Where I'm from # 2

I’m from mountains, older than human life; mountains that reach high and fall deeply.

I’m from mountain streams that carve paths to creeks and rivers.

I’m from shacks and ‘lean twos’ built at the bottom of these high mountains; shacks that raised fourteen kids to mostly adulthood.

I’m from barns, raised by hard workin’ men, to house their corn, bakker, hay, and livestock.

I’m from beehives, robbed annually, by men covered from head to toe with protective clothing, carrying a smoker, and trying to remain calm.

I’m from canned beans, beets, corn, and tomatoes; put up on steamy sweaty days.

I’m from cow and horse manure removed by pitch forks and hauled by sleds to nearby gardens.

I’m from chickens, brooders, chicken houses, chicken shit, egg nests, and rich orange colored fried eggs.

I’m from milk cows; slow, lumbering, gentle cows with brown eyes that showed love to a child.

I’m from fresh churned buttermilk that took two days to clabber and thirty minutes to churn; buttermilk that was drunk by families right after churning before refrigeration.

I’m from registered bulls; bulls that were a farmer’s pride and joy and reminded them of their own reproductive role as men.

I’m from long, curving front porches where men cooled down before a dinner or supper meal; porches that showed welcome and hours of shared laughter, and porches where politics was discussed at length along with the weather, crops, gossip and new babies.

I’m from weeds; weeds that grew tall in the summer; weeds that cut your skin, made you sneeze and broke your skin out.

I’m from quiltin’ women.  Women who planned, argued, discussed patterns, sewed signature stitches; women who sunned their quilts annually both as a cleansing and ‘airing out’ endeavor and a bragging rite.

I’m from outhouses; some sturdy, modernized and clean with toilet paper hung on a large nail. Others less sturdy, filled with catalogs, waspers, crickets, yellow jackets and stench.

I’m from hog killings and smoke houses. Long cold days in November filled with the hard work of scalding, scraping, butchering and salting; and a second day of lard rendering and cracklin’ making over an open fire and a black kettle.

I’m from soap makin’ from meat scraps, lye, and rendered lard in a black kettle over an open fire near the smoke house.

I’m from the smell of burned wood.  Wood that cooked food oven an open fire; wood that smoked meat in the smoke house; wood that heated kitchens and cooked food and wood that burned best when it was seasoned and dry.

I’m from sticky dry, dusty, suffocating dirt roads in the summer, and muddy, nasty dirt roads that became impassable in the winter.

I’m from the Spring of the mountains where trees bloom, the air is pregnant and fragrant and all things breathe with life.

I’m from The Fall of the mountains where dying leaves and weeds display their foliage like fireworks on the 4^th of July.

I’m from families; century old families who never knew the outside world, but knew their kinfolks and their heritage and talked for hours about their roots, world wars, diseases and deaths.

I’m from grave yards in woods and pasture fields, some so old that nobody knew who was buried there and only a smooth rock without words marked the spot. 

I’m from around the table discussions at supper where every living relative was tied to some dead relative through a story, and facts about their lives were argued and debated.

I’m from one place thatshaped my total being. A place that remains always within my soul.

The Biscuit and Cornbread Contest

By the time I was 11 and in the 6^th grade at Seal-Mathis Elementary Mama began to insist that I enter the 4-H Cornbread and Biscuit Contest that was held each spring at the high school in Sneedville. I always believed that her interest in this contest was because she loved cornbread and biscuits and felt that it was a skill I should learn.  After all, these were the only two bread items we ever ate at home. Mama seemed to feel that it was her duty to teach me every skill she knew so that I would be adequately prepared to be a wife.

The first year I entered the contest I only did so because Mama said I should; I had never tried to make cornbread or biscuits, but knew that I would probably learn how someday. Upon Mama’s insistence, I entered both contests and went home to tell her I had done so.  Days passed, but Mama never brought up the subject of teaching me how to make cornbread or biscuits.  I thought this was a little odd, but Mama was one to keep her word so I just waited until she got around to giving me my first lesson.  I waited until we were three days away from the contest; I finally asked Mama when we were going to learn how to do them.  To this she responded, “Don’t worry about it,” so I didn’t. The next day I asked the same question and got the same answer. I was getting anxious so on the day before the contest I asked when we were going to do the biscuits and cornbread.  Mama said, “Don’t worry about it; I’ll take care of it.”  I didn’t know what she meant by this, but knew that Mama kept her word.

On the Saturday morning of the contest I panicked when I awoke and ran to the kitchen where Mama was preparing breakfast.  She greeted me with, “There’s your biscuits and cornbread,” and pointed to the counter.  On the counter were neatly arranged bread baskets, one with HER biscuits and one with HER cornbread. I started to protest and ask questions, but she interrupted me saying, “Your Daddy will take you to town as soon as you have breakfast and get dressed; your two breads are ready.” Stunned and confused, I could tell that she had no plans to say anything more.  I ate, picked up my baskets and got in the truck to go to town. 

When we arrived at the high school cafeteria and I joined about 20 other contestants.  I placed each of my baskets where they went and tried to remain calm despite my growing disease over what I would say if the judges asked me whether I made the biscuits myself.  The judges were Mrs. Walker and Mr. Haston.  Within twenty minutes of my arrival the contest started, and by this time I was in a major panic mode about whether to lie or not about who had made the biscuits if I were asked.  Slowly Mrs. Walker and Mr. Haston moved down the line to each basket, tasted a portion of the offering and moved on.  I tried not to think about the process and pretend that I was someplace else more pleasant and less stressful. I heard our two judges ask some random questions or make a few comments, but I was too far gone in anxiety to know what they said.  Finally they came to my offerings and I looked at my feet and prayed for silence.  I don’t remember them sampling my biscuits or cornbread.  I only remember them several minutes later as they came to the end of the table.  Both Mr. Haston and Mrs. Walker walked to the front of the room and announced the winners. I came back to reality when I heard my name called for a blue ribbon on ‘my biscuits’ and ‘my cornbread’. I walked up to the front took my ribbon and felt awful.

Daddy and I returned home and Mama greeted us at the door.  She said, “How did you do?”  I said, “I won on both of them.”  She said, “Good” and that was it.  We never talked about it again until the next year when the same scenario was repeated with me winning again with Mama’s biscuits and Mama’s cornbread.  I did this same behavior for three years in a row; I won first place each time.  Mama and I never discussed the issue, ever.

It’s now 45 years later; Mama is dead, and I sit here trying to make sense of all of this.  The only possible explanation I can offer is that Mama had me enter the contests for her sake so she could have the reassurance that she was one of the best bread makers in the whole county.  It never was about me.  It was HER contest all along; a contest that she had wanted to enter and win when she was a young girl herself but never had the opportunity to enter or win.

Advice and Ann Landers

Advice from Ann Landers

Recently my husband and I began work on the family memoirs.  In preparation for this long process we visited the attic where all kinds of collectables were stored:  photo albums, newspaper articles, hand written genealogy notes, little boxes of lost letters, and other strange collections of objects, some of which we didn't have a clue about their significance, much less how to use them.

Of most interest to me was a little pink box that came from my bedroom dresser drawer where I kept ‘important stuff’. I had forgotten about this little pink box, but I knew it would be interesting to see what I viewed as important 50 years ago when I was a teenager. In this pink box I came across two pamphlets that I had apparently ordered from Ann Landers for the cost of 20 cents each.  One was titled, “Necking and Petting and How Far To Go” and the other was “How To Be Well-Liked”.  On the back of each of these two pamphlets was a list of other pamphlets that I had not ordered. I had checked the “How To Be Date Bait”, but this one was not in the box.  I suppose I never got around to placing that order. 

The discovery of these booklets was a tremendous delight.  I remembered ordering them.  I quickly read each one to see how ‘current’ the advice was now after fifty years. I was amazed by how well they were written and by the information’s relevancy in 2013.   Some of the advice included:

·         Sex is normal, both mentally and physically. It’s not wrong; it’s how you think about it that counts.

·         Girls who brag about getting boys ‘worked up’ are being unfair; boys who brag about their conquests are selfish and inconsiderate.

·         If a boy is too hard to keep in line, you’re better off losing him and instead looking for a guy whose values are more like your own.

·         Dating activities should include more activities than necking and petting.  Dating is about finding someone who is compatible with your values and interests.

·         Having a child before one is ready to rear a child imposes a tremendous burden on the mother and father of the child. It also imposes a burden on both sets of grandparents and the community.

·         In order to be liked by others you must like yourself first.

·         One great ‘ice breaker’ when making friends is to form the habit of asking genuine questions.

·         Friendships are easier with people who have similar interests and values.

·         Keeping confidences is important to keeping friends.

·          Being kind and helpful makes more friends than cynicism and criticism.

·         Thinking well of others and yourself opens doors for new friendships. 

To my knowledge, my mother never knew that I had these booklets, nor did she know about my worries and concerns during this time.  Mama never seemed to talk about friendships; she NEVER talked about sexuality except to say I must wait until marriage to have sex.  Her focus was always on how it would ‘ruin the family’ if I ever got pregnant and how she could not bear to have an unmarried pregnant daughter.  My decision to turn to Ann Landers for answers was largely a product of having read her column in our newspaper.  Somehow I seemed to learn to trust her answers as I read these columns each day.  Ann Landers died several weeks ago. Now I wonder how many girls, like me, turned to her daily columns and pamphlets for answers to matters of sexuality, dating, and friendships, and a thousand other topics to find answers to the questions they didn’t dare ask. 

Learning Basketball

February in Tennessee is always the season for high school basketball tournaments.   These tournaments provide entertainment during an otherwise drab month of chilly weather and few sporting events.  In Hancock County basketball was the only sport played in school by boys and girls in the 1960's.

In 1960 girls basketball was played three-on-three half court. A line across the middle of the court divided the players into three guards and three forwards and determined the way the game would be played.  A foul would be called if any player crossed this line during play. 

I was in the seventh grade and very focused on being a majorette.  My goal was to eventually become a majorette for the UT football team.  The problem was I had no way to learn majorette skills because no one in my isolated East Tennessee mountain county taught it.  I had to learn from televised half time shows of UT football games, and Cas Walkers’ Variety Show where occasionally Knoxville twirling schools showcased their best students. My learning was random at best, but at age 12, if I could imagine it, I could do it. 

One day, Mr. Hubert Greene, the girl’s coach and my 6,7,8 grade teacher, came to me at 10:30 recess to ask if I would like to be on the girls’ basketball team for our three room school. I was shocked because I had no basketball skills and I wasn’t interested in basketball.  I couldn’t dribble, catch or shoot a basketball.  I really wasn’t sure about the rules either because my focus was twirling.

Mr. Hubert Greene was a stern man and I was scared of him so when he asked I said, ‘sure’, not really knowing why I had. I was the only person in 7^th grade that was not on the basketball team. He immediately started a 10:30 recess training drill to teach me what I would need to know in order to start the season in October.  By the start of the season I had learned to catch a basketball, dribble while standing still and dribbling while walking IF no one was near me. I also had learned most of the rules. Mr. Hubert Greene said I would play guard and mostly sit on the bench. 

The season started with me on the bench, still learning rules and trying to act like a member of the team.  We were a strong team this season and we came into the February tournament with me only having played in three games, during the last three minutes of the game; but I had learned a lot, and now I enjoyed the game of basketball.  I also liked being on a celebrity team which got the number one slot in the tournament. The way I figured it, I had it made because I would never be used for the tournament. I would just enjoy the wins from the bench. 

We came to the last game of the tournament with only one loss. All we had to do for the trophy was to win the last game.  This last game was sailing along fine at half time with a 20 point lead. Mr. Hubert Greene came to me at half time and said, “If we keep doing this well, I’ll put you in near the end of the game.”  WHAT! I panicked. What would I do??? 

 

Quickly I figured out a strategy. First, I would pray that we would lose our lead; next, if I had to go in I would do all I could to distract the other team players; thirdly, I would hide behind taller players because I wouldn’t be thrown the ball if I could not be seen; and fourthly, I would use any skill I had to just survive.  A time out was called in the last three minutes of the game and Mr. Hubert Greene pointed at me from the other end of the bench and said, “Patsy get in there and do something; don’t let them get off a shot.” In I went, giving all I had.  I really don’t remember what I did except that I used every twirling technique I could remember. I jumped; I yelled; I threw the imaginary baton in the air and behind my back, and I was all over the court.  In my head I was on the football field doing my best majorette performance ever. The whistle blew and we won by 15 points.  The fans rushed on the court and I receded into the background. This was not my win. I had totally exhausted myself in three minutes. Other team members deserved the credit. I was just thankful to have survived. 

As things calmed down, we began our walk to the dressing room to change clothes.  I was walking alone until I heard familiar footsteps coming from behind. The last person I wanted to encounter was Mr. Hubert Greene, but there he was beside me.  Finally he said, “Not bad!”  That’s all he said before he took a long pause.  Then he finished with, “Yep, not bad.  You reminded me of a windmill in a bad windstorm,” then he walked away.

I retired from basketball at the end of the 8^th grade and I suppose I should tell you I never became a majorette for UT. However, I do have Mr. Hubert Greene to thank for teaching me my first lesson on survival in a high pressure situation.

 

The Transition From Winter to Spring

At our house winter was spent with Mama and Aunt Ruby totally occupied with quilt making.  The process actually began before Christmas when they decided how many quilts tops they would make during the upcoming winter season and what patterns would be featured in these quilts.  By January they were hard at work cutting, sewing pieces together and arguing about who was the best seamstress. 

Aunt Ruby was not the perfectionist that Mama was.  From her perspective, few things in life required precision; if you could make it work in some sort of way, it was good enough; end of story.  According to Mama, Ruby’s stitches were crooked; her seams did not join as they were supposed to and she was ‘sloppy with her work’ from beginning to end. The arguments never ended with any type of resolution.  Mama fussed and gave orders; Aunt Ruby carried on with her sewing.

By February they were rushing to get their quilt work done because Spring was coming and a new focus was about to unfold.  On the cold wintery days of February they did their quilt work, but on those few warm days that occurred in February they turned their attention to getting the sweet onion bulbs in the ground that had been prepared for them in the fall.  If they got these bulbs in the ground in February they would have fresh green onions to go with their lettuce in May. The only quilting I remember them doing in March was adding some finishing touches to quilts that had been done in January and February.

The winter months on our farm also led to preserved foods rather than fresh foods.  We ate pinto beans, Irish potatoes, side meat and ham from the smoke house, and homemade hominy. We grew our own corn for the hominy.  This corn, brand named Hickory Cane, was white with larger kernels than the corn used to make our corn meal. Hominy often cooked slowly on the stove while Mama and Aunt Ruby quilted. It took at least two days to get the hominy ready to eat since one day was devoted to a ‘lye soak’ to soften the large kernels.  On the second day, after a very thorough washing off of the lye solution, the soft kernels simmered to a delicate state just perfect for consumption. Often canned mustard or turnip greens were added to the meal. Of course, a pan of fresh cornbread completed this special meal.

By March Mama’s and Aunt Ruby’s focus turned to lettuce beds, hunting for fresh creasy greens and watching the onions sprout. This was a season of sweet anticipation focused on gardening and planting; however, as cold days came and went less frequently, they were eager to get outside to begin a new season. 

As always farm life revolved around seasonal changes.  These seasonal changes were my connection to a larger universe and what I needed to learn about survival on our planet. Sometimes I think our modern lifestyle of shopping and sport events has lost touch with this connection.