Cold Winter Days by the Fire

                Well, it’s turning cold on The Plateau – temperatures have steadily dropped this week and Thursday and Friday night lows are forecast in the 20’s.  Brrrr – makes me long for the old wood stove. 

                Do you remember that warm, beating heart of the home?  The kitchen always had a stove – even when wood or coal was no longer required for cooking the family meals.   The aroma of the wood, that toasty spot where you could hold hands chilled by autumn’s wind; and there was always company around the stove.  Like porches in summertime, the stove was the meeting spot. 

                Before R-values determined the insulation pumped into our walls, and when houses were built of whatever materials were available, keeping warm in winter was more than a luxury.  Ethel Key Yeary told of the winter her younger brother, Coy, was a baby.  She and her older sister, Stacy, were charged with guarding the baby against the cold.  They took turns throughout the winter sitting by the fireplace, holding the baby.  Hearing that story through the years, I thought he must have been a weak or sickly baby.  But further questioning proves it was just the nature of the drafty old house.

                Young men who were required to keep wood boxes filled might not wax quite so nostalgic about the cook stove, which required extra work with the axe.  But did you ever eat ‘green-wood biscuits’?  See, green wood doesn’t burn hot and fast like good dry wood does so you can’t get bread nicely browned. Southern cooks rejoice in golden-brown biscuits – we’ll baste them with bacon drippings to encourage the color and add a little crisp before you sink into the fluffy softness.  So pulling out a pan of green-wood biscuits is a little moment of mourning.  But the kids loved those soft, pale biscuits – a rare treat. 

               Leftovers were kept in the warming oven perched high above the hot cooking surface.  Little legs required a chair to reach the treasures stored there.  But at Grandma’s house, even leftovers are a gourmet treat.  Unless you are baking during the day, there’s no reason to try to keep fire in that little firebox, but the cast iron holds the heat between meals to keep a little warm spot right there in the kitchen.

                I’d love to hear your fireside memories.  Just add a comment below – I’ll bet everyone else would enjoy them too.

Uncle Tom heads up North

Lacking good work opportunities on the Plateau, many families headed to the blue collar jobs in Ohio and Indiana.  When Uncle Tom decided he must move north, he loaded up his whole family - wife, six kids and his father-in-law, Bob.  Such belongings as would be needed for the journey and the stay up north were crammed-in wherever they would fit.  In fact, it seemed so many belongings had been packed that the kids were about to pop out of the car.  There was a head hanging out of every window.

Oh, and mountain folk are rarely guilty of letting a good hog-killing day pass… so you guessed it, Tom had butchered a hog before setting out.  There was no time for slicing, salting or smoking the pork, so the whole hog (minus the innards) was tied on top of the station wagon.

This is the picture that greeted his youngest sister when they stopped by her house.  Aunt Cecil stepped out on the front porch to speak to the family and see them off.  Grandpa lived with Aunt Cecil at the time, his wife having passed-on some years before. 

Grandpa was leaning against the house in a split-bottom chair and he scarcely stirred as his son and grandchildren pulled in.  He was unmoved by the hog resting atop the wagon. 

After a few words and well-wishes, but before the final round of good-byes, Bob managed to get his head out a window and called to Grandpa, “Dan’l (which is how you say Daniel in Appalachian) why don’t you come with us?”

With the invitation, Grandpa dropped the front legs of his chair to the porch, surveyed the situation and declared, “Ya know, I b’lieve I will.”

Aunt Cecil could hardly believe her ears.  She looked at her father.  She looked at her brother.  She looked at the station wagon.  She looked at the poor dead pig.  “Where are you going to put him?” she wondered.  But she said nothing.

Grandpa returned with his brown-paper luggage in hand, waved to his daughter and somehow managed to squeeze into the station wagon.  Miraculously, no children popped out.

And the family was off to find fortune – or at least livelihood – in Ohio.

But Grandpa Daniel’s hasty decision was not well thought-out.  After just a few days he was homesick and Tom had to load him back in the station wagon and drive right back to Tennessee.  The hog stayed in Ohio.

 

A little Poem

Now I’m not poet – and I really know it!  But a few years ago while learning and thinking about Key Town (which is something of a ghost town that is the source of lots of stories) the following lines came to me.  I hope you enjoy my singular attempt at rhyme and meter

There is a place I love to go,
where mountains roll and wild flowers grow.
The roads are dirt but friends are many.
Life is hard and laughs aplenty.
In this land, the family reigns
with love and prayers to heal their pains.
This land is but my living dream
of the past to which I cling.
It’s stories told,
a history wrote.
By father and son alike
it keeps their world alive.
'Tis a balm to the soul
where none is old and all are whole.
I go there when I’ve questions asked
about the world that is our past.
Their old rule today applies
when in your heart the gospel lies.
And thru their eyes we may see
the world’s a better place to be.
It is a world that now is past
but their dreams will always last.
Lessons learned to me they teach
and from the grave a heart they’ll reach.