmas ornament, but because it signified being ‘the chosen person’ it was a valued thing.

Three-thirty finally came in the longest day of my life at the time; Fred was ready to make his announcement. With about half the school, especially the 3rd,4th, and 5th grade classroom, gathered around him when school was dismissed, Fred made the announcement. He said, “I’ve decided which one of you girls I like the best.”

“I’m going to give the apple to…………………….GLENDA.” I lost!  I was sad, humiliated, angry, and through with Fred!  That’s when I learned my very first lesson in love.

 
No boy is worth waiting all day long for a sorry, half-rotten apple!

This Valentine’s Day take the time to tell your children or grandchildren one of your love stories, or a story about a valuable lesson you once learned about love. They need to know more about you.

Patsy Hatfield Lawson is a former professor, therapist and award winning storyteller who helps companies, associations, and non-profits, adapt to changes around them.  Visit her website at www.patsyhatfieldlawson.com

Love Lessons

Last spring my East Tennessee relatives paid me a visit. They came to town to see Garrison Keilor’s show at the Ryman. My guests included my 85 year old aunt, brother and sister-in-law, and cousin, all in their 70’s. My husband and I are in our 60’s. One long standing family tradition is to spend hours at the dinner table talking about a variety of topics.  Sometimes we take two hours or longer to finish our meal and talking. This was one of those meals.

The topic of discussion that day turned to dating and love. Everyone was talking about their early courting years, and eventually someone asked me about my love life saying that they knew little about my life from adolescence until after I was married and had children. With that question I began to piece together the jigsaw puzzle of my love life for them. This table memory was the first piece of the puzzle. Later in the summer I was involved in a professional workshop in storytelling with Donald Davis, one of the top storytellers in the nation.  We were assigned the task of telling some of our stories about our boyfriends and girlfriends. These two events gave my memory quite a jog to try to tie it all together.  The last event of my ‘love journey’ involved hearing a long time colleague and friend play some of his blues music which so often focuses on love, leaving, learning, and losing. By fall I had complete my love story and a program began to emerge. This would allow audiences to enter this journey with me through stories and music. What a journey this has been!  Eventually I began to realize there had been a long list of people who had taught me about love, and some of the lessons had been profound.  

Last month I wrote about the necessity to share our life stories with our families and others so the lessons we have learned can get passed on.  I encouraged families to share their stories so that their kids and grandchildren can truly know who they are and how their journey can speak truths for them. Below are some questions to help you think about what love lessons you have learned and what role they have played in your life.  If you can share these you may be able to let your kids and grandchildren learn from you instead of having to learn it from others who have less influence on their lives than you do.

• Do your children know how you and their grandfather or their father fell in love?  Did it last?  What made it last or what made it fail?
• What do you know now that you wish someone had told you to help you learn about how love and loving works?  Remember children need your lessons to help them learn about love.  They need your stories of how you failed or succeeded because the chances are good that they will encounter these same problems with love themselves.  They will listen better if you share your stories rather than giving them advice or lectures.  They get plenty of advice from their parents, and they tune it out.  You are the family storyteller.  When stories are told kids (and adults) listen.
• What’s the most valuable lesson you ever learned about love?  Can you tell the story of how you learned it, and what it now means to you?
  
• What funny things happened during dating and what lessons did these incidents bring to your love life?
• What stories are you hesitant to tell?  Sometimes these stories are the ones that have the most learning tied to them.

Patsy Hatfield Lawson is a professional storyteller who does entertaining story and music programs for all types of speaking venues. “Lessons Learned in Love” is currently being booked for Valentine’s Day. 

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