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.