From Feuding to A Less Violent World

Gun violence has been a big part of my family heritage from birth onward since I am a descendant of two feuding mountain families, the Hatfield-McCoy and the Greene-Jones feuds. While these took place in the late 1880's, they have dominated many of my family and outside acquaintance discussions. Even today, everyone is curious about how these feuds started, how many were killed, who was involved, and other questions about violent mountain people.  It's hard for people to understand the influence of post Civil War time, timber rights and scare useable land, long held family grudges, and daily contact with folks whom you dislike and distrust. Then there is the biggest  factor of all, mental illness.  My great, great Grandfather was one of the primary instigators of the Greene-Jones feud, and it is abundantly clear from family stories that he was not of sound mind. My relatives today tell stories about his beliefs, delusions, and actions as a result of those delusions.  Needless to say there were no treatment options for him.  

As a result of the current debate about gun ownership, protection rights and mass shooting going on presently in our county, I feel compelled to address feuds and gun violence from our family perspective in this blog.  My family owned guns, largely shot guns, which were used to kill hogs and other animal 'varmits' that harmed our livestock and home. Occasionally Daddy squirrel hunted, but nothing more. He believe in gun ownership, but never made much "to do' about hit". I was never taught to shoot because that was not a woman's job. I was taught to stay clear of all guns and that guns are very dangerous tools capable of killing me and others.

My husband was taught to shoot; squirrel hunted as a youth, and until about 30 years ago we owned two shot guns.  By the time our children were born we began to see the need to removed the guns from our house to protect them from their own and friends curiosity.  The guns went back to my husband's family in East TN where they were safely stored away. We never saw the need to teach our sons how to shoot guns or how to use them for sport.  We wanted a different life for them, and by this time guns had been used to kill Presidents and the Vietnam War was on.  Times were changing. The horror of war and assassinations was too real and the availability and use of guns became tied to the problem.  

The topic of guns recently reappeared in my life when those stored shot guns, which had not been used in years, had to be sold to remove them from my husbands family home. The second husband who lives in the family home with my mother-in-law now has Alzheimer's disease and showed tendencies of violence.  He recently threatened to shoot some people with whom he had argued.  The sale of the guns was welcomed by me. I had never had a fondness for guns and always felt they were highly dangerous to have around. 

Currently, as a result of so many mass shooting in recent history, I have become an anti-gun activist. The incident in Connecticut has made my resolve stronger. I have heard the rhetoric of the NRA too long and know that it was never about anyone's rights or protection.  It's all about selling guns and making money for the gun lobbies. Tennessee, much to my disgust, is still in the pockets of the NRA along with tons of other states.  Supposedly, Nashville will host an NRA Convention in the upcoming future.  The Mayor and Chamber were thrilled and ready to do whatever it took to land the deal including building a new convention center to house all the attendees.  Again, the issue was about MONEY for the local economy.  Really???  We have to dance with the NRA to have a prosperous local economy??

How long will it be and how many more innocent victims will have to die before we wake up and realize that our society can no longer tolerate guns owned at random by citizens who are mentally ill, have grudges, come home from many wars with traumatized brains, and are really no different from the Hatfields', McCoys' Greene's, or the Jones', or the drug gangs that compete for clients and business. I would like to think that we are very far removed from a pioneer society; that we have rules and laws that protect us.  Will we ever see that all life is SACRED. We must accept that a more civilized way of living with each other has become a necessity.

From my family to yours

Happy Holiday from my family to you and yours.

A Hatfield Style Christmas

While many families speak of their Christmas traditions, I can only report that we had few of them. Being a very practical minded person Mama did not believe in creating unnecessary work or confusion to life's routines.  She viewed her daily routines as necessary activities to getting a day's chores completed. She varied her schedule little on holidays or weekends. 

We were not necessarily a religious family.  Like everyone else in Hancock County we had been saved, baptized, and attended a Baptist church, but that was the end of the story.  There were no plays about the Nativity, no special music, no visits with Santa, or annual celebrations around Christmas.  The only tradition I remember coming close to Christmas was the annual winter revival at many of the Baptist churches. Our family in particular was pretty soured on religion, period.  

This attitude resulted from Uncle Chester, Aunt Ruby's preacher husband, who traveled around to lots of churches helping with revival meetings during the winter.  While I have no knowledge about when his womanizer reputation developed, by the time I came along this reputation was well established.  The whole family shared gossip about his latest affairs at different church revivals.  The stories about his escapades came from a variety of sources including neighbors, distant relatives, and friends who had been witness to some of his behavior. It seems he would preach a fiery sermon and get some of the women all worked up in a shouting frenzy, then he would praise and charm the women who did it, and after several nights he would move in with his seduction techniques. Somehow he managed to spend two or three winter months mostly away from home.  By June the gossip had traveled back to Mama and other relatives who spent the next several months clattering among themselves about his behavior and how Aunt Ruby should not put up with it. 

One of the end results from Uncle Chester's behavior was a total disdain  of religion or preachers in particular. This seemed to transform eventually into a blanketed disrespect for most religions and events associated with religion. Mama never trusted a preacher and seldom showed up for worship at any church. When this disdain was combined with a lack of other religious activities during the winter, few traditions were established surrounding Christmas.  We did not worship baby Jesus; we did not sing Christmas carols, and there was no midnight worship on Christmas Eve.  In fact we never talked about it.

For our family, Christmas was about the food, family gatherings and storytelling. Our only traditional food was Apple Stack Cake. With Mama's nine brothers and sisters and Daddy's eight, we had plenty of people who arrived for the food and fellowship.  In fact, we often had more people at our house than any church in our part of the county.  The focus was on who could share the best family story after the meal.  No presents were given.  We were our gift to each other.

I remember some years having a cedar Christmas tree which Mama chose, chopped down, drug to house, set up, and decorated herself because Daddy was busy hauling freight from Knoxville.  As she aged these trees became fewer and eventually it stopped entirely.  She said it was too much trouble because she had to do all the work. This ended the one random, and only Christmas style tradition I ever knew.  Later after I started my own family we added some of the Christmas traditions of trees, music, events, and even a nativity scene, but now that I'm older I've become Mama and can't bear the thoughts of any of this.  It's simply 'too much trouble' now.

Our Version of Krispy Creme Doughnuts

Today I went shopping for a birthday card for one of my elderly aunts. In doing so, I began to think about how blessed I have been to have so many aunts in my life who chose to have an impact on my upbringing. I had daily, weekly, and monthly contact with at least 8 of the 12 aunts.  Looking back now many of the skills I have such as cooking, sewing, butchering hogs and chickens, quilting, housekeeping, and entertainment are directly related to these aunts.  While Mama's influence is unquestionable, I have to acknowledge that many of my 'skill sets' are the result of one or more aunts.

It seemed to me that each Aunt had something she wanted to teach me early in life.  For Aunt Emma, the teacher, it was the love of reading and learning; for Aunt Alice it was her gift of being a seamstress who could make any garment fit a particular body shape; Aunt Hazel taught me how to save money and find bargains when shopping; Aunt Ruby shared her love for conversation and visitors.  Aunt Fay taught me joy of trying new things such as cooking new foods.

As I shopped for Aunt Fay's birthday card I remembered the day when she and I decided to make doughnuts.  Doughnuts were very popular in East TN during the 1960's because of the several Krispy Kreme facilities  in Knoxville.  For our family, and most everyone in Hancock County, a trip to Knoxville always included a stop at Krispy Kreme Doughnuts to get a box of the glazed variety to bring back home. 

One particular Saturday Aunt Fay and I decided to try making our own doughnuts.  Aunt Fay, the librarian, found a recipe, brought the ingredients to our house and set up the process. I was designated Chief Assistant and Advisor.  While Mama permitted the process she did not consent without protest.  She hated a messy kitchen; she didn't like grease splattered everywhere; the process took too long; there would be powdered sugar all over the floor and counter tops, and "there were 'two fools' in the kitchen who didn't know what they were doing in the first place."  All of these 'violations' of her kitchen space just annoyed her terribly, but occasionally you did get a hint that she was a bit curious about the whole process.  Once or twice she offered a suggestion or asked a question about why we were doing things a certain way. 

The process was long and exceeded Mama's tolerance for time and messiness. As we drowned in flour, sugar, grease, and yeast, Mama's complaining intensified.  Ultimately, some 5 or more hours later, we finally used up the dough and fried our last batch, and Mama was at her wit's end.  I remember our version of doughnuts to be lacking in both taste and appearance compared to the real Krispy Kreme version.  I'm not sure if we ever took time to evaluate our experience, but Mama was more than willing to share her evaluation of what she called, "The Doughnut Mess". For months afterward she was still talking about it. 

Throughout my childhood as I learned one skill after the other I had to contend with Mama's evaluation of my learning experiences from these dear Aunts. Sometimes the protest came from me as I was 'encouraged' to learn a skill that I had little interest in learning.  "Raising Patsy", a phrase Mama used to refer to all my growing and learning process, was not always pleasant or fun, but luckily I had an abundance of very capable Aunts who took over when Mama bailed out of the process on what she called, 'reasons of insanity'.
I think every child should have involved aunts who can teach ignorant, unlearned children skills they never knew they would need to learn in the first place.

patsylawson.com 

Thanksgiving Hancock County Style

Modern culture gives a great deal of publicity to the Thanksgiving Holiday with shopping being its main focus.  While elementary schools still teach the story of the first Thanksgiving, most kids today know it as Black Friday, or the day Mom and the rest of the family goes Christmas shopping.  

Sixty years ago in Hancock County Thanksgiving was the deadline for farmers  to have their crops put away before the hard frost hit and the time when grading tobacco was to be completed.  We did not entertain relatives at Thanksgiving unless they were there to help get hog killing done or to finish tobacco grading. Travel outside the county was rare at this time of year. The only traffic jams I heard about around Thanksgiving were those at the tobacco warehouses as farmers rushed to get their graded tobacco on the warehouse floor for the first sale. This first sale was important because the income from the sale allowed the farmer to be able to spend for the upcoming Christmas and be able to get his debt paid off on the crop he had just harvested.  If he missed the first sales of December then he and his family had to wait until after Christmas to celebrate.

Hog killing was THE big deal at our house because it usually took three days to fully process the meat for preservation.  Each year we killed two hogs, usually of the same breed, each weighing roughly 400 pounds. We waited to kill the hogs until we had a decent cold spell so the meat would 'keep' (not spoil without refrigeration). The first day consisted of killing, scalding, scraping, and butchering of the hogs.  Hams, shoulders, and bacon were salted and hung in the smoke house.  Sausage meat, intestines, organ meat and the head and feet were stacked in the smoke house to be ground, cooked or processed the next day. On the third day we rendered lard, canned or froze the sausage, and made souse meat. Relatives and neighbors exchanged help with each other in order to receive help with their own process.  If there was any type of meal celebration at the end of the process it was assumed that the meat dish would be some type of fresh hog meat.

Invariably, each year some incident occurred during the processing of the meat to provide us with a story to share.  One year the gun used to shoot the hogs misfired, scaring the hogs who had to be corralled and brought back to the hog pin; another year the scaffolding used to hang the hog for butchering broke and the hog crashed to the ground midway through scraping. Luckily no one was injured.  The incident that I remember the most from hog killing involved Aunt Ruby who accidentally punctured a hog gut while trimming away the fat around it.  The stinch was so bad that we had to leave the house for several hours until the house was 'aired out'. Mama fussed for days over this incident saying, "If Ruby had been paying attention to what she was doing in the first place, it never would have happened!" Mama always was eager to find fault with Aunt Ruby so she could elevate her own visions of herself as 'perfect' at everything. 

During my growing-up the words hog killing and Thanksgiving were synonymous. The only celebration we had was in the knowledge that one of the last fall tasks for the year had been completed. As one seasonal song says, "all was now gathered in" and we were ready for the long, cold, dark season of winter. It's hard for me still to think of Thanksgiving as a special holiday like Christmas because of its association with work and preparation for winter. And I don't think I will ever be able to grasp the modern focus of Thanksgiving and shopping frenzies. I suppose that what we all end up celebrating in any holiday is our memories of that holiday from a variety of learned experiences.  patsylawson.com

Speaking of Politics........

Homogenous is the word I would use to describe my growing up years in East Tennessee.  In fact, that word would describe most of the US during the 1950's.  Everyone tried to look, act, and think like the folks that were most like them and to put down those 'not like' them.  There was tremendous conformity in all parts of society; Tennessee was no different.  The only differences expressed in Tennessee were those used to describe the state as 'three states, east, middle, west'.  This description meant that each differed significantly politically, racially, occupationally, and geographically. Within each of these 'three states' everyone copied everyone else.

East Tennesseans were small truck farmers because their land was tied to mountains, valleys and hollers. They grew corn, tobacco, cattle. They were Republicans because they fought with the Union during the Civil War and they thought of themselves as stubbornly independent to the end. NO need to trust anyone. West Tennesseans were Democrats because they fought with the South during the Civil War. Their land was flat, sandy, and well suited for cotton. They believed cooperation was better than arguing especially if you were dealing with people that accepted the same racial beliefs that you held.  Geographically, Middle Tennessee was a mixture of East and West; politically it was more Democratic like West Tennessee.

For as long as I can remember I was told I was a Republican by my father and my relatives.  I knew that Democrats were bad. Daddy said he would consider me and my older brothers traitors and enemies if we ever said anything positive about Democrats. During my growing up I was told there were 4 Democrats in our county and given their names.  My father said, "Patsy, they's two things I never, ever, want you to do: "You must never drive a Ford, (we were a General Motors family), and you must never marry a Democrat!" Because Daddy was a community leader he ranted daily about 'them awful Democrats' and 'them sorry Ford trucks.' I knew doing either of these would get me kicked out of our family.

In high school I encountered my first Democrat teacher, Mr. Seals, who taught history, and I got to hear the other side. Students argued daily with him.  I was only a listener in these debates while other students told Mr. Seals he was flat out wrong. He rarely became agitated; he just spoke his side back to their arguments. I remember his class as being in a constant uproar with discussions and arguments. I also got to know the Democrat students in my class, especially, Herman Lawson who was the only Democrat in class who sided and argued with Mr. Seals. Of course he would be a Democrat because his Dad was one of the four Democrats in the county! I don't remember thinking a lot about what was said in class, but I do remember that the class stood out to me in some unidentifiable way. Perhaps it was the new ideas. 

By the end of the senior year Herman asked me to the Alumni Banquet. We ended up deciding on the same college in East Tennessee.  College was the thing that shook my Republican world in a hard way. I loved psychology and sociology and nothing that I had been taught about politics at home fit into what I was now being taught by my professors.  It was a new framework for viewing things that I had never considered before. The more I learned about conflict over resources, religions, wars, human rights and sharing the earth with other people, the more I knew I did not embrace Republican ideas. Night after night I thought about these new ideas. Herman and I often talked for hours about a variety of social and political issues.  We also argued and debated continually. By the time we graduated college and got married, I was totally committed to the Democrat cause. I felt I finally had chosen my own political beliefs for the first time rather than just echoing the family beliefs.  


Daddy never knew about my conversion because he died before I completed high school. I suppose this worked out just fine because I didn't have to get disowned by my father or face challenges from other family members. Much to my surprise my brothers and other relatives accepted my change without arguement. Oh, by the way, our first car as a couple was a FORD.

 





 

Appalachian Creasy Greens and THE Worm

Well, it's fall again in my part of the universe. I awoke this morning with memories of seasonal changes in food in my native county of Hancock. I don't assume these food changes are any different from other parts of Appalachia or other Southern regions because the culture is a widely shared one. Fall always meant getting the crops in and finishing up the garden before the first good hard frost. 

 

By September and October the food focus at our house had moved from fresh beans, corn and cucumbers to a variety of fresh greens, including mustard, turnip and wild creasy greens. The sweet potatoes had been dug and were being put away for the winter. These sweet potatoes were a perfect combination with crowder peas which, incidentally, are not the same thing as black-eyed peas.  Our daily menus changed with the arrival of each new season and were always welcomed. In October Mama and Aunt Ruby could be found roaming through the cut corn and tobacco patches in search of creasy and other wild greens. As soon as one of them discovered a new patch of wild greens they ran across the road to announce their find. As a child I often went on wild greens searches and soon became quite adept at knowing a weed from these delightful delicacies.

 

Once these wild greens were brought inside for cleaning and processing a whole new conversation emerged around making sure the greens were ready to be cooked. Cleaning was VERY important. It really boiled down to washing off dirt from the broad leaves and a search for small green worms that were often hidden somewhere on the leaves.  Mama loved to give lectures and demonstrations on how to find these small worms. She always stressed the importance of finding them so they would not be cooked with the greens. 

 

Also, there was one or two stories sprinkled into these lectures about somebody in the neighborhood who was not 'clean' with their greens, and how during a meal a dead worm was discovered floating around while eating the greens.  It seemed to me that this story was there for the 'gag and fear factor' to the whole process.  Often a comment was made like, "Why, I wouldn't eat a meal at HER house at all because so and so said they found a worm in the greens."  This comment appeared to me to be the ultimate cooking insult. Honestly, this comment is absurd to me now because it would take a lot of effort to find this so-called worm, and the search for it would be pretty obvious to the host and everyone else. I mean, isn't the the meaning behind, "Quit picking in your food! Just eat it, for God's sake!" a warning so that the host won't be offended? As much as I love fresh greens in the fall of the year, I still live in fear of serving them to my guests because someone might discover a worm I overlooked. 

 

Incidentally, Mama believed she NEVER cooked a worm in her greens, EVER; and that Aunt Ruby probably cooked several of them because she was not careful ENOUGH. This was one of many ways she distinguished herself as a superior cook to Aunt Ruby. As a psychologist I understand that the second child (Mama) always tries to unseat the first child (Aunt Ruby) from the throne. Or maybe this was nothing more than two mountain women living out life in a culture that is constantly in search of cooked worms in fresh greens.

 

www.patsylawson.com 

 

 

A Much Larger World

Growing up as an isolated child of Appalachia, I knew little about the larger world around me until my three much older brothers enlisted in the Army and Air Force. By the time I was 5 they were college graduates; by the time I was 6 the Korean War was on, and by the time I turned 8 all three had enlisted or been drafted. My Mama never did crying 'fits' like other women were prone to do when children left home because she kept her emotions tightly in rein, but when each of the three left for military service I saw her real tears and felt her worry in an intense way.

Their college degrees allowed each of them to serve the military in other ways besides battle. They traveled extensively in Europe and other places with their military assignments. As they traveled each of them remembered us back home and sent many dolls, clothing, and toys from each country they visited. What a thrill it was to receive a package from them at least once or twice each year!  On furloughs they came home with slide shows for the family and neighbors as well.  We made a screen out of an old sheet hung on the side of our house and placed lawn chairs in a semi-circle around it. During these outdoor summer slide shows I got to hear stories about the countries they visited, their people, customs, foods and interests. These slide shows were the only world geography lessons I ever remember receiving.  School had given me US geography and pictures of our national parks, but no facts about other countries overseas.

Eventually my brothers returned home, then moved away to take jobs in other cities, and got married.  Occasionally, there would be some conversation about their military experience or how their current job connected to what they did in the military, but I don't remember us talking much about their European travels after that.  Once back in the US they took new vacations and traveled a lot with their new work. The conversation now was about those trips.  

Within ten years of their return from the military I also was ready to leave the nest and my Appalachian home. By this point my father had died so I chose a college within two hours of home and visited Mama as often as I could.  I married a week after graduation and moved away to new cities beyond Appalachia. I always felt proud of my roots, my Appalachia, and the experiences I had in the mountains.

As I look back on choices my husband and I have made for ourselves and our sons I now can see the enormous impact of my brother's travels on my life.  For as long as I can remember, I have longed to see a much larger world than where I lived at the time.  Our first child had his first birthday celebration on the road and now works in the travel industry. The second son has done service projects all over the world. During our summer, Christmas, and spring breaks we were in an airplane or car headed for a new adventure. Now in retirement I struggle to get to all the wonders still awaiting me before I become too old to travel.

Mama never understood my love for travel and preferred I spend my free time all with her.  I did the best I could to balance my own wandering side and her need to stay in the same place.  A long time ago I remember one of my brother's saying that our father had wanted to travel and move away from Appalachia when he was a newlywed, but Mama refused to leave her birthplace. While this was a sad story shared only with my brother, I have kept it close to my heart. I know that he made a choice to stay home.  Perhaps he was able to survive and to get his travel needs met through the slide shows, the stories, and the gifts from foreign countries just like I was. I think there will always be a piece of my father and my brothers that travels with me wherever my husband, my kids, and my grandchildren roam. The influence of my brothers travel, the outdoor slide shows, the conversations about countries far away, and my father's desires to travel has had a powerful impact on my life.  Daily I'm thankful for their gift of wanting to see a larger world.

Keeping THEM Alive

For the last 10 or more years I have been lost in the world of storytelling.  It began when I confronted one of those career crises that people have when they get a bad boss for several years and you're too far into the career to quit or retire so you decide the answer is to 'ride it out'. The new question becomes, "How will I ride this out and keep my sanity at the same time?"  In the middle of this mess I decided to take a weekend to go to the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, TN.  I had heard that this is was one of those events you must experience before you die.  Totally convinced that nothing could really be THAT great, I went rather than stay home and rant about my mess at work.  

By no means was I a stranger to storytelling because that was all we ever did when relatives visited our house. Every relative shared some true story about every other relative, and many times the stories were repeats from several months or years back. The odd part about this was that none of the family members ever said, "Are we going to talk about Uncle Link, AGAIN?!" Or, "You told that story last year."  It simple was never said, and amazingly, we seemed to enjoy it just as much the fourth time as we had the first time.  Even now this attitude of listening catches me by surprise.  What were we doing and why were we doing this ritual?  We talked about living relatives, dead relatives, odd neighbors, stupid decisions and actions, everyday life, illnesses, church gossip, family gossip, etc.  I have no doubt that most families have talked about all of these things as well.

As a family we loved to laugh.  The funnier the story the better we liked it so eventually some relatives were always called upon to tell their best or funniest story.  During the telling new insights into humor would be gained and the stories just seemed to get better each year. Every now and then someone had a new catastrophe to share which was a real highlight.  This new story would then be added to the collection. By the time I was grown I knew my 16 aunts and uncles, my grandparents, my parents, and a few great uncles and aunts who had 'interesting' personalities by the stories about them. Many of these people died before I was born or before I could remember so stories were the only way I knew them.

So I attended the storytelling festival that escape weekend, expecting to be entertained, but not swept away.  I was deeply moved by the tellers, the stories, and the healing that began to happen as I listened to each new teller. I found my laughter again and the hurt moved out. I became re-acquainted with my roots, my heritage and my life before work, kids, marriage and career took over. I left the festival having touched my roots in a deep way. 

Back in my so called 'real life' I knew I was reconnected to the family I left years ago in East Tennessee, and I had found a voice within me that could not be quiet. I simply had to share this former life somehow with my students and my world now.  So the journey began with awkward attempts to write stories, then storytelling workshops, books about storytelling around the world, more storytelling events, and more storytelling festivals.  Finally I found the courage to write one reasonably complete story, then another, and later I stumbled through the first telling of a story.  

It's now been fifteen years since the discovery of my life as lived through stories. I survived the bad boss, the thirty year career, my kids launch from sports into career life, and their marriages. For some reason the last couple of years my focus has been on Mama, Aunt Ruby, Daddy, relatives, and our neighbors. Their voices, advise, and 'truths' constantly visit my thoughts in random ways. In time each of these find their way into a story.  Sometimes I often reflect on the 'why' of this process and so far the only answer I have found is that these memories, the stories, the humor, the insight is simply my way of keeping THEM alive after they are long gone. I suppose, in turn, they are still a huge piece of my life source now. I'm simply amazed that their nurture is still supporting me.

Becoming a Woman

If you have followed my blog with any regularity you already know that Mama was not good at talking about sex.  She had a major hang up with the topic. I suppose I haven't reached forgiveness with her yet on this one.  Yes, I understand that this failure comes from her generation's understanding that talking about sexual issues only promoted sexual activity.  Today educated folks accept that nothing could be further from the truth.  Here's another blog dedicated to Mama and Sex.  

Around the age of 11-12 I, like all my girlfriends, wanted to find answers to all our sexual questions.  Some of the younger mothers were honest and shared information which eventually found it's way down to the rest of us who had older Mamas that told us nothing. What facts we could not find out, we guessed at.  Sex was the number one topic in 6th and 7th grade. Some of the 'early bloomers' already had their periods so the rest of us 'late bloomers' got our information from them.  I got lucky one day while looking through a magazine and found a Kimberly Clark advertisement for a booklet titled, "What Every Girl Needs to Know About Becoming A Woman".  For me, this ad was like discovering gold.  I ran home; read the ad fully; copied the address carefully on an envelope, and sent it off along with my dime which was to cover 'postage and handling.' The ad promised to send the booklet in a plain brown envelope.  


My next big problem to solve was how to retrieve the plain brown envelope from the mailbox without Mama knowing I had sent for it. I dedicated myself to being the person who got the mail each day until that brown envelope arrived. It seems like a month before it arrived, but, on the day it arrived I hid it and myself in the barn till I could get it read and understood.  


It was amazing with diagrams, pictures and ANSWERS I could understand.  I must have read it six times that day!  In the front of the booklet there was an explanation of why girls have periods and how to know when to expect your period. There was information about how to manage cramps. Toward the back of the booklet was a list and pictures of Kotex products to use during that time of the month.  There were sanitary belts, a variety of sanitary napkins, tampons and pictures explaining where they were placed and answers to such questions as, "Can a tampon become 'lost' in your body?" Here were all the answers I wished my Mama would give me. After I read the booklet several times I shared it with my friends at school.  

About a year after the booklet arrived I had my first period.  It was there one morning when I awakened.  As excited as I was to have finally arrived at womanhood, I still had to tell Mama about it. How would I tell her that it had occurred when we had never discussed the process?  Mustering up all the courage I could find that morning, I walked into the kitchen were Mama was scrambling eggs at the stove.  I simply said, "I've started my period." She looked shocked, stopped working with the eggs which then burned as she walked away saying, "I'll take care of it."  She walked into her bedroom.  I stood by the stove and the burned eggs.  About ten minutes later she came back with a pair of my panties to which a thick layer of clean cloths had been pinned into the crotch.  Handing them to me she said, "Here, put these on.  We will need to change the rags daily." That was it!  I was horrified! What was this??? I had imagined a sanitary belt and a Kotex pad, at least. Recovering a bit from my shock, it finally occurred to me that she had prepared for me the same solution she had used herself to manage her own periods. Later that day I told my Dad that I needed to go to the drug store to get some stuff.  I didn't know what he knew, and didn't care, because it was something I had to manage on my own.  I bought a sanitary belt, a box of Kotex, and from that point on Mama and I never had another conversation about the issue for the rest of my life. This was an important lesson for me personally because I took control of my own body from this point forward. 



As a college professor for over 30 years I shared this story with my students each semester when we covered body changes across the lifespan. I used it to launch a discussion about the importance of teaching children about sexual matters and body changes. Now as an older woman well past menopause, I look back on this story still trying to glean the many lessons from this small chapter in my life.


Now I present this story for you to reflect on how you managed your own body changes related to menstruation and other sexually related topics.  When did you take charge of your own body and sexual issues?  I would love to hear your comments.

Daddy, The Apiarist (bee keeper)

As the long, hot, humid days of summer drag on I'm reminded of bee stings. The one thing that was certain each summer for me was getting at least one bee sting if not two or three. I loved to go bare footed, or mostly bare footed with my flip flops.  Our yard was full of clover; bees make a lot of honey from clover blossoms; and I usually managed to step on one or more of our honey bees as I ran through the yard.  Somehow the connection between clover and bees never occurred to me until it was too late.  Being very allergic to bee stings, one sting on the foot could set me up for five to seven days of total misery.  Mama was certain that a good wad of chewing tobacco placed on a new sting would "draw the poison out".  It never did.  We never seemed to make that connection either.  Summer after summer the bees did their work while I continued in my blissful ignorance of the danger. Actually our summer yard had two major risks, bees and fresh chicken poop. Neither work well with bare feet.

Our yard was full of honey bees because Uncle Rec, short for Rector, had convinced my father to be an apiarist, or beekeeper.  Uncle Rec kept bees and was a good salesman for anything he believed in strongly.  So Daddy got the gear for beekeeping: the hat with attached veil that tied around an upturned shirt collar, the smoker that looked like an accordion which burned old rags and briefly paralyzed the bees while the honey was being removed from the hive. He also got special gloves that tied over his shirt sleeves. Uncle Rec said that no special pants or shirts were needed if you were careful to use pants and shirts made from thick and strong fabric.  Bees could not sting through thick fabric. Uncle Rec somehow managed to also convince my father that he could be a good apiarist if he just relaxed and appeared confident when he was working with the bees. Daddy bought it all and remained confident during the 'lessons' when Uncle Rec joined Daddy as they robbed the hives together. I watched from inside the screened in porch of our house and was amazed at Daddy's confidence. I thought he was so brave! 

Eventually Uncle Rec said Daddy could manage this on his own. He gave Daddy the recommended 'robbing schedule' when the bees could do without some of their honey and he wished him luck.  Daddy got the hang of it, sorta.  He could add the artificial cone to the hives.  He learned the three honey seasons and the correct amount of honey to remove without starving the bees. The piece Daddy never seemed to get was the part about appearing confident and relaxed when working with the bees. 

Robbing the bees was the hard part because it had to be done during the warmer seasons of the year when the bees are most active. During cooler seasons the bees were not very active and usually not good at stinging. For many summers I watched Daddy rob the bees. Mama and I dreaded the days when Daddy announced that he was going to work with the bees because he appeared as apprehensive as we were.  

After he got all of his gear on, he would fire up the smoker after over-stuffing it with fabric.  At the point when he removed the top layers of the white hives there were moments when we could not see Daddy at all for the smoke. From where we watched he was not visible through the thick cloud that enveloped him. Not only were the bees temporarily paralyzed, but Daddy was stumbling around almost as paralyzed as the bees. We held our breaths and eagerly waited for the ordeal to be over. When Daddy finally emerged from the smoke there was nothing triumphant about his walk or behavior. He practically ran back to the house. Usually he somehow managed to collect his tools, the pans of honey, and to stumble back to the screened porch. Always a few lesser paralyzed bees chased him to the door.  The task now was to get Daddy in the house with the honey and without the accompanying bees.  It was a very tense ordeal for all of us. While Daddy never said he was afraid of the bees, he didn't have to because you could see it all over his body.  


It was a red letter summer when I overhead Daddy tell Uncle Rec that he didn't care much for beekeeping.  Uncle Rec never bothered to comment.


Patsy Hatfield Lawson shares stories about her Appalachian heritage with corporations, non-profits, assisted living facilities, museums, and private events.  www.patsyhatfieldlawson.com  Visit her website for more information and available dates.

The Greene-Jones Feud

While I am on the topic of feuding I might as well reveal the rest of my family history by stating that along with being a Hatfield descendant, I am also a descendant of the Greene - Jones feud (1880's) which occurred in Upper East Tennessee (Hancock County) about the same time as the Hatfield-McCoy feud.  Like the Hatfield-McCoy feud, this feud lasted many years and stemmed from the same issues; end of the Civil War, many psychologically wounded soldiers returning back to their mountain homes only to confront those who had fought opposite them in battle, a young and poorly managed court system, and competition for land and resources. Also worthy of mention is the fact that East Tennessee chose to fight with the Union while the rest of Tennessee fought with the Confederates.  Throughout the war many families,  neighbors, and relatives fought for opposite sides. It was the making of a perfect storm.

The Greene-Jones war is largely tied to my Great, Great Uncle Link (Lincoln) Greene, a very odd man with a lot of distrust and grudges to settle. I only knew him through the family stories told about him. Uncle Link was ‘odd’ which meant he ‘acted funny’ in many business and social situations.  He was considered violent, mean, and quite strange.  One story describes him making his own coffin for later use and showing off how well he looked in it when visitors came by. Other ‘Uncle Link’ stories involved him asking relatives to chain him up during the full moon so he would not kill anyone. Another involved him dressing like Jesus and having a group of ‘disciples’. Still another focused on him refusing to talk to some of his children for 20 years. During the 1929 depression Uncle Link was the only person to get his money out of the Sneedville Bank because he got word that banks were failing and immediately arrived at the bank with shotgun in hand and demanded his money. It was handed over. 

Uncle Link was considered to be the "Devil Anse" of the Greeme-Jones Feud.  He was noted for stirring up trouble and getting even.  From the 1880's until the 1920's this war claimed a total of 70 lives and resulted in Hancock County  being placed under Marshal Law for a period of seven year.  While many of the events of the Greene-Jones war parallel the Hatfield-McCoy feud the one thing that distinguished these feuds from each other was that the New York Times did not report on the feud as it had in the Hatfield-McCoy feud, therefore, the Greene-Jones feud went relatively unnoticed by the rest of the world.

As an adolescent hearing these stories from our family historian, I hardly knew how to process the facts.  Also I did not know how to manage my last name of Hatfield when everyone mentioned that feud.  There was a long period of time when I hated saying my last name, and by the time I married I was more than glad to be rid of the name for good. As it turned out I ended up marrying one of the "Greene's" and learned from this same family historian that we were distant relatives.  It has taken me the better part of fifty years to try to understand who I am and how historical events and isolated geographical areas shape personal lives.  As my husband and I try to explain all of this to our now grown children, I sometimes feel that they are pretty bewildered by it all as well. One thing that no longer surprises me, however, is understanding that I probably chose psychology and psychotherapy as a career in order to learn how to solve problems without shooting my relatives. 

 www.patsyhatfieldlawson.com

The History Channel and The Famous Feud

It's FINALLY over!  The History Channel's Hatfield-McCoy Feud went on as long as the feud itself.  I was worn out before I got through the first episode; never mind the other two.  True to it's subject, this 'historical drama' nearly killed me.

Months before it aired a neighbor knocked on my door; all excited he told me about the upcoming feature and told me to put it on the calendar. I followed his advise.  Then about a month out I started seeing the previews daily. Next I was in New York City and saw it promoted on several Times Square billboards. Then after coming home I sent emails, text messages, tweets, Facebook announcements, and told everyone I knew to watch it.  I also bragged that I am a descendent of this famous feud and also a descendant of another less famous feud, the East Tennessee Greene-Jones feud.  I thought about how finally the world would get to understand all of the factors leading to the feud.  Finally everyone would understand, and I would be spared the brief summary conversations trying to explain the multiple issues of 50 years. After this Kevin Costner version of history, I've decided I'll never bring up the feud again.


In a nutshell, the History Channel botched this piece of history in a major way.  It turned into nothing more than 6 hours of violence, guns, and invented Hollywood drama. The story was so poorly told that after every episode the average person couldn't keep the characters, the connections, or the summary of events straight from one scene to the next. The first episode attempted to summarize the factors leading up to the feud, but without any factual statements or chronology the viewer had to put it together from short scenes portraying the events.  Knowing these facts already I could see where the film was going, but most people viewing the film did not know these basic facts. I did see one local entertainment writer in my area who cared enough to write about them and to help clarify the episode.  Everyone should have had these facts.  http://www.examiner.com/entertainment-in-nashville/jonathan-pinkerton?CID=examiner_alerts_index

If you were looking for a million ways to explore violence and it's aftermath, this would be your film. I suppose the acting was brilliant if you focused on violence; otherwise, I saw little acting that was focused away from violence. The bare chested characters looked like they they worked for Gold's Gym (particularly Johnse Hatfield), all had perfect teeth (no one had access to dental care in these mountains), the sex scenes were easily understood (far better than any other part), and the viewers were probably more confused about how all this happened than they were before the series aired. At the end I prayed for a summary statement explaining how the feud ended and how each character died.  Yes, it was there, but before you could read the tiny print about one character it switched to another one, then another one. These sentences appeared obligatory rather than helpful or thought provoking providing that you were a fast reader.

In short, please don't purchase a copy of this History Channel installment.  Prior to its airing, I looked forward to the offering and believed The History Channel presented accurate, factual history well. Maybe I'm the stupid person here, but this piece has raised many questions about how this and other history is portrayed, the accuracy of facts, and the quality of script writing used by The History Channel. Not all actors can direct films even if they are in their field of expertise.  I suggest Kevin Costner stick to acting and The History Channel present itself as fictionalized history.   


I would love to hear what each of you thought about the Hatfield-McCoy feature.

The Damn Quilt

When I turned 12 Mama announced that I would make my first quilt. It caught me by complete surprise because I thought this was her skill, not mine. I did know how the process was done because I had watched her and Aunt Ruby made quilts all winter long and it was fun for them.  This was how they spent the winter months.   So why was making a quilt now something I should do? Her answer was rather simple:  I needed to fully understand this process because "it was what mountain people do." I protested, but Mama simply answered by saying that I  would start after Christmas to make a 'Nine Square' pattern because it was easy and I could do it. She went on to say that I'd have the rest of winter to cut the pieces and sew each square together. Then she announced, "You should have the quilt top finished by the time school is out and you, Aunt Ruby, and me will have all summer to quilt it."  

Oh, Lord, what an awful year this would be!  I had plans to learn twirling, read movie star magazines, cook some neat desserts and talk to friends on our new telephone. I didn't want to do a quilt!! Mama never bothered to answer me or argue.  She just put me to work each night cutting out quilt pieces and sewing them together after my homework was completed. Just as she planned, the quilt top was completed by April and the month of May found Mama, Aunt Ruby, and me in front of the quilting frames starting the process of quilting.  Mama said, "We'll have this done by the time you are ready to go back to school in August."  Aaaaah, I was doomed to misery all summer!  And just as planned, the quilt was finished about a week before school started.  


We put the quilt away in a trunk for later (whatever that meant) and I was just thankful to have survived the summer of quilting without loosing my mind or the sex appeal I was growing into. My hormones were taking over and I had to learn about a lot of other stuff that Mama and Aunt Ruby appeared to  know little about. I had made the damn quilt; it was out of my sight in the trunk; I never liked it nor the colors in it, and I never valued the sewing skills I had mastered while doing it. I moved on with high school, college, marriage, and moving away from home.  The quilt remained in the trunk, rarely looked at, never used, just a memory of a miserable summer.


Mama died and I finally had to confront the trunk and the quilt.  It still looked ugly to me.  Why, on God's green earth, had Mama chosen hot pink for the set up color which surrounded each square.  She didn't like hot pink as a color, but there it was all over my quilt! I took it out of the trunk, placed it on the bed and looked at it fully.  For the first time I had to acknowledge the skill of the quilting, at least Mama's stitches. Mine were 'beginner' stitches and could be found, and yes, there were Aunt Ruby's stitches, those awful, crooked, wandering all over the place stitches which were her trademark because she talked so much while quilting that she paid little attention to where her hands and the needle were going.  Suddenly I remembered their fussing and fighting over the stitches as they worked.  They had done this all of my life and neither one of them ever listened or changed their behavior. 


What I now understand about THAT summer which I could not grasp for over 40 years was the lessons I was learning about my mountain heritage and the incredible people who helped raise me. It was not about the damn quilt, really. Now I get this quilt out periodically when I want to laugh and remember Mama and Aunt Ruby and my mountain heritage.  I really KNOW quilting now! I'm proud of my quilt. I have earned the privilege of conversation with other quilters and I've forgiven Mama for the 'hot pink' color.  I now just laugh at it and wish I had asked her about the choice.  I still don't use the quilt on my bed because it's too precious to get 'wore' out, as Mama would say. Guess Mama did know what she was doing after all.

A Different Wedding Cake

Thirty years ago I would have never thought that my two sons who are 9 years apart in age would be getting married within a year of each other, but that's how it has worked out.  Over the year we have learned 'wedding speak' and now know the issues involved with this process. From my Appalachian roots getting married was not a very complicated process. My parents got a license, found a preacher, and were married beside the road about a mile from their home. No one attended the wedding except these three people. They went back to one of the parents' houses and lived there until they could manage to have a home of their own. Few families had parties or celebrations. From my so called more modern world, I've often thought this was a bit odd, but believed it was the custom for a 1929 Appalachian wedding.


In a recent phone call with our son we learned that they have not chosen to have a traditional wedding cake; instead they want Appalachian Stack Cake and assorted Italian cookies (from her heritage) for a reception that will host around 200 people. Hearing this I immediately went into a conversation within my own head, "How will I manage to make 15-20 stack cakes assuming that each one serves ten to twelve people?" While they can be purchased through Apple Barn, I would love to be able to provide them since I take pride in being able to make them. Being able to make a great apple stack cake is one of my family traditions. They were my mother's favorite cake to serve to guests.

 From my son's research on apple stack cakes, he learned they were traditional celebratory cakes for many Appalachian holiday and church events.  As it were, each family or friend contributed one cake layer which was brought to the event and assembled with the dried apple mixture.  Thus, the more people who brought a layer, the higher the stack cake became, and the more respect and popularity you had in the community. A ten layer cake would signify a very respected person, or two or three ten layer stack cakes would mean an even larger sphere of influence and popularity.


While I haven't yet answered how I will manage making enough Appalachian Stack Cakes to provide my part of the dessert for 200 people, I'm pretty sure I won't be able to count on each of our guests bringing one cake layer to the wedding. My most recent plan consists of calling my cousin who also makes stack cakes and asking her to join me in an 'apple stack cake cook off' for this event. If all else fails, I suppose there's always Apple Barn.  


Below is a link for an Appalachian Stack Cake. 

 http://www.appalachianhistory.net

patsyhlawson@gmail.com

The Winters of Spring

Anyone from Tennessee knows about blackberry, dogwood, and red bud winter.  These words describe the transition from one season to another, particularly the transition from winter to spring which details the ebb and flow from warm to cold, cold to warm, and finally to completely warm. It often takes a month or more to make this transition and during this time there is a great deal of complaining and dialogue about the process. In reality the same transition happens in the fall season, but interestingly, there are no names given to the fall process, or if there were, we did not use them in East Tennessee.


Like all their neighbors Mama and Aunt Ruby could have an hour conversation on any given day related to these 'winters'. These conversations usually began with Aunt Ruby's first of her three or more daily visits to our house.  Living across the road from each other on State Route 33 these two women had constant contact and worked together daily to get their farming done. Aunt Ruby would come flying in the back door her dress flapping in the cold wind saying, "Well it's blackberry winter alright cause I saw some blooms on the blackberry vines along the creek bank." Mama would respond with, "Yep, I think it is and what are you doing out in this air with nothing on but your petticoat and dress?" Aunt Ruby, not bothering to answer the question, just went on with her description of the cold wind and how she hoped this would not be a long winter spell.

Its now 55 years later and I find myself in Middle TN hearing many of the same comments about the winters of spring. The only thing that is different is this current generation does not know the exact definitions of each winter. Now the conversation begins with, "Is this another winter and how much longer will this last?" And most of these women are dressed in skimpy, too early for the season, dresses or summer shorts and tops that are flapping in the wind.

Lately I have come to believe these winters are a great metaphor for adaptions to life changes. Often the life span is broken into the spring (youth), summer (young adulthood), fall (middle adulthood), and winter (late adulthood).  These transition phases of human life are recognized and referenced as moving into a new season, but how many of us stop to consider the 'winters' process of our transitions? Do we see that going to a new phase of life has many cold spells or rude awakenings about our inability to do things. We also experience warm spells when things go better than expected and we begin to believe we really won't have to change. Do we acknowledge that we are in a new phase of life and realize that the choices we make about the upcoming phase have an enormous impact on how the transition turns out? 

The cold winds and rainy spells tell us that change is coming and we frequently find ourselves under or over dressed in our clothes from the former or upcoming season. We can be overdressed or under-dressed for any new life season if we fail to acknowledge life changes, if we insist that no changes are needed, if we fail to see that different clothing is required for this new season.


What new seasons are you entering and what winters of spring or fall are you trying to endure?  Are you making appropriate changes?

Sexuality According to Mama

The Smokey Mountains are at their finest in the Spring. Everything is new, alive, vibrant, and sensual.  Trees and wild flowers are blooming; ferns unfurl their new leaves, and in the animal world almost everything is mating or birthing.

Spring was calving season on our farm. We tried to arrange birthing of calves in the spring so the calves could have time to mature enough for the fall cattle market, therefore, most of our calves arrived in late February to early April.  Within 21 days after giving birth the cow begins another 'heat' cycle which, if successful, assured a new calf would be born the next year. If mating was not successful this first heat period you had to wait for next month's heat cycle.  


Many farmers in our area did not have a bull and they relied on the services of other bulls in the community. We always had a registered bull, one with  pedigree papers, to service our cows and the cows of the farmers without bulls. This service required that the farmer bring his cow to us for this service. The farmer tied a rope around the head of his cow and walked her to our farm. He knocked on our back door, asked for my father who then walked with the farmer to the pasture field where our bull 'serviced' the cow. 

This process was never described to me fully. Mama basically dodged my direct question about why the farmers brought their cows to our house for a few hours and then took them home with statements like, "The cow just wants to share some of our grass" or "The cow needs to be 'serviced' without explaining what it meant. I was told to come inside to play if the cows were nearby and when I asked why, Mama just ignored the question.  Most of the time I did what I was told, and if Mama was busy, I sneaked out the front door to see what I could see in the pasture. I don't think she ever caught me; if she did, I never knew it. Thirty minutes later I saw the farmer leading his cow back home. 


The birthing of calves was very common in the spring. Mama watched each cow carefully and seemed to know when the new calf would arrive. She watched to see when the cow left the herd and headed for the woods. Cows give birth away from the herd. Often Mama would say, "We need to go look for Big Red or Gernz, common names for our cows, because she may be having her calf."  We walked into the hidden spaces of our pasture fields where we often spotted a cow lying down.  Once she was spotted by Mama, I was told to stay behind while she went to check on the cow.  Doing as I was told I was always curious about what was happening up ahead that I was not allowed to see. Mama checked things out and walked back to where I was giving me a report on the cow with one of two sentences.  "She seems to be doing just fine so we can head back to the house", or "I think she is having trouble. We need to get hold of your Daddy, the vet, or a neighbor to come and help."  This last explanation had a sense of urgency about it and Mama looked worried.

I always wanted to know more, always had questions, and I wanted to see a calf born.  I thought that would be a very special event to witness. But, Mama never seemed to be interested in telling me anything or allowing me to see more, and I did not ask. However, I did know that these types of things were explained to boys and often boys came with their dads to view the process when the cow was serviced by our bull. I never understood this difference.  To this day sixty years later I have never seen a calf born.

Looking back on these events I wish Mama had been honest about all sorts of sexual matters.  It was the one topic she never could address. I understand that things were different in her time and she was only doing what she thought was best.  Many years later I asked her why she was never comfortable talking about sex and she said, "I knew you would find out on your own anyway!"  While this is a true statement, I believed then and now that she missed a great opportunity to share one of life's greatest pieces of information.  How I wish she could have been comfortable with the topic. The best part is I did not repeat this behavior with my own children.  Of course, things changed with my generation and they should have changed.

 

Uncle Ted: My Personal Monster

patsyhatfieldlawson.com Uncle Ted: My Personal Monster

I hated Uncle Ted most of my childhood.  He was Aunt Emma’s husband.  They came to visit us at least one weekend every month or two. The visits were usually for Sunday dinner and I started dreading the experience as soon as Mama said, “I think Emma and Ted will be here this weekend for dinner.”

Uncle Ted was a large man, kinda like Bluto, Popeye’s brutish friend who competed for Olive Oyl’s affections. When Uncle Ted walked into a room it shrank in size and he appeared to fill the whole room. His voice was loud, rough, and commanding.  Even his ‘hello’ sounded like an order to me. He always greeted me first and as much as I craved attention, his comments were never welcomed because they were so loud, unpredictable, and rough. A common greeting from him consisted of rubbing my head with his knuckles, greeting me and leaving my short hair all tangled and messy. I could not hide my disdain for him. I spent most of my time taking paths around the spaces he occupied hoping to avoid contact with him. I didn’t have to read books about dragons that breathed fire and ate people because Uncle Ted was my fiery dragon.

I was a very finicky eater as a child.  Uncle Ted made me eat when he came. Since he owned a men’s clothing store he paid close attention to others’ clothing and offered generous comments about others’ clothing choices and how they looked on their body.  One Easter Sunday dinner Uncle Ted patted my stomach and told me that my new dress looked like a maternity dress.  I was 12 and so self-conscious about my body that I cried over this comment. I never wore the dress again. Mama and Aunt Emma knew my feelings about him and always said, “Honey, that’s just the way he is; get used to it.” While I accepted this advice on some level, my preferred way of coping was to stay out of his notice.

Aunt Emma was Mama’s youngest sister. She was petite like me, pretty with twinkling brown eyes, and always finely dressed. People in our community often accidentally called me by her name because I looked like her. She was kind most of the time and only rarely made critical comments.  I loved her very much and liked her visits. She often brought me new clothes, books, and encouraged me to do well in school. One persistent question that plagued me during adolescence, however, was did he treat Aunt Emma the same as he treated me and why did she tolerate it?  

Today Aunt Emma is nearing 82.  Uncle Ted died about ten years ago. She is still quite attractive, mostly healthy, generous, and a fine dresser. We speak and visit often. Our conversation eventually focused on my and Uncle Ted’s relationship, or lack thereof.  She still insists that I was a favorite niece of his and that he loved me very much. She told me that while he knew he scared me to death he always cared deeply about me and how my life turned out. We laugh about his Bluto approach and my reactions. While I now know that my reactions to him were somewhat based on the gentle nature of my parents, I still feel he had a strange way of showing his love. I also now accept that his style was a product of his family relationships.  His family were straight shooters who told you their thoughts and feelings honestly and without apology.  I still don’t get the connection between his business success and his communication style, but do have great respect for his contributions to his community and family.

Recently I encountered a difficult situation which called for straight honest reasoning and communication.  I was amazed to realize that the words coming out of my head and mouth were those of Uncle Ted’s, spoken exactly as he would have said them!  Inside my head I could hear him confronting the situation as it happened and the exact words he would have used. I was very surprised! My second surprise was the realization that I had been given a gift from Uncle Ted.  While we don’t get to pick our relatives or their personalities, or the discomfort they produce, we can learn valuable lessons from our interactions with them. My parents were great models for me, but Uncle Ted provided me with the problem solving skills I needed to handle really tough situations. These were some skills my parents did not teach me. Maybe the reason we are given so many relatives is to provide us with many different examples of problem solving.  Thank you, Uncle Ted, for being who you were.

Patsy Hatfield Lawson is a professional storyteller, speaker and entertainer who performs at business conferences, civic functions, assisted living facilities, and storytelling events.  www.patsyhatfieldlawson.com

patsyhlawson@gmail.com

Lessons From Our Family Boarding House

The flow of guests in and out of our house was endless. There was rarely a month, week, or day when we weren't hosting some relative or acquaintance at our house all year long.  Mama and Daddy came from large families; Mama had nine siblings; Daddy had six and both were among the first born in their families. As with most families the older children got placed in a 'nurturing role' to younger siblings by default. Mama, Daddy, and Aunt Ruby parented all the later born children in their families. I also should include the many neighbors and friends who dropped in at our house unpredictably.


 I arrived on the scene when Mama was 40, Aunt Ruby was 42 and Daddy was 50. By this time Mama, Aunt Ruby and Daddy were the established 'home base' for 20 or more people because all the grandparents had died. I honestly knew little difference between my own siblings and my first cousins.  All total I had 33 first cousins!  Aunt Ruby and Mama lived across the road from each other and had daily contact.  When out of town relatives came to visit they always visited at both houses, but no one ever stayed or ate at Aunt Ruby's house. She loved everybody and she wanted to be a good hostess, but she was not good at it.  She had a small house, an unpleasant husband, unlike Mama, and even though she loved to cook, she burned everything she cooked.  None of her siblings wanted to eat it.  Mama ended up feeding most of them and bedding down as many as she could for the night. This ebb and flow of relatives presented me with unique situations and constant contact with a variety of personalities and dilemmas.


I often served as a babysitter for cousins, doing potty training, napping, diaper changing, entertaining, and teaching them about farm life. I was a waitress, cook, farm hand, storyteller, medic, and teacher. I remember the year cousin Linda got mumps during her visit. I was her companion and was expected to 'catch' her mumps as well, but for some strange reason I did not. I learned to do hair, manicures, sewing, embroidery, and clothing repair. All of these skills were learned by necessity, not choice.  It seemed that Mama and her sisters assumed that I should learn these skills as part of my hostess duties for relatives.  Cousin Ralph, Aunt Ruby's youngest son, taught me lessons about sexuality until Mama figured out what he was doing.

I remember loving to swap clothes with my visiting city cousins and being jealous of their city experiences and knowledge. I considered myself inferior to them because I was a country girl and believed that my knowledge of farm life, birthing calves, bailing hay, milking, being able to catch Nell, the mare who hated riders, and growing crops always paled when compared to the city life I imagined they had. I also remember a few fights with these cousins and every time Mama got wind of it she assumed I caused it. 


What I didn't learn from my family clan I learned from my community.  There was the neighbor who had 'spells' that I later learned in college that she probably suffered from schizophrenia. There were several neighbor families with a variety of disabilities in speech, movement, intelligence, each of which got explained to me with Mama's limited vocabulary for these types of things. Then there was Liddie, the hypochondriac, who could drive Mama out of the house on a hot afternoon to hoe the taters just to escape her visit. Of course, I didn't know what was wrong with her until my freshman introductory course in psychology.  At least, I though it was hypochondriasis. Finally, there was Daddy's sister, Nell, who had a birth defect which did not allow her to speak above a whisper. As far as I know she never saw a doctor about the condition so I never had a name for it.  She, as Mama explained, was "just made that way." Adding to this mixture of personalities was Daddy, an outgoing friendly man who often sat on his front porch reading the newspaper while Mama finished dinner.  If anyone walked past our house near mealtime Daddy welcomed them to our front porch for a visit and invited them to dinner. Mama never knew who was coming to dinner.  She handled that by making extra amounts of food to cover whoever showed up, and she rarely complained about our many invited or uninvited guests.


I used to wonder how I ended up with my fascination for psychology because I had no role models and no encouragement to pursue the field.  But after I finished college I finally connected my career choice with my experiences growing up in our accidental boarding house. I suppose it was the best training I could have had for learning about people, their many issues, and learning how to explain human behavior. Also the stories of these people are very rich.

Mama's Secret Vice

My mother's secret vice was chewing tobacco.  It was a secret she kept from everyone except the family.  She started chewing tobacco at age 10 when her mother gave her small pieces of tobacco to hold in her mouth.  This was a common practice at the time for mountain women such as herself. This tobacco was grown on our farm, air cured, and part of our annual income. During my growing up Mama used King Bee Twist or Day's Work brands along with her Garrett's Snuff.  Her 'tobaccer' was the first thing she put in her mouth in the morning and the last thing she took out before she went to bed at night.  This vice was shared with Aunt Ruby.  They often discussed some aspect of chewing in daily conversation; they had spitting contests; and conversed about good spittoons - those that were fancy and made with ceramic or the type they used which were empty sixteen ounce pork and bean cans.  She preferred the latter. 


She told me I should NEVER develop a chewing habit and said that it was bad for me. Her habit along with no dental care had rotted all her teeth out by age 35. But the thing that stopped me from chewing tobacco was running through the house and tripping over her pork and bean can. The rule was whoever knocks over the spittoon has to clean it up. It seemed like it was always me. The rags I used for cleaning up my mess were found in a kitchen drawer and it always took too long to get the clean up rag before the ambeer had done its damage to Mama's floor or carpet.


With my bare hands I dragged that rag through the slimy, molasses colored spittle, gagging the whole time. Mixed in with the slimy spittle were flakes of brown chewing tobacco.  It ran out of the pork and bean can like mud and the smell was distinctly that of our barn as those firm green tobacco leaves dried and turned dark and limp. Mama's carpet appeared to soak it up in seconds and once there it left a brown stain no matter how hard I tried to get it out. I hurried to stop the flow while Mama stood over me, looking down, judging my every move and secretly enjoying my suffering because I had been "clumsy enough to knock it over in the first place!"


While Mama's filthy, nasty habit stained my hands it also told me something about my mountain roots and what it meant to be a real mountain woman. Today I vomit easily at the sound of someone else vomiting, or at the sight of vomit. It reminds me of the ambeer I cleaned up many times in my youth.   Even now I can gag at the thought of cleaning up this mess because of the memories of the molasses colored spittle oozing across the living room floor. I never tried to chew tobacco.  I suppose Mama's solution achieved it's purpose after all.