Grandpa's Stove

I’ve mentioned here before how I like a cozy warm fire when the temperatures start dipping low. Well they have certainly taken a plunge this week! While being able to see a flame seems to mentally warm me, even a wood fire in an enclosed stove is welcome. I want to tell you about my stove.

An article about a stove may seem extremely boring, so please bear with me.  This stove is a little special to me, you see, my grandfather built it.

Grandpa Berris Stepp wore a myriad of hats in his life. Like most mountain men, he did whatever came to his hand in order to keep food on the table and a roof over his family’s head. He farmed, of course. I think that was always his passion. He mined for coal from Tennessee to Virginia to Pennsylvannia. And   then he learned a trade – welding.

As I understand the story, he and his brother, Leelon, had moved to Virginia to mine coal. Grandpa told me about the tiny shafts they had to work in – he said he had to lie on his back to drink water. It must have been a particularly hard day when Leelon sat down beside him and said, “We’re gonna’ starve to death if we don’t we get out of here.” That’s all Grandpa needed and they were on their way home to the mountain.  Leelon knew that Tennessee Polytechnic Institute (later known as Tennessee Technological University) was training technical skills and these two young men enrolled there. Grandpa would learn welding and his brother studied machining. When their courses were finished, they were prepared for more than chipping coal out of the mountain side – although Grandpa would return to the mines when needed.

Grandpa used his welding skills at Oak Ridge during World War II, then another 20 years at Martin Marietta.  He also welded for farmers all over the community, repairing machinery and fabricating solutions to everyday problems. That’s how he came to build my stove.

Daddy envisioned a cleaner and more efficient means of heating our home by placing the wood and the stove out in the garage. Using forced air, heat would be pushed throughout the house – this sounds so common-place to us today as we are accustomed to central heat and air. But in 1977, there weren’t very many systems like that on this mountain.  Certainly, one could have been purchased but that was scarcely an option. So they got some good steel and Grandpa worked out a design.

Now, I’ve inherited this little stove and Grandpa’s design and handiwork are still working wonderfully.  I wish he could see that a whole other generation of his family is enjoying it.

At some point, Mama and Daddy got ahead enough that they thought they should have a factory-built furnace and they replaced Grandpa’s homemade stove with an Ashley Furnace. We nearly froze that winter. I can’t explain to you the technicalities, but after several trips from Ashley factory representatives and their engineers, the factory-built model could not be made to heat our home. That spring Grandpa’s little stove was re-installed and hasn’t been displaced again.

I’m going to shamelessly admit that I share this story in part to brag on my grandpa. But I also offer it as testimony of the skill, determination and ingenuity of our mountain people.

One Heroe's Story: Amos Key

Each year in November, America pauses to recognize the brave men and women who have marched under our flag to preserve freedom around the world. Sometimes, we can get really focused on a handful of heroes and forget that everyone who honorably serves one day deserves our gratitude.

Today, I want to share one story that has been handed down in my family.

Amos Key was born in Martha Washington to James Elbert and Ruth Gracie (Todd) Key on August 25, 1921. On February 16, 1942, Amos registered for the draft in Alcoa, Tennessee. At that time, he was living in Alcoa and working at the Aluminum Company of America.

When he was called up, he trained as a pilot and eventually flew a B-24 bomber. He was stationed near Cerignola, Italy from June 27, 1945 to September 29, 1945.  Returning from a bombing run in Austria, Amos’ plane was hit by shrapnel which punctured one of the fuel tanks. His crew used the fuel transfer system to keep all four engines running but soon realized they would not have enough fuel to return home. Amos made the decision to cross the Adriatic Sea from the coastline of Yugoslavia. Shortly after spotting the coastline of Italy which was occupied by both Germans and British the group of 11 men had to bail out of the B-24. Amos directed his men to stand over the Bombay doors. Once in position, he opened the doors so the men could jump clear of the plane. Each man was told they needed to wait until they reached a certain altitude before pulling their rip cord. One of the men pulled it prematurely and fell into the ocean but was picked up by a fishing boat.  The others landed South of Ancona, near the coastline between enemy lines where they were rescued by a British armored group. All eleven made it back safely to their base in Italy.

On Easter Sunday, April 1, 1945, Amos and his crew were on another bombing run to Adolf Hitler’s home town of Vienna, Austria. During this flight, the plane was struck by shrapnel from artillery stationed on railroad box cars. Amos’ 2nd starboard engine was hit but the wing was left intact. The propeller on that engine began to “windmill” (spin) which created a great amount of drag and loss in altitude. It was decided once again that the crew would have to abandon their plan. They turned south trying to get away from enemy territory. This time they were not going to make it back to Italy; they would have to bail out over Yugoslavia. As the plane lost altitude, Amos strongly encouraged the men to get out quickly - Amos was always the last one out. The crew estimated that they landed somewhere between the cities of Jubljana and Zabok. Each one of them landing safely, but were instructed to split up and go their separate ways. Amos recounts hiding in some hills overlooking a small village. He hid as people walked past him on their way to church. He hid in logs and covered himself with leaves at night - anything he could do to stay out of sight. Cold and hungry, Amos found himself at the doorstep of a cottage looking for help. Airmen were instructed to always go to an isolated home to improve their chances if they needed to run. Fortunately, he had chosen a home that welcomed him in. Later, through the Tito partisans, a Yugoslavian soldier came for him. Amos remembered that he was a little hesitant to hand over his sidearm. The two traveled for 8 days sometimes by the road the other times through the woods. Soon, he was reunited with some of his men. After a few days rest and nourishment about 15 airmen from different fighter groups were taken to a farm field. A farmer with a single piston farm tractor came out and began to cut down his wheat field in long strips. Not long after that, an Army jeep came out and placed radar airs at each end of the cut field. A group of P-51 Mustangs were soon sighted overhead so that a C-47 rescue plane could come in and take them out. Two weeks later, Amos Key’s men were all back together.

Amos and his crew continued to fly, but philosophy of bombing was changing, according to Amos. US airmen were beginning to receive orders to bomb non-military targets. They felt that the German people needed to know that there was a war going on and it was decided that the spirit of the German people needed to be broken. The crew was given orders to begin bombing runs on Cologne & Dresden in Germany. It lasted for two weeks. It was difficult for the men of to do this, but they were given their orders. Amos recounted how he often asked God what he must think of his people and the things they do to one another.

As the war was closing, Amos and his crew were sent home. Amos had lost many friends during the war, but he particularly remembered a friend with whom he had gone through boot camp and training school. He was the Captain of another B-24 which was shot down over the Adriatic. Amos recalled only seeing three parachutes deploying from his friend’s plane before disappearing out of sight. He never heard from his friend again and often thought if he did make it out of the plane with his crew that they would have perished in the ocean.

Amos returned home safely on June 27,1945.

Golden Syrup

Appalachians often take a bit of ribbing for our way or eating. I’ve shared with you foods like “Soaky” (a.k.a. Cofee and Bread) or Kilt Mustard and Lettuce. I recently had the opportunity to feed new friends from Colorado, and East Tennessee a good, country breakfast which, of course, included Chocolate Gravy. No one at the table except my own family had ever even heard of Chocolate Gravy, much less eaten it.

Being accustomed to misunderstandings in the food department, you can imagine how thrilled I was to see this article from Southern Living about Golden Syrup!  Golden Syrup is something I grew up with, I love syrup on my biscuits and (hold onto your chair!) on pinto beans. Yeah, you heard me – my grandpa taught me to eat beans that way and while beans and cornbread are a staple food in my home, I really want golden syrup on them.

Now, this has been difficult in recent years. I was raised on Bob White Golden Syrup. It was manufactured in Louisville, Kentucky and while I can’t find much history on the brand, I found a trade mark filing for 1947. A big corporation bought Bob White back in the 1990’s and then Carriage House somehow acquired them. I know these bits of history because I have purchased this syrup by the case, first from a Kroger store in Louisville, then via mail-order from the new owners. Today, Bob White Golden Fancy Table Syrup can’t be found anywhere.

But you know that I don’t give up easily. With continued research, I learned that an English company, Tate and Lyle’s, has been producing Golden Syrup since the mid-19th century. I don’t remember how I managed to get that first tin – because I started asking anyone who was crossing the pond to bring it back to me. Then, my beloved cousin who is living in Scotland brought 4 or 5 cans in one trip! Now, thanks to our global economy, I have it delivered directly to my house. And I do this regularly.

An article I read said the one product that could be found in English cupboards since Queen Victoria’s reign was Lyle’s Golden Syrup. Any product that had been around that long was worth a taste test.

So you see, Ms. Kaitlyn Yarborough got it right when she wrote that article for Southern Living saying syrup on a fluffy, white biscuit is like “taking a bite back in time”.

Paper Flowers

I’ve written here before about our beautiful, Southern tradition of Decoration Day. And, we know that with all of our traditions, we enjoy them in unique ways based on the day in which we live.

I have many times heard the stories from Decoration Days gone by of how the flowers were all homemade.  Like so many things, I understand the words of those stories, but I don’t really have a true understanding.  Well, I recently had occasion to work with a friend and make paper flowers. These were just a craft, and not intended to go to the cemetery. Still, I couldn’t help but remember those stories.

Now, I wasn’t particularly skilled at this craft – perhaps skill is something that develops with use and this was my first attempt.  If I made the bouquets for all of my loved ones graves, maybe the product would improve.

These flowers would be dipped in paraffin wax to help them last a little longer. Certainly, they still wouldn’t have the longevity of our modern, plastic bouquets. I wonder, though, in sacrificing longevity, would we add sentiment?

It occurs to me that as my grandmothers sat around the table with your children and created these works of art, did they talk about the loved ones who had already passed on?  Did they tell stories and share fond memories? Did those children come to ‘know’ their ancestors from their mother’s memories?

I would love to commit to you that I will make all of next year’s decoration flowers by hand – teaching my children to remember their family and learn valuable lessons from those memories. However, I always want to be honest with you… so I’ll just leave the plan open as an option.

At the very least I’m glad to have an inkling of the labor of love those who went before me.

The Mystery of Manson, Tennessee

I’ve talked here a number of times about Tennessee’s ghost towns.  These boom towns that popped up around a mine or timber tract often had their own post office, railroad spur and even hotels. Sometimes their names are humorous, like Grief, Deposit or Pokeberry.  More often than not, they are named for a prominant family in the neighborhood, like Cravens, Allred or Wilder.

Then there are the mysteries. I’m writing about this one in hopes one of you knowledgeable readers can enlighten me – along with the rest of the readers. So, I will pause right here to invite you to click “comments” below and share your information.

Please recall that my family was greatly blessed by a Grandmother (my Great-Great) who journaled the work, family, visits and news of the neighborhood. Her sixth oldest daughter was 48 before she married. While she stayed home to care for her invalid-mother, she nonetheless had quite the social life. And she frequently went to Manson.

I can’t help but wonder why. I took a little trip to Manson recently in hopes of finding the draw to that community. I barely found the community.

Manson never had a post office.  However, just up the mountain in Cravenstown there may have been a post office from 1907 – 1917 (at least Cravens in Overton County had service at that time). If you headed down the mountain, Boatland had a post office for a hundred years until 1955.

Most people who visit Manson today seem to travel from the Boatland direction – in fact I got some double-takes when I mentioned I wanted to take a drive from Wilder through the Manson community.  Today, the northbound, descending route is certainly the road less traveled. Yet, I find it hard to imagine in the 1940’s that many people would have driven the 25 miles to Jamestown, down the mountain to Boatland and then turned back up toward Manson…but maybe.

There are several cemeteries in Manson – family cemeteries – which testify to a thriving community over a period of years. Before you email me jokes that cemeteries aren’t indicators of successful communities, I want to remind you that we bury our loved ones close to us (especially in years gone by) and having people left to bury the dead is a simple sign of success.

And, there’s a church in Manson. Well, I was told there was a church. I never saw it but one of my passengers thought she saw a building that might have been a house of worship. And that was the destination my grandmother recorded.

This mountainside between Tennessee’s highway 85 and TN-52 is a rugged 15 miles as the crow flies. While there’s ample evidence of old farms, most of the cleared fields are overgrown today.  Certainly, that mountain would have held prime timber and century ago the breed of loggers in Fentress and Overton Counties would have been willing to snake the trees off of it.

On the other side of the mountain, Wilder and Davidson are best known for coal. However, a lot of timber was harvested in the same areas. While the railroad tracks provided easy transport after 1890, Manson may have yielded lumber that floated to market on the East Fork of the Obey River. Either way, a large timber operation builds quite a settlement. Yet those boom towns often had their own post offices.

There are no discernible signs of a town there now and nobody much talks about Manson anymore. Yet, my great-grandaunt saw fit to visit there; she surely had a reason.

So here you have it – more questions than answers. Yet a fascinating mystery. This is what I get as I try to peel back the layers of the personalities that inspire Tennessee Mountain Stories.

I’m looking forward to your comments!