Cooking Out

My Grandpa always thought that food cooked out of doors tasted better no matter what it was.  I tend to agree.  Well we’ve been enjoying the natural beauty of one of Tennessee’s State Parks this past week and that afforded the opportunity to again test Grandpa’s theory.

Breakfast is a special meal for us – well I can’t always get together a traditional meal before sending everyone off to work and school, but when I have the chance I usually take it (not always in morning hours either!) and my husband particularly wants a big country breakfast when we’re camping.  Biscuits, eggs and sausage gravy served with homemade jam and eaten with friends is a great way to start a day.

It reminds me of stories of men “baching-it” when work took them away from home.  One bunch were renting a room when the landlady raised the prices.  Refusing to pay her price, they moved out under a bluff to fend for themselves.  Now they had the express purpose of working a job they couldn’t get close to home so I doubt they spent a great deal of time cooking elaborate meals.  But at the same time I also doubt they had many boxes of Cheerios or protein bars so this is the only kind of food they could have made.  If you do it every day you get a lot faster at it.

I also think of the American pioneers who traveled hundreds of miles on foot or wagon to settle our nation.  Those families were cooking out of doors for large and growing families.  Women stooped over fires like mine after walking behind a wagon for 10 hours or when 7 or 8 months pregnant.  I had all the time in the world to both prepare and clean up after this campfire breakfast.  I didn’t have another day on the trail before me and frankly I can hardly imagine facing that.

I’ve said this many times and I anticipate repeating it yet again – I thank God for the conveniences we enjoy today.  I am also thankful to remember the ones who went before us and the hardships they endured.  I look forward to teaching my children how to make a meal over an open fire while reminding them that this was at times a common occurrence for our ancestors.

New Kin and Old Paths

I met a new family member recently… Dale Welch was telling me about his great-great Grandparents who lived in the Martha Washington community.  He mentioned the grandmother’s maiden name was Elmore and that got my questions started.  Turns out she was a sister to MY great-great-great Grandmother!  We parted with a ‘good-bye cuz’ and a promise to get together soon to share information.  (I have much to learn from Mr. Welch’s wealth of historical information!)

You know that as soon as I could get settled in front of my computer with a decent internet connection I was probing for information about this branch of the family.  Well I still have work to do on it, but it led me to a census record from 1880 where I found Margaret Elmore Wilson living with her husband Joe in the 4th Civil District of Fentress County, Tennessee. 

One fascinating thing the Census Records show is who was living around your ancestors and I love looking through these records and seeing familiar family names as well as families I’ve never heard of before.  While Bagwell, Nation and Whitehead aren’t families that I grew up around, several family names are still well represented in the Martha Washington community:  Ashburn, Neely, Wilson, and Miller. 

For years I’ve been recording genealogy of not just my ancestors, but also of every family that touched my own family tree.  Now I find this a fascinating endeavor because I have cataloged most families in Martha Washington and Camp Ground, then as members of the families chose spouses from off the mountain, the tree extends even further.  (So much for the jokes people make that mountain family trees have no branches – I’ve got news for them, we’ve got roots they can’t even keep up with!)

Joseph and Margaret Elmore Wilson were the people I started looking for.  Right before them are Berry and Julia Wilson with two children still at home:  Artemia and Laura, and a boarder living with them named Davis Ashburn.

I found a Davis Ashburn in my database who was the son of Robert Wesley and Hettie Smith Ashburn.  His age matches up with this boarder, and his father is living in Cumberland County at that time with five children still at home. 

As you so often hear me mention, this research left me with more questions than I started out with.  Turning the page to entries the census-taker made on June 18, 1880 the Emily Norris family is listed with her 6 children.  She is my paternal grandfather’s great grandmother and their family home was always in Roslin – so seeing her with her children in Clarkrange presents a real mystery.

Even with the new and unanswered questions, this is a fascinating glimpse of the neighborhood nearly 140 years ago.

Skirmish at Dug Hill

This week I had the distinct pleasure to chat a few minutes with Historian Dale Welch and he shared with me a booklet he’s put together and entitled Shadows of Gray.  It contains 12 articles about brave Confederates who hailed from the Cumberland Plateau.  Today I’d like to share one article with you about the only major skirmish fought in Putnam County.

Even with the blacktop and traffic, the Calfkiller Valley between Monterey and Sparta is more peaceful today than it was 150 years ago, on February 22, 1864.  A skirmish or battle took place that day in Putnam County, near the White County line.  While families who lived along the Calfkiller River were harassed, robbed and killed by both Union and Confederate forces, along with thieves and bushwhackers, what became known as the “Battle of Dug Hill” was the only major skirmish in Putnam County.  The modern Calfkiller Highway bypasses the site of the actual battle, but the story lives on.

Different Union commands would establish a base during the Civil War, at Sparta.  Sometimes, it would be Col. Garrett and other time Col. William B. Stokes.  During the winter of 1864, Col. Stokes and his 5th Tennessee Cavalry US, was in charge.  HE sent out word across the area that he was “raising the black flag,” giving the Rebels “no quarter” – meaning he would take no prisoners, but kill every last one of the bushwhackers.

Champ Ferguson and his men

Confederate forces roaming in the valley were not your “everyday” bushwhackers.  Some of them were regular officers and soldiers who had been cut off from their command, li8ke Confederate Colonel John M. Hughes, of the 25th Tennessee Infantry, Captain George Carter, of Co. A, 8th Tennessee Cavalry, Capt. W. Scott Bledsoe, of the 25th Tennessee Infantry, Captain Champ Ferguson and his Independent Scouts, along with several more, including several Texas Rangers, all about 40 or so men together.  They heard of Col. Stokes’ black flag and it was alright with them.  They would give “no quarter” back to the Yankees.

The Confederates had also heard that Col. Stokes had planned to send out a force from Sparta up the Kentucky Stock Road to Cookeville and come back through Dry Valley.  The Yankees were commanded by Captain E.W. Bass, who had been a resident of nearby Liberty before the war.  But, Col. Stokes was not with them.  He was giving a speech to the citizens of Sparta that day.  He liked giving speeches.  He had been a U.S. congressman before the war (and also, elected after the war) representing middle Tennessee districts.

Rebel forces began making plans of their own to meet the threat.  The rebel “bushwhackers” decided to meet the Yankee force along the road from Dry Valley through the Dug Hill.  There were large boulders, cedar and laurel trees through a stretch of road.

In the afternoon of Feb. 22, the Yankees headed through the Dry Valley, when they were startled by a shot that rang out.  They looked up and saw a couple of riders racing away.  Just as the Rebel “bushwhackers” had planned, the Yankees gave chase and were soon in the middle of an ambush.

As the volley rained down upon them, Yankees began tumbling off their saddles.  They scattered everywhere in the onslaught.  The Rebels were in pursuit on foot behind them down the road and up the mountain.

John P. Gatewood, an 18-year-old, who was six-feet tall, with long curly red hair, was a member of Champ Ferguson’s Scouts.  He had been a member of a regular Confederate unit, but the Fentress County native had returned to the area.  Gatewood, with pistols in both hands, chased 5 Yankees up the hill.  They surrendered when he ordered them to stop, because they didn’t think he was alone.  When they saw that it was just him, two of them broke away.  Gatewood began shooting them, when Capt. George Carter came running up and hollered, “Hold on, John! Don’t waste your ammunition, as we have to fight for what we get.”  Carter took stones and bashed the [remaining] three soldier’s heads, giving them “no quarter,” just as it had been threatened upon them.  Gatewood left his mentor, Champ Ferguson soon after the battle and formed his own company in south-east Tennessee. 

It was estimated that only one-third of the Yankee force escaped.  When Stokes’ wagons picked up their dead the next day, they recovered 41 bodies.  All had been shot in the head, except three.  Their heads had been bashed in with stones.  The recovered bodies were laid in an old store in Sparta and then buried.

Several Yankee soldiers made it back to Sparta the next day.  Capt. Bass made it back the next day bare headed.  He had lost his fine plumed hat in his escape.  Russell Gann made it back after he had hid in a hollow log all night until the coast was clear.  Some Yankees had pulled women’s dresses off of clothes lines along the way to disguise themselves.  Others were never recovered.  Some skeletons were found the next winter.  One Calfkiller resident said that a young rebel came up and asked for water and told him he had killed a Yankee up in the woods above the house.  The man checked the next day and found a body half-eaten by dogs.

A little while later, Yankee Col. Blackburn challenged Col. Hughes to meet him and 75 picked me in a fight in a field near Yankeetown.  The Rebels shows up, with around 50 men.  The battle wound up in hand-to-hand combat before the Yankees sounded retreat.

Before the war was over, in the spring of 1865, there were many more sorrows heaped upon the people of the Upper Cumberland.

Subdivisions in 1900

If you’ve been visiting TennesseeMountainStories.com for very long, you know I’m fascinated by old architecture.  Back in 2015 I shared a whole series are articles about historic homes here.  Well you can imagine how my ears perked up when some friends mentioned a new house they’ve bought in Dayton, Tennessee.  It was built in 1900.  As I looked at the pictures and tried not to covet them actually living IN an antique, I commented this must have been an old farmhouse.  “Does it still have any acreage with it?” I asked.  When they answered no I said, “Well it would have originally.”  I was wrong.

It’s part of a subdivision of other homes built at the turn of the 20th century.  Now subdivision is a word I associate with the move to the suburbs that began in the 1950’s, encouraged by growing industrialization, improving roadways and the addition of the family car to most homes.

However, I did remember in my genealogical research that I’d seen census records even in the 1800’s noting subdivisions.  Could these be the same creatures that are eating up vast farmlands across the country, even across the Plateau?  Well, not exactly…

By definition a subdivision is the act of dividing property into smaller tracts.  Even now you can find property subdivided into property measured by the feet on up to hundred acre lots.  In fact, you might think of the Cumberland Homesteads that we’ve talked about here before, as a subdivision.  In that case the government bought over 20,000 acres, allocated several acres in the center for the creation of a town then divided out small farms.

Today subdivisions will be developed by a single company who may establish infrastructure as well as residential rules for the community.  Well the subdivision in 1900 would have looked very different I imagine.  Remember that TVA didn’t stretch power lines across Tennessee until the 1930’s so no developers were laying in underground power grids.  Paved roadways were unheard of small-town-America (the first mile of pavement was laid in Michigan in 1909).  And as for those deed covenants that prohibit animals, most folks kept at least a horse in 1900 – remember that Henry Ford didn’t introduce his Model T until 1908.

So, contrary to this country girl’s assumptions, neighborhoods were being planned and built all those years ago.  Now many of these homes still stand as testimony to their quality construction and a new generation moves in to create memories and stories to be told to generations to come.

Canned Sausage

I received a wonderful gift a few weeks ago and I’ve been meaning to tell y’uns about it.

Brother George met my husband in the parking lot at church one Sunday morning and handed him a quart jar.  “What’s that? He asked” 

George just grinned and said, “Beth’ll know.”

Well I did!  It was canned sausage and I had not had any since my grandpa Stepp last killed a hog – and I can’t even count how many years that’s been since he’s been home in heaven for the past 30 years.  I well remember Grandma canning the stuff and having it both on the pantry shelf as well as the breakfast table.  But somehow I forgot how good it tastes.  I went back to church and reported to Brother George that it was the best sausage I’d ever eaten – and I was really being honest with him.

Okay, so how many of you have ever imagined putting meat in a jar or ever seen it done? 

It’s kind of a foreign concept to us these days what with the easily available fresh and frozen meats.  But if you’ve ever wintered on salted pork you can appreciate the value of meat that was cooked within a day of coming off the hoof (we’ve really got to talk about hog killin’s sometime, don’t we?).  For those of you who have never eaten much salt pork let me tell you that I don’t care for it.  Old folks that were accustomed to eating it seem very partial to the taste but I find it overwhelming. 

Of course sausage by its very nature has a lot of spice in it, but somehow cooking it when it’s truly fresh seals in a special flavor.  And it’s so well preserved that I don’t think it ages as badly as cured pork which tends to taste a little old after about 6 months.  I didn’t test this canned sausage on aging – it didn’t have a chance to sit on the shelf for very long.

Canned sausage is the simplest thing in the world.  You want to start with good, clean jars – that’s the secret to successfully canning most anything.  Then you roll your fresh sausage into balls – I can’t tell you why you roll it up, seems like it would do just as well if you made patties but I’ve never seen it any other way than in balls.  Cook the sausage balls completely done, saving all of the grease that cooks off.  Dip out the balls into the clean jars leaving a good inch of head room.  Then pour in a good helping of the grease – I don’t want to say fill the jar but the more the better I suppose.  So if you just distribute the grease among all the jars you’re filling that should be a good measure.  Seal ‘em up and turn them upside down to cool.  That’s the neatest part because not only is the jar sealed with the pressure created from the vacuum inside the jar, but also by the congealed grease.

“Potting” meat is an ancient method of preservation – although it’s awfully hard to find any information out about it.  Of course it’s not considered safe by the government officials who tell us what we should and should not do / eat / think but the French are still doing it.  From what I can discover, congealed grease seals out air.  So if you submerge cooked meat beneath a good layer of the stuff it will keep.  I’ve mentioned before that there were many modern conveniences my family embraced and never looked back – self-sealing lids and mason jars were two of those newfangled gadgets that absolutely replaced the old-ways.