The Quiet of Winter

The Quiet of Winter

Winter is often referred to as 'the slow season'.  This perception is quite fitting because the vibrancy of growth and change slows down, giving nature and earth inhabitants a break from the race of daily tasks. Mother Nature seems to lean back into her plush easy chair, breathe deeply and celebrate the simple process of living rather than racing ahead. Our East Tennessee garden was often frozen ground with a few remaining corn stalks standing crooked and bent from the fall harvest frenzy.

In our house there was some stillness, a slower pace and more reflection about who we were as a family in this space and time. Mama and Aunt Ruby began this season with negotiations about who they were making quilts for this year. All children, grandchildren, and cousins were mentioned along with the number and type of quilts each one possessed. Based on this information they decided how many quilts would be made this year and who would receive them.  Some years it was a quick process; other years there were debates resulting in a decision two or three weeks later.  Once the decision was made they began the process of cutting and sewing the pieces for quilt pattern.

The 'tension piece' for this whole process was the actual quilting because their quilting styles and procedures were radically different.  Mama was precise in her cutting, stitches, and patterns; Aunt Ruby was not.  In fact, Aunt Ruby never seemed to understand what the word "precise" meant.  To her quilting was some sort of impulsive 'creative process' which could result in the addition of random stitches, creative patterns, or new time saving inventions. Aunt Ruby's "creativeness" drove Mama crazy! Mama was a scientist; Aunt Ruby was an artist of the rarest type.  And this difference was where the arguments started.

From this point in the quilting process it became a three month daily argument over style and method. While it never broke out into hard words or fist fights, it was clear that each held her ground without compromising. There were days of total stand-off and each one doing her own 'thing' on her side of the quilt. Both of them knew it was hopeless to try to change the opinion of the other, but this never stopped them from trying to bring about change in the other. The final result was always a quilt reflecting each one's philosophy.

Often in the quiet of winter when I come across one of their quilts I pause to examine it carefully.  Each personality is right there as obvious as the nose on your face.  I can see Mama's precision and perfection intermingled with Aunt Ruby's creative interjections and I even hear their arguments in my head. I can go back to the room, the quilting chairs, and the people as though it were happening right before my eyes. I suppose that's why my quilts are one of my most prized possessions.  Maybe these quilts had more to do with remembering them than it did with a slow winter season or any particular quilt pattern or style.

Fall Apples

On our farm we had many apple trees that were planted by the man who owned the farm before us. By the time I was was growing up these they were mature apple trees that produced regularly each year. We had apples from spring until late fall; different varieties, all good and with their own unique flavors. Mama seemed to work throughout the growing season to preserve as many of these apples as she could.  When she had too many to process or she got tired of ifor free. 

Lidgie was the farm hand who helped us and Uncle Rector during busy farm seasons. He often took apples home with him, but he especially liked the apples from one particular tree, the sweet delicious apple.  It was located near our house and was among our favorites too.  Mama often made apple dumplings from this tree.  But one summer we had a very severe thunderstorm which blew down the sweet apple tree.  It was too damaged to save so Lidgie was asked to cut the tree up into firewood.  He worked days getting this tree chopped up, all the while making comments about how much he would miss this apple tree.

Two or three years passed and Lidgie was still talked about this tree.  By now the wood from the tree had been used up.  He would often say, "I shore do miss that sweet apple tree; it was my favorite." 

Several years later, near Thanksgiving, Lidgie came to our house carrying two hand-made brooms and two 'jar mops' which were used to clean canning jars for canning.  Lidgie said,  "I want to give you and your Uncle Rec one of my brooms and one of my jar mops."  We were surprised because Lidgie did not 

give gifts even at Christmas. He also said, "Look at the handles on the broom and mop." "Them's made from the sweet apple tree that blew down three years ago."  The handles were whittled down perfectly, no splinters and no knots.  Running our hands over the handles we could see the mountain skills he possessed.  Then Lidgie said, "I just couldn't stand to see the wood be burned up as firewood so I saved some of it."  "It now is well dried out so I made the brooms and jar mops for you'al because I thought it would allow the tree to still live in a new form."  

Many years later when we cleaned out Mama's house the broom and jar mop were still among her things. Lidgie was right; they had lived on long after both Mama and Lidgie.

Football at The Hatfields

Football at the Hatfield House

As traditional East Tennesseans my three older brothers went to UT and earned degrees along with a deep love for UT football and basketball.  They took jobs and moved away but remained avid UT fans who attended UT football games as often as they could.  When they came home on a UT football weekend there was a standard procedure that had to be followed before each game started. In order for them to see the game the television antenna which was on top of our highest hill would have to be readjusted in order to get television reception from the channel that carried the game. Many of our neighbors who lived on top of hills got four channels. We lived in a valley so we only got one channel.

The procedure to adjust the outdoor antenna required a large coordinated effort of at least four people who were positioned in such a way that communication could be relayed from the living room to the top of the hill above our house. One person was stationed in the living room to watch the television reception quality.  Another person was positioned in the yard. The third person was positioned half way up the hill, and the fourth person on top of the hill would manually turn the antenna in various directions until the best reception was received on the set in the living room. All communication had to be yelled to the next person until the person turning the antenna and the person viewing the game had found the best reception. This procedure involved Mama, Daddy, the brother who wanted to see the game, and me. Usually I was the one in the middle of the pasture field who had to dodge the cow manure while I relayed messages.

 My only interest in the game was the half-time show when the majorettes performed; otherwise, I hated football and didn't understand it. After the game the antenna had to be readjusted back to the one channel we regularly watched. Changing the antenna was a ordeal, to say the least.

During the beginning of my freshman year in high school I decided I wanted to see the majorettes perform live in the stadium so I began my own campaign to get my oldest brother to take me to a real game.  He said 'no'. I continued to beg and finally my brother said, "You don't know enough about football to get to see a real game" (which was true), but I continued to insist on going to the game.  Finally, he said, "I'll take you if you can answer three football questions correctly."  Here was my chance.

The three questions were: How many yards are there in a football field? What do you call the man in a striped shirt who blows the whistle? And how many 'downs' does each side get before the ball switches sides? I guessed and did not get a single answer correct. My brother laughed until he cried. I was humiliated.

Today if you ask me if I like football, I will tell you "I don't much care for it." While I have forgiven my brother, I still have no interest in football even after I know the answers to the three questions.

"Turned Funny"

Growing up in an isolated area of mountainous East Tennessee, I often heard the expression, "Turned Funny". My family used this term to describe a variety of things. It could be used to describe the personality of a neighbor, relative or a random stranger.  In this sense 'turned funny' meant someone who had an odd or difficult personality. They might have problems with strange or different reactions to questions or social exchanges with others.  These people often were temperamental about requests or questions, and expressed their displeasure with odd remarks not usually made by "OK" folks.  In some sense their comments or behavior were unpredictable.  Mama often used the term without explaining her meaning and I was left to insert my own meaning.  As I got older and in college I came to understand 'turned funny' meant having some sort of personality disorder that the person was either born with or learned early on in life. While this explanation was helpful to me, I must confess that it did little to help me understand the person well enough to engage in lengthy conversations.  My approach was simply to avoid talking to them.

Another use for 'Turned Funny' was to describe the position held by an object when in use or its position when placed on a table or solid object.  An example of this meaning would be to describe the way you improperly held a knife for carving meat or the way you improperly held a lug wrench when changing a tire. Often when I was learning to drive or cook I was told that I was holding the steering wheel 'funny' or slicing the cornbread 'funny'.  This type of feedback also meant you should change the position of your hand or the tool so that you could better work with the object in order to get better results.  Only recently as I was trying to explain to my husband the correct way to cut a loaf of bread, I heard myself say, "You've got the knife 'turned funny' and the slices of bread are coming out wrong." And yes, I still hear myself use 'turned funny' when I am at a loss for the proper explanation for someones behavior at a given time or place.

While I know that my use of this term is not well understood by others outside my Appalachian upbringing, it still seems that it's the best term for things that I otherwise have difficulty explaining or describing.  I don't think I need to check this out with Webster's.

Families and Fireworks

Growing up in the mountains of East Tennessee our family chose to not get involved with shooting fireworks for the Fourth of July.  My parents explained that we did not do this because fireworks could be dangerous and then told some stories about people they knew who had been injured by them.  Mama, the guardian of the family money, said it was foolish to spend money on fireworks.  She said”Why, it’s just like setting fire to your money and watching it explode in front of your face!”  This statement also meant the discussion was over. Herman’s parents seemed to hold the same viewpoint as my family, but his Dad did admit to having enjoyed fireworks when he was younger and told some funny stories about his friends and fireworks. He also allowed Herman to shoot off some firecrackers some years, but always being instructive about safety.

After Herman and I married and had children of my own, we had to confront the issue of fireworks with our own two boys. By the time the boys were 12 and 4 we had become fans of the Nashville Sounds and rarely missed a fireworks night. Throwing caution to the wind, we convinced ourselves that there was a ‘safe’ way to use fireworks and off we went to one of those famous fireworks tents that spring up like mushrooms in Tennessee about two weeks before the fourth of July. Here we explored all kinds of ‘blow up’ gear like rolling firework tanks, firecrackers, sparklers, bottle rockets, cherry  bombs, and anything that had an interesting description on the outside package. All four of us were like kids in a candy store!  We finally exited the tent two hours later having spent $100 on this shopping spree which was far more than the $10 we had planned to spend. Like many Tennessee families we did our own fireworks show and thought we were almost professionals. These Fourth of July celebrations lasted until the boys lost interest and moved on to bigger toys.  

Looking back now at our firework displays and remembering the joy of discovering something new with these sons, I’m reminded of so many other things that we ‘discovered’ with them.  Our own protected childhoods have been challenged in so many ways by our kids. I’m so glad we took some risks and challenges together as a family because it has been these things that have held us close as a family and some of the best stories we have to share with each other.

Letters From Vietnam

Recently while going through some memorabilia I came across a collection of letters I had received from various boyfriends during my senior high school year and my first year of college, 1964-1966.  While I don’t remember the reason for keeping these letters, I do know that I had some awareness that they were somehow important. My choice to re-read these letters now was mostly to learn more about my adolescence and how I viewed romance during this time of my life.

To be truthful, I did not find  what  I expected which was  statements of admiration for me; statements about missing me, and  eagerness to get back to normal life and dating me as soon as they returned.  My expectations were quite egocentric.  I only had one letter that mentioned looking forward to dating me when he returned. 

Instead these letters focused on daily life, feelings of loneliness, eagerness for home and familiar places.  One letter focused on the physical terrain of Vietnam; another one described his daily routine; still another mentioned how we could make our home town a better place when he got back. One of the guys talked about the loneliness of standing guard at night and a longing for someone who could speak English.  One letter talked about the food and customs of the Vietnamese.

Having not found what I expected, I put the letters away, but continued to think about them.  Why had I waited so long to re-read them?  Did these guys survive?  Where might they be now? What was their life after Vietnam? 

 Looking back fifty years now I realize how important daily coping is in a foreign place where you never knew who or what the enemy was. I now understand the horrors of war, not because I fought in them, but as someone who realizes the glory in surviving a war. I also understand that we grow and understand more when we are placed outside our familiar comfort zone and are forced to find new pieces of ourselves.  Perhaps these young guys found comfort in this strange and unwelcoming environment by writing a letter to someone ‘back home’ in order to survive another day or another week, or another year. I only hope that the letters I sent in return, as immature and awkward as they were, were somehow helpful and made life more bearable for them.

The Senior Banquet

Hancock County did not have a Senior Prom.  Instead we had an Alumni Banquet in May of each year.  All alumni were invited along with the current year senior class for a dinner and dance afterward. It really wasn’t much, just a dinner in the cafeteria and a local musical group afterward in the gymnasium. Underclassmen could attend if a senior invited them. 

My goal the junior year was to find a senior boy who would ask me to the alumni banquet.  I knew it had to be Melvin because he was the cutest, smartest, funniest guy in school.  The only problem was that all the girls wanted to be asked by Melvin for the same reason.  Since competition was going to be tough I developed a ‘back-up’ plan. This back-up plan consisted of Melvin’s ugly best friend, Ralph. My only interest in Ralph’s was getting to sit with Melvin and whoever the lucky girl happened to be at the banquet. I would just pretend that I was Melvin’s date. Just as I predicted, Melvin did not ask me but Ralph did.  I think Ralph knew there was little attraction between us, but he, like me, wanted to be in on the action.

Truth be known, I didn’t know much about banquets or proms so I turned to my monthly subscription of Seventeen Magazine for help in learning prom etiquette, proper dress, conversation; all the stuff that happens at a prom.  Seventeen Magazine was full of helpful stuff about ‘proper prom behavior’ and what to expect on this special evening.  I took it all as unquestioned ‘truth’ and followed it to a tee. The magazine and I both assumed that my date would be able to drive a car.

Ralph picked me up in the family car.  He was a relatively new driver and was very cautious with the car, thus we arrived late. Parking was a struggle also. We ended up kinda sideways in a parking spot quite a distance from the cafeteria.  The meal went well except that Merlin and Ralph paired up and told farm and fart jokes all during dinner.  I tried my best to outshine Merlin’s date with conversation and witty remarks, but it soon became apparent that both Merlin and Ralph would have preferred to come as a couple themselves instead of asking two girls. 

It was a truly miserable night.  Melvin and his date danced a bit, but, of course, Ralph did not know how to dance.  There wasn’t much he knew, period! When we returned back to the parked car I noticed that it was not parked in the same place as where we left it.  In my astuteness I said, “Why is the car in a different spot?”  Ralph shyly said, “I don’t know how to drive too good and I guess my Dad came and re-parked it.”  This was the final straw!  Why had I bothered with this?  It certainly was not the dream date I had seen in Seventeen Magazine. Neither was it worth all the effort I had given to be with Melvin; he still had not notice that I was there.  This is the first time I learned the meaning of “Second best is still not good enough”.

I was determined that my senior banquet would be TOTALLY different. This year I got asked by Herman Lawson, another senior, who had become a good friend and someone of romantic interest to me.  Again I assumed he was an experienced driver and that things would go better this year.  What I didn’t know was that Herman had NOT gotten his driver’s license, and we would have to double date with Jackie and Marietta who were both of our best friends.  I thought it was rather odd that he had never bothered to get his driver’s license.  It was also odd that he did not mention this issue until after I had agreed to go to the banquet. I had my driver’s license; I got them two weeks after my sixteenth birthday. In my thinking every senior had  their driver’s license!  Herman arranged for Jackie to pick up Marietta, then pick him up, and lastly, pick me up. By no means was this the romantic picture Seventeen Magazine had painted. It was beginning to look like another prom disaster.

Herman had been helping his dad haul manure on the farm the day of the prom. His dad failed to get him home in time to clean up before Jackie came to pick him up. Herman called me to explain that Jackie and Marietta would pick me up and he would have his dad drive him to the high school after he bathed, and we would just meet at the prom.  To me this was weird as hell, and another prom disaster, but I was stuck with it.

Fortunately, the prom went quite well for Herman and me once he arrived.  That was not especially true for Jackie and Marietta.  On the way home in the back seat of Jackie’s car, Herman and I exchanged our first kisses.  This is when I realized the benefit of being driven to the banquet by someone else.