Daddy Talks Turkey

I don’t know about your house, but with my family, as we sit around the Thanksgiving table, stories begin to flow.  My daddy always has a good supply of them.  As this holiday wraps up, I wanted to share some of his thoughts on turkey and Thanksgiving.

He doesn’t remember eating turkey very many times, while growing up on the mountain, and I wondered why There weren’t many wild turkeys around for many years – or maybe decades. Today, we have several of them around, probably due to the efforts of the Tennesse Wildlife Resource Agency.

Daddy does remember one turkey-hunting story.  Around 1930, Uncle Menzo Atkinson and Menzo’s sons, planned to meet some of their family and hunt on the north end of the county. Somehow, they missed the meet-up, but didn’t waste the opportunity to hung. They killed a wild turkey. As they wrapped-up their day, they happened upon the rest of their hunting party. That other group held up a mess of squirrel and Uncle Menzo silently reached into the wagon and came out with the turkey. They enjoyed telling the story as Aunt Medie skinned and cooked it.

Of course, you can have a feast without turkey. One year all of Daddys aunts and uncles gathered at Grandma Keys for a holiday meal and Berris Stepp, Hollis Henry and Vernon Roberts slipped of coon hunting. They were successful and came in with a big kill. Then they wondered what to do with it. Grandpa Berris quietly said, “Grandma will cook that if you ask her to.” Grandma Ida Key heard them and agreed to cook the coon if they would clean it good. The next day, the table was spread with plenty, including the coon. The Aunts were none too happy about that addition to their carefully  planned menu.

I would like to know who decided that the proper Thanksgiving meal was turkey. Aunt Cecil Hall was at Grandma’s talking about folks eating turkey and the girls all decided they ought to serve that as well. So they pooled their money, bought a turkey, and that was the first time Daddy remembered having turkey on Thanksgiving.

Whatever you ate, and I hope you had plenty, please count your blessings today. We have a fair share of trouble in this country, but we are also immensely blessed.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

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.

Grass String and Duct Tape

For a lot of years – probably my whole life, actually – we’ve joked about the farm being held together with grass string and duct tape.  There was a time that I was certain when I had control, nothing would be tied up, wired together or taped.  Like so many youthful declarations, I have now changed my tune.

With the addition of 3 little goats, a new lot had to be fenced – and goats can get through a mouse hole, so the fencing that held satisfied old cows in had to get an upgrade.  Then, as they found or created escape routes, another panel needed to be added.  A gate was re-purposed and you saw this one coming, it sure was fast and easy to tie that thing up!

I started out securing woven-wire with a spool of aluminum wire but realized I didn’t have the wire pliers handy.  They were just down at the other shed, but that grass string was looped within arms reach right there in the barn. 

Then there was the plastic watering trough which had lost its drain cap.  The every-ready duct tape plugged that right up and it’s still holding water.

My daddy has long said that as he aged, it was amazing how smart Grandpa got – of course nothing was changing in Grandpa, just growing wisdom in Daddy.  I suppose I’m experiencing the same thing as I gain a little wisdom and Daddy’s intelligence quickly rises.

Please comment (and maybe attach a picture) and share how you have recently used grass string, fence wire or duct tape.

Key Town Beginnings

A few years ago I trekked into the forest with my Daddy and a couple of cousins to see the homeplace of my Great-great-great Grandfather, Stephen Key.  He was the founder of the now-abandoned Key Town.  Now, I don’t think he had any idea of starting a “town” – likely he had little thought of what the place would look like a century and a half later. 

I shared my thoughts on that trip here and wondered at the time why he would’ve ever settled in such a remote place.  I still don’t have the answer.  But his oldest son William would have been around 10 years old when he came to Fentress County and William stayed the rest of his life.  I don’t know just where William’s home place was, but I know where two of his five children raised their families right there in Key Town.

John Mitchell Key was a slight man, as many of the Keys have always been.  He wore overalls all the time and walked fast – I’ve heard it explained that they walk like there’s fire on their heels. 

He married Lottie Young about 1898 and built a two room home in Key Town.  It had a bedroom on one end and a second room on the opposite end that served as living room and probably kitchen.  A kitchen was added along the back of the house at some future time,  the addition revealed by the step-down required to enter that part of the house.  Lottie loved flowers and surrounded her home with Holly Hocks, Dahlias and roses.  There was only a small patch of grass and everything else was covered in flowers.

Her family remembers she wasn’t much of a cook but kept her family nourished and worked hard drying apples and making jelly from their peels.  She and John Mitchell raised sorghum cane and made molasses which were stored in gallon jugs along the wall of the kitchen floor.  Lottie was never idle, piecing quilts as she rocked in the home’s only rocking chair.  John Mitchell sat nearby in a homemade straight chair which he propped back on two legs against the wall.

John Mitchell kept bees in gums along the edge of his yard and would rob them of their honey each fall.  He was a deacon at the Campground Church where he would walk with his family each week along the road that ran directly from Key Town to the church.  It was only ever a wagon road without pavement or gravels.  This road was independent of today’s Martha Washington Road.

John Mitchell and Lottie faced many of the same struggles their neighbors did.  They buried 3 of their children two sons who died in their very early 20’s and left behind young children of their own.  Their youngest son was the only one to settle really close to them and he partly raised his family right next door to them.  After Maynard’s children were in school, they moved away from Keytown to allow better access to the school bus.  Still, they were scarcely half a mile from his homeplace. 

After all of her children moved out of Key Town, Lottie was no longer very satisfied and urged John Mitchell to move out.  As was the custom of the day, as age caught up with the couple and their health declined, they stayed with first one child and then another until finally The Good Lord called them home in 1957 and 1958. 

Their nearest neighbor for many years had been Jack and Armintie Atkinson – Mintie was John Mitchell’s baby sister.  Next week I think we’ll visit them.

Trading Knives

My knife collection - the top 2 belonged to my Grandfathers and the bottom 2 were my Great-Grandfathers’

I got to thinking about pocket knives after talking with a cousin who remembered my Grandpa coming to her mother’s house and saying, “Alright boys, throw your knife up here and let’s see who’s got the best ‘un.”  They’d all pull out their pocket knives and have a big time comparing and trading.

While they’re forbidden in schools and airplanes and frowned upon in lots of other places, a knife has endless uses and can be downright indispensable in some situations. Whether it’s a Marine Corps issue K-Bar, Leatherman multi-tool or Case’s little single blade you can protect yourself, dress game or save your nails when opening mail.  From trimming strings on a shirt collar to opening a bag of horse feed if you’ve got one in your pocket you’ll be reaching for your knife as though it’s an extension of your person.

If you’ve ever gotten in the habit of carrying a knife then you feel naked without it.  In fact, I often ask my Daddy if he’s got a knife (because I need one and don’t have one in my own pocket!) and he responds, “Have I got my pants on?” He had a little hospital visit a couple of years ago and left the knife at home.  Even on the drive home he was looking for that knife.

Carrying a pocket knife used to be a rite of passage in a young man’s life – and a rite that passed pretty early.  Knives are easily lost and blades often chip so I don’t suppose many of those boys ended with their original knife.  But I have been lucky enough to get some old knives passed on to me.  I doubt they hold any real value but like so many of my treasures that I’ve shared with you, they are priceless to me.  I have the knife that my Grandpa Henry Livesay carried really all of his life that I remember, and the one he carried right up till he died and I have knives from 2 of my great-grandfathers.  These are some of my greatest treasures because I know the men carried this close to them every day.  They are well used and that makes them all the more treasured to me because they were tools for my ancestors, things they used in their daily lives.

I don’t think I fully understand the joy of trading knives – and I’m hoping some of you fine readers will comment below and truly enlighten me.  But I know it was a game to my Grandpa and his brothers, cousins and nephews.  When he called them to throw down he had no plan of boasting a fine piece of steel beyond their means, no desire to embarrass anyone and certainly no plan to cheat any of them out of a valued blade.  They were family having family fun – and I’m sure they would extend that fun well beyond their clan whenever the opportunity arose.