A Life Worth Celebrating

Gladys Pell

On Sunday morning my husband’s maternal grandmother stepped over into Gloryland.  After 96 years living a faithful, hard-working and service-filled life she reached her reward.  I won’t try to preach to you here but I can’t help but think of what the Apostle Paul said in 2 Timothy 4:6-8:

…my departure is at hand. I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith: Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing.

As we waited for this dear, dear lady to pass, I found myself asking a lot of questions – how much did she know at the end?  Was she able to peek over into heaven?  I’ve talked several times about how thankful I am for the advances in medicine that we enjoy today, however, this process of dying is one that science just can’t quite reach.

Still, my history-driven mind wants to draw comparisons between the week my family just passed and similar times over the last hundred years.  The family sat with Mawmaw around the clock for four days because we wanted to be with her, we wanted to celebrate the very moment she was freed from her suffering.  But we sat with her in a medical facility surrounded by competent and compassionate medical professionals.  They cared for the patient as well as the family.  Before, it would have been the neighbors who came and offered this service.  I remember when my great-grandfather died at home over thirty years ago, within the hour several ladies were busily cleaning the whole house.  It was the first time I had been that close to death and I was very moved by these friends who came in to do work that even as a young teenager I recognized was far from glamorous.  In the 1980’s of course we had a funeral home who whisked away the body and presented it to us a few days later dressed in his Sunday-go-to-meeting best and positioned in a store-bought casket.

Can you even imagine the layers of complexity this process of death presented when those neighbors needed not only to clean a little and prepare some food but also to clean and dress the body and place it in a homemade casket? 

Invariably sitting with a family opens windows into lives and I love those moments.  Well this week I heard the story of Edker and Gladys and it’s worth sharing.

Edker lived in Alabama and his brother lived in Dalton where he was preaching at Poplar Springs Baptist Church.  Edker walked to Georgia to visit his brother and of course he went to church with him.  He chose to sit on the same pew with the Crow family – perhaps the beautiful fifteen year old girl drew him to that seat near the front.  As Gladys looked over this stranger she found him barefoot and was embarrassed by it.  Now, why that would bother her is a mystery to us today because her family certainly wasn’t wealthy, but I guess she had shoes for church.

Gladys, Edker and Pam Pell

Edker kept coming back and his charm soon blinded Gladys to his poverty.  I wish I could have heard his version of this story because every picture and every memory of their daughters is him loving her.  He is always wrapping his long arms around her petite shoulders or even sweeping her off her feet – literally – for the camera.  Their love story was all too short for he passed away very suddenly when he was only fifty-four years old.

Theirs was a love worth remembering and Gladys Pell’s was a life worth celebrating. 
 

Gladys & Edker Pell with their daughters Donna and Pam

A Century of Memories: Willie Livesay Ward

This weekend I had the rare blessing of attending a 100th birthday party and I thought I would share this precious lady with all of you.

Willie Livesay Ward was born January 2, 1916 to a family of eight children living just north of Monterey, Tennessee.  Their father worked on swine farms in the area and Willie remembers him and the other local men herding hogs up the mountain to Monterey to be loaded on the railroad. 

They would soon move to Fentress County and Willie would eventually move to Crossville to work in Jenkin and Darwin’s store along with her sister Ruth.  There Ruth and Willie would meet brothers Leonard and Ed Ward who would become their husbands.  From meager beginnings, both Leonard and Ed were hard working and ambitious. 

Jenkin and Darwin’s moved Ed to Trenton, Tennessee to manage their store there.  Soon Ed had a chance to buy his own store in Trenton and he seized the opportunity.  For over forty years, Willie and Ed worked together in that store and built a life in Trenton and at Follis Chapel United Methodist Church.  They raised one son, Jimmy, and his own three children would continue their lives in the West Tennessee area.  Working all day in the store, Willie and Ed would come home where they always had a big garden planted.  They would work half the night breaking beans or peeling apples and canning them.  They had two huge pecan trees and would carefully collect the nuts and sit and hull them out so when they gave them away there was nothing to do but enjoy the gift. 

Early in her time in Trenton, Willie would drive by a brick rancher house sitting on a small rise.  It was not unlike most of the homes in the middle class neighborhood but it attracted her eye.  She declared she was going to have that house – which was far nicer than anything her mother had ever had.  By hard work and thrift, they were soon able to buy the house and lived there until Ed passed away; In her nineties, Willie moved closer to her grandchildren in Alamo.

The mountain is no longer the home place for the Wards, but Willie’s memory often goes back there.  As she asked about people and families she knew many are already gone and some moved away many years ago and are out of touch.  It’s an all-too-familiar story of people who left the mountain in order to make a living but it would always be home.  The sad part to me is that this next generation doesn’t know where their roots lie.  In fact, they don’t even sound like us – instead they carry that unique Mississippi delta drawl which is much more widely recognized as “southern” than our own Appalachian accent.  They don’t know the ways of the mountain and they don’t really know our history. 

Visiting with this part of my extended family reinvigorates my desire to write my stories.  I’m so thrilled that we’ve had Aunt Willie for 100 years, but every year we lose a few more of her generation – and even the generation after her.  With each loss a little more history fades away.  Willie and Ed’s lives won’t be detailed in any history books so it’s up to us to remember it in places like this.

2015 in Review

Well I hope that everyone had a merry and blessed Christmas.  It was a little damp on Christmas Day in Tennessee but we were thankful for a dry home and all of my family was able to safely meet and celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Now we look toward starting a new year and I thought I’d share some thoughts about 2015.  Last January, I shared some goals here; there can be no purpose in goals if you don’t ever look back to assess your progress, so here goes.

I have long realized that we are quickly losing lots of knowledge and history as a generation passes away from us – and it is a great generation that now finds itself drawing old age pensions and occupying nursing homes.  And more of them passed into eternity in 2015 taking with them stories that can never be retrieved.

I said I was going to VISIT and I’m feeling pretty good about my efforts – in a way.  This year I was able to visit two relatives who are in their nineties.  My Aunt Willie is ninety-nine years old – she’ll be one hundred next month!  Her mind is very sharp but her hearing isn’t quite as good so it’s a little hard to interview her.  Still, she talked about memories and friends from long, long ago.  She’s lived in West Tennessee for many years so she always asks about people and things from home and that prompts her memories.  It’s wonderful to have the different perspectives on family history because we all remember different details and her feelings about events are different than others.

My cousin Clyde is a ninety-one year old World War II veteran whose memory is as sharp as a tack.  He has spent all of his adult life away from the mountain and both the stories of his life away as well as his memories from home keep me spellbound every time I get to talk to him.  I really need to share his stories with you and I certainly plan to do that in 2016.

One ninety year old cousin, Velma, has unfortunately suffered a stroke that has left her unable to really communicate.  However, these story-tellers have passed along their memories throughout their lives and her son Ray shared a lot with me.  His grandfather, Carson Key, left books of stories and I will plan to share some of those with you.  

This year we lost one cousin who was eighty-nine years old.  June Howard was probably the sweetest person I’ve ever known.  She left a wealth of photographs that are labelled not only with names and dates but also with locations and events.  Doesn’t that inspire you to work on your own pictures?  That is an ongoing project of mine but I confess I’m a long, long way from finished.

In writing progress, I was able to release Replacing Ann this year and you all greatly honored me by downloading it as well as buying hard copies.  Hall Family Pharmacy very kindly placed the book in their store in Jamestown so it is available to anyone who prefers a paper copy.  You can also order it from Amazon.

Changes in the literary agency that represents my writing allowed me to begin working with Tamela Hancock Murray who promptly challenged me to write in a slightly different genre.  I have been steadily working on that assignment and expect to have a first draft of Emma in January.  (Yes, I realize that Emma is the title of a classic Jane Austin novel and I won’t release my book by that name.  However, it’s the name of my main character and until I settle on a title, I always refer to the books by the character’s name.)  It will be my hope to announce publication of that book to you in 2016 – you’re welcome to pray with me toward that end.

Have you ever seen a Christmas Tree decorated quite like this? 

Finally, life in general is a never ending saga of joys and heartbreaks, victories and challenges.  My days are filled to the brim with two toddlers who are learning, growing, and changing every day.  I think I’m going to remember every detail of these days and then I look back at pictures from just a few months ago and think, ‘Where was I?’ because I don’t remember that happening.  I’m going to share a picture of my Christmas tree – it’s the best way to describe my days.

Thank you for sharing 2015 with me – I’m looking forward to 2016 and am eager to share what I’m learning!

Mountain Music

I’ve been sharing some of what I’m learning from Raine’s The Land of Saddle Bags and he includes a small section on Mountain Songs.  I was particularly interested in this section for acouple of reasons.   I’m a fan of Bluegrass Music and I’ve had the occasion to argue the point that while Bill Monroe may be nicknamed “The Father of Bluegrass Music”, the music is actually as old as the hills – or at least as old as our occupation of these hills.  I am also interested because despite my very, very limited talents my family historically was quite musical and passed many idle hours “making music”.

James Watt Raine certainly validates my “old as the hills” argument simply by including this chapter in his 1924 book.  Bill Monroe was just thirteen when this book was published and while he was undoubtedly already pickin’ his mandolin, he wouldn’t be playing publicly until the early 1930’s and would sign a recording contract in 1936 along with his brother Charlie.  Now, I don’t want to minimize either Mr. Monroe’s great talent or his contribution to Bluegrass Music.  Certainly this modern genre of music is called Bluegrass because of Monroe’s band.  Before Bill Monroe, mountain folk just called it music.  Mountain folk who’d left home might have called it Mountain Music. 

The Land of Saddle Bags presents seven traditional ballads – for Mr. Raine asserts that “ballads are the poetry of primitive people” and he seems certain these were the songs originally brought to Appalachia.   Only one, Barbara Allen was really familiar to me.  He also mentions:

Turkish Lady
Lord Thomas and Fair Elender
The Two Sisters
The Gypsy Laddie
The Green Willow Tree
The Demon Lover
Come all ye Fair and Tender Ladies

We may not recognize these particular songs, but we all know that we hear the twangs of Scotland and Ireland in so many of our folk songs.  Now, I have to confess to you that I tried to prove this point by looking at lists of traditional Irish and Scottish music and I’m afraid I didn’t know many – or any – of the songs listed there either.

I've shared this newspaper photo before but it's a great shot of my Great-Great Grandpa with a bunch of the instruments he made.

My Hixson ancestors lived in the Sequatchie Valley, walled in by great mountain ranges on both sides, this idyllic valley seems like something from a storybook.  And in fact, the family lived on subsistence farms and had very little contact with the outside world.  So they had to make their own entertainment.  In fact, they entertained most of the valley as they made music every Saturday night and folks wandered in through the evening to visit and enjoy the show.  The whole family took part playing homemade instruments and utilizing God-given, raw talent. 

Of course today that valley has a four lane highway crossing it and allowing residents access to better jobs and most all of the conveniences and entertainments of the world.  The same is true on the Plateau and even in the Smoky Mountains.  So has our music survived this invasion – or the expansion of our horizons?

Certainly the popularity of Bluegrass music around the world would seem to attest that old-time, mountain music is relevant even today.  And, as I said before, it isn’t hard to pick out the old-world sound even in many of the songs penned in the twenty-first century.  The musical talent petered out of my own family so we lost the tradition of jamming together, but I was so excited to see that it lives on in the family of a fellow-blogger. 

Tipper Pressley blogs at www.blindpigandtheacorn.com and in 2010 she wrote a series of articles spotlighting Appalachian music.  You can read it here, and I think you would enjoy it.  She personally remembers her family sitting around the kitchen with their instruments and in fact, they continue the tradition, as you can see in this little video which includes her children playing along.  Of course they had radio influences well before she was born, but there was then and is still a very traditional element to their music - playing songs they learned from their fathers and grandfathers.  This family is in western North Carolina and I always enjoy reading her thoughts and kind of comparing our two mountains.

There are certainly differences between our Cumberland Plateau and the great Smoky Mountains but there are also an awful lot of similarities – and music is one of them.  Tipper wrote an article about Gospel Music in her spotlight series that I closely identify with.  She talks about the hymns of her childhood and how she is moved by them far more that our modern praise music.  She writes:

“The lyrics of those old gospel songs I grew up with lend themselves to the culture of Appalachia-not that they all were written here-most were not. But the strong recurring themes of God, Jesus, love, the cross, faith, death, blood, hell, rivers, long roads, toiling, snares, mountains, lights, rejoicing, happiness, joy, better times to come, dark valleys, and loved ones calling come-fit perfectly in the mindset of most folks born and raised in Appalachia. I would go so far as to say the manner in which they were written-the words used-strike a chord with the language of Appalachia. Maybe in the same way the isolated nature of the Appalachia region played a role in the continuity of our dialect-it also aided in folks holding on to the hymns and sacred songs of our past.”

As Mr. Raine points out in his book, the old music was largely preserved, as were so many of our cultural elements, because of our extreme remoteness – just as Mrs. Pressley points out.  In some of the songs, he theorizes that words have been lost so new words were put in place – and what else would you do if you had no point of reference for the song?  Also, some words slowly change – like a ship’s carpenter becoming a house carpenter because there was no ship-building going on in the mountains.  But still we have the melodies, and still we sing the songs of our ancestors – the songs of the old country.

My cousin lives in Scotland now and regularly contributes to a newsletter for the St. Andrews Cross Society.  She usually shares it with me and I love it – I’m drawn to the history of that country.  Is it just the Hollywood presentation of Braveheart, the beauty of the countryside and age-old architecture?  Or is there an ancestral nature?  As I read James Watt Raine’s book and see how much of Ireland and Scotland we’ve preserved in Appalachia, I begin to wonder if history is leading me to identify with the highlanders.

Mountain Speech – per James Watt Raine

James Watt Raine as pictured in The Land of Saddle-bags.
The brown spots are simple worn off the page of this very old book.

A handful of you told me you would be interested in Mr. Raine’s thoughts on Mountain Speech and Song and I’m happy to oblige.  So we’ll star this article with a confession – I sure got my comeuppance preparing to write this. 

I thought I had a working command of proper English even though I often choose the more comfortable, mountain vernacular.  Could be, I was mistaken for I found words here that I still use every day – and in fact have been writing in manuscripts – believing they are good English.  (Hmm, that explains why Microsoft Word keeps flagging Church-house every time I write it; who knew that “church” referred to the building in written English?  I suppose I thought it was the people who are the church and if I referred to the building where they meet then I needed to clarify.)

As I read Mr. Raine’s chapter on mountain speech, I was thrilled to learn that many of the mountain words we routinely use are not just plain wrong, nor are they ignorant inventions.  Instead, they are the language of the great poets and playwrights - of Shakespeare and Chaucer, Milton and Spenser and of course of the King James Bible. 

He tries to address the why of mountain language and if you remember this book was published in 1924, his logic is sound.  Due to the remoteness of our land, many years passed with little traffic from the outside world that would bring slang words to infiltrate the original language of the Victorian settlers.  There have always been a few books among us and those certainly affect the reader’s vocabulary and some young’uns have gone out to school and brought back finer speech.  Any citizen of the 1920’s would be stunned by the changes we’ve seen in technology, but even then language was having to adapt to the industrial revolution and its inventions.

I’ve often heard how someone “clum the ladder to the loft” and it turns out Mr. Chaucer wrote the past tense of climb similarly when he used clomb and Edmund Spenser (author of The Faerie Queen) used Clomben.  I’ve probably recently said I “drug a stick out of the yard” and we always say if you hurt your ankle you’d better “wrop it up in brown paper and vinegar” – although that’s the only time we use wrop I think. 

Raine gives credit for modern usage in adding “ed” to past tense words such as throwed, growed and knowed – and would you even think twice if someone told you she “throwed out the garbage”?  In a similar fashion we add “es” to form plurals of both nouns and verbs since milk really “costes a lot these days,” and the Christmas lights “twistes all up when you unpack them.”

I wish I could remember which of my elementary school teachers took issue with my pronunciation of “it” preceded by an h.  I remember being seated, lectured and made to “sound out the word and write what you’re saying.”  To that well-meaning teacher, I’d like to point out, “Hit were good enough for Chaucer”.

Some of the terms Mr. Raine points out as vividly “word-making” or “phrase-making” are so much a part of the English I hear all the time that I’m struggling a little to find the fault of them.

“The moon fulls tonight.”
“Grannie’s been bedfast for a long time.”
“Children grow up directly.” (He doesn’t point out that we pronounce that “dreckly”.)
“I want to buy a pretty for my child.”

Now there are a couple of his custom-made examples that I would have used differently and I wonder if that’s a difference in Cumberland Plateau and West Virginia dialects.  While we don’t think of buckets or churns being wooden anymore, most of us would quickly understand the meaning of “the butter churh fell to staves”.  However, my use of the adjverb “common” would tend to be slightly negative – as though the person being described was not of very high character.  However, Mr. Raine defines it as “…affable, mingles with folks as an equal”.

He does include a number of phrases and terms that I am completely unfamiliar with such as:

Iron and delft – iron pots and pans and dishes

destructious – meaning clear enough as causing destruction

disfurnish – he doesn’t translates but offers this sentence: “If it don’t disfurnish ye none, I’ll pay ye later.”

half-side deep – again, no translation but it’s the measurement of a river.

wasted – used or spent but not squandered.

I continue to be amazed by our language and the longevity of these Victorian, or even way back to Elizabethan, terms.  I can’t tell you what validation it offers to hear this champion of the mountain people relating our language back to authors and poets whose work is still highly revered. 

He shares one statement from an eight year old girl when asked, “Was your new baby a boy?” she replied, “Yes, hit was a boy – and hit’s a boy yit.”

Next week we'll see what Mr. James Watt Raine had to say about Mountain Music!

**UPDATE 12/19/15

A question was posted on Facebook about our use of "fixin' to" and I am so fascinated by the results of a little research on that phrase that I wanted to share it with everyone.

According to "Words Gone Wild", the phrase "has a distinguished etymological history, dating at least to the 14th century, when fix meant “to set one’s eye or mind on something,”" and probably stemmed from the Latin fixus which means “immovable, settled, or established.”

Had I not read this, I would have guessed that the phrase came from preparing something.  For example, no one would criticize someone “preparing a meal for my family” but some would sneer at my “I’m fixin’ some supper” – but they have the very same meaning.  Well, it seems people have been fixin’ to do stuff for centuries.  In 1716 The Oxford English Dictionary cited fixing as preparing and in 1871 Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote “He was fixin’ out for the voyage” to indicate preparations. 

And for those that would say this is totally Appalachian or Southern, “In 1907 the Springfield (Massachusetts) Weekly Republic proclaimed, “What a pretty night!  The moon is fixing to shine.”