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.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
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
www.patsyhatfieldlawson.com
Sunday, June 3, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
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
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
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