Modern Victory Garden

If you’ve been with me the past few weeks, you know I’ve got my eye on the thermometer, my garden is turned and little tomatoes, broccoli, and cabbage plants are started.  Springtime, I’m ready and waiting.

Now, the president of the United States has announced that food shortages are “going to be real”.  Please allow me to remind you of The Victory Gardens.

You see, the world has known famine almost from the beginning.  America has seen food shortages before.  In Egypt, Joseph prepared for famine by building barns, planting extra and storing up for the coming drought.  In America, Charles Lathrop Pack organized the National War Garden Commission in 1917 when European farms were covered with trenches, palisades, artillery pieces and mud.  Where crops should have been yielding food for a nation, enemies clashed and destroyed themselves and the land.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the Victory Gardens and I’ve been talking back to my TV asking why, in the springtime, we would just resign ourselves to hunger?  I wonder, does no one remember Eleanor Roosevelt’s Victory Garden on the White House lawn?  That first lady wasn’t going to be the first one starving, she was going to do something to prevent it!  And she was going to lead a nation.  According to History.com, in 1942 15 million families planted gardens; 5 million more joined that number by 1944.  (For comparison, there were 35 million heads of household on the 1940 census – that means that half of all American homes had a garden!)  In 1942 Victory Gardens produced 8 tons of food which accounted for 40% of the fresh fruits and vegetables Americans ate.

On April 1, 1944, President Franklin Roosevelt said, “I hope every American who possibly can will grow a Victory Garden this year…[they] made the difference between scarcity and abundance.”

I asked my daddy if he were in charge of America, would there be anything he could do to prevent a food shortage.  His answer was immediate – cut the cost of diesel for farmers and find a way to get them fertilizer.  I can’t argue with him, nor could I come up with a better answer.  I’m going to tag this article #HowToPreventFoodShortage and hope some bureaucrat resorts to Google in their policy-making. 

Neither Daddy nor I have any control over fuel prices or availability of resources.  However, I can remind you of what our ancestors did and encourage us all to be at least as smart as they were.  Can lids are a little hard to find – and that may get worse as the season progresses.  Bagged fertilizer is very expensive and may be harder to find – although you can raise something without it.  Seeds are pretty easy to find, so get them early. 

If fuel prices continue to rise, none of us will be able to afford to go on vacation this year, so your Victory Garden may rescue your sanity as well as your pantry.

I’m no expert gardener – despite a lifetime of instruction.  I often make a good start and fall short later on.  I’m hoping you will all hold me accountable since I’ve given you this rousing reminder! 

While God himself controls the harvest, He will surely find me with hoe in hand, waiting for a blessing.

A Boy and His Dog

I just love it when I get to meet folks that read my blog or books and my adventure on the 127 sale recently was no different.  I even came away with someone else’s story!

Jeff Green wrote a few years ago about his son Samuel’s start running dogs and hunting.  This is a great story for anyone who loves mountain stories because they are so much a part of our life.  I’m sharing Mr. Green’s story in its entirety below.  

Samuel Green, A Boy and His Dog(s).  As told by his father.

As a very small boy Samuel expressed interest in deer hunting and fishing but mostly was limited to fishing the pond in front of the house or on his grandmother’s farm while deer hunting the family farms as well.  The best I can remember Samuel was about 8 or 9 years old and early one Fall day (more about that later) I saw Rodney Atkinson, a local houndsman, and asked h8im about coming over and taking Samuel coon hunting as he had never been.  Rodney asked, “What about tomorrow night?” and we set a time to meet.  Rodney showed up at the appointed time with his friends and a load of Walker dogs and soon thereafter we were making the first drop of Samuels’ tree dog experiences.

It was early enough in the Fall that snakes were still crawling in a copperhead-infested area but cool enough that we built a small fire while waiting on some activity.  I must admit this was a new experience for me as well because my coon hunting experiences growing up were with cur dogs and we walked old roads and trails and such.  After a few tall tales we heard a locate off in the distance and the race soon began with each dog being identified as it joined the race.  Before long the dogs could faintly be heard treeing a good distance away and the hike to the tree began.  Rodney and his hunting buddies were primarily interested in getting to the tree while my primary interest was the safety of Samuel.  Samuel had also insisted on carrying his Davey Crickett .22 along on his first coon hunting trip which added to the difficulty of the obstacles in front of us.

Folks living or hunting in Middle Tennessee know all about the pine beetle that wreaked havoc on the pine trees about 20 years ago and know what the woods was like a few years following.  Well, we were heading in the direction of a former pine thicket and cut-over timber.  After crossing the same creek what seemed like a half dozen times, traversing through ivy thickets and belly crawling under pines, we get to the dogs treed on a loan standing oak tree large enough to be hundreds of years old and so full of holes it looked like it had been target practice for the Confederate army.  Needless to say, and all coon hunters would certainly agree it was definitely a coon.  The coon had made it to safety.

This hunting experience was prior to back trackers, GPS equipped dogs and handlers but Rodney did have a compass.  After much consideration, Rodney points off in a direction and states we need to go that way.  I looked up at the moon and positioned it in a general direction off of my shoulder.  As we walked, I soon realized we were going the wrong direction or the moon was doing strange things that particular night.  After stopping at some point to take a short break, we discussed the direction we should be going to bring us out in a field which would allow us to get a better bearing toward our vehicles.  Samuel was still small enough to be carried on my shoulders and was quick to agree to such when we made it to the field.  By this time, I am worried that this has been such a bad experience for Samuel he would never want to coon hunt again.  At about 2:00 a.m. we made it to our vehicles and as we were parting ways with Rodney, Samuel said, “This is fun, can we go again tomorrow night?”.  Rodney obliged, his dogs split treed, both had coons and one of the coons hangs on Samuel’s wall today as he was permitted to take it with his Davey Crickett.  Samuel has been hooked since that time.

Soon thereafter, Matthew Hall started bringing his OMCBA dogs over, taking Samuel with him squirrel hunting and carrying Samuel to the competition hunts in Jamestown.  Matthew gifted Samuel a puppy which did not turn out too well due to a lung hemorrhaging.  Lonnie Allred learned of this experience and offered a young dog to Samuel which had been hunted a few ties and knew how to load.  Thence, Samuel’s journey with Rusty Ain’t Rusty, a.k.a. Rusty, and the Original Mountain Cur Breeders Association began.  Samuel now has his own kennel, Clear Fork Kennel.  Arguably, better dogs have passed through his kennel in recent years but none that have had that special bond between a boy and his dog than that of Rusty.  Rusty may be seen in action on YouTube by searching “Squirrel Hunting with Original Mountain Curs”.

Many people have influenced Samuel along the way and time nor space will permit naming each of them and the wisdom they have shared with Samuel.  As Samuels’ father, I am comforted by the fact if Samuel needed help with something along the journey of life and I am not available or able to provide, he has met someone through his experiences with OMCBA that will be there for him.

New Life for Old Covers

A couple of times I’ve written a little about quilts and quilting.  While I learned to quilt at my grandmothers’ knees, I make no claim of expertise.  In fact, I have a dear friend who is in fact an expert at the craft and she’d probably tell you I know nothing about real quilting.  I wouldn’t argue with her.

Yet, I’m working on a project and I’d like to share it with you over the next few weeks and we’ll see if I can actually accomplish it.  You see, I have a treasured old scrap that I hope to revive somewhat. 

I think the birth of quilts must have come from an abundance of scraps.  Scrap pieces of Lou’s new Sunday dress, Papa’s new shirt and little Ben’s worn out overalls.  Just because the back side got all ripped as a young boy skidded down a hillside, doesn’t mean the rest of the pants should be thrown out!  Fabric was one of those scarce resources on the Plateau – a land not inclined to grow cotton, made for a people dependent on store-bought yardage and that meant money.  There was precious little of that. 

Every scrap was saved, every scrap found a use, eventually.

I have seen quilts made of double knit polyester – those quilter friends of mine may be in need of medical help after reading that statement.  The color fast scraps from 1970’s dresses and pants suits made for a heavy quilt, but, gracious it was warm. 

I’ve shared with you here the quilt my Great Grandmother made of her Mother’s dresses.

I’m a fan of whole cloth quilts – probably because I’d much rather quilt than piece.  But getting a piece of fabric that large has historically been pricey. 

The quilt I’ve pictured here is whole cloth front and back – the same cloth.  As far as I know, it started out as a bedroom door.  Did you ever see an old house with curtains for doors?  A tour guide at an old house once told me that property taxes at one time were based on the number of doors ( I guess that was a way of counting the number of rooms in your house) so doors were only added where absolutely necessary – and that’s one explanation for why old homes never had closets.  Look at the picture, is that a fabric pattern you would choose to decorate your home? 

About 1958 my Great Grandma took the curtains and made them into a quilt which the family would use it until 1970 when it was passed on to my mother.  I remember using this quilt all the time I was at home.  And now I have it.    

After more than 60 years of constant use as a quilt made from old fabric, you can see that it’s showing some age.

As we’ve often discussed here on The Stories, recycling and repurposing are a way of life on the mountain.  Quilts have always been recycled.  Now, I don’t know that I’ve ever actually seen patches on quilts – but then most quilts are patchwork so would you even know if it had received a new patch?

Another way to repurpose a worn quilt is to give it a new cover.  When batting was hard to come by, using a worn quilt as the center layer on a new project is a pretty good idea.  Sometimes you can learn a lot of history when an old quilt tears – because the gash may reveal an interesting batting.

I may try that to add a whole new layer on one side of this project.  However, there are a couple of holes that go through all three layers of the quilt, so there’s no way around adding some true patching.

While my expert-quilter-friend told me this quilt wasn’t worth repairing, I think the biggest obstacle is in the batting.  Old batting was pure cotton that wanted to wad up.  You may notice that antique quilts are usually quilted in very close rows or grids – that’s to bind that batting down as much as possible.  Today’s quilts can be fluffier quilted on a much larger framework because the batting will hold up so much better.  (Of course we’ll have to wait another 60 or 70 years to see what today’s quilts look like when they’re as old as this one!)

If you have any advice for me, I’m happy to hear it – just click “comments” below!

The Rural Poor Always Manage - Somehow

A few years ago I heard a news interview with a lady from Alabama who had taken a job in Washington, D.C.  She secured lodging outside the city and talked about the poverty she saw as she drove in each morning.  One comment she made really stuck with me, and came to mind as I’ve been preparing my next book.  I can’t exactly quote her (and don’t remember her name to site that quotation anyway) but she said ‘out in the country, poor people always find a way to survive’.

On the mountain, we often consider ourselves poor people – so maybe that’s why I identified with her comment.  Yet, the more I learn about the generations who came before me, the more I realize the abundance they enjoyed.  Of course when you discuss wealth, you have to determine which ruler to use.  A scammer called me once and after I shared the gospel of Jesus Christ with him, he told me “I thought it would be okay to scam rich Americans.”  I would normally say I’m anything but rich, but I realize if my home, car, wardrobe and dinner menu were compared to the poor in Niger, Sierra Leone, or India (where that gentleman said he lived), they might just think I live like the queen of a small country.  And this is 2020.

In 1935 a cellar stocked with a good crop of potatoes, dried beans hanging from the rafters and a hog quickly fattening on fall’s acorns would’ve made most of the world envious. 

Don’t you wonder though, what did prosperity look like in 1900 or before?

In 1900 John D. Rockefeller, known as the wealthiest American of all time, would have been 61 years old and his Standard Oil Company was still intact.  The Biltmore House was just 5 years old and the industrial revolution was, well, revolutionizing America.  On Tennessee’s Cumberland Plateau, the Tennessee Central Railroad connected the Plateau to Nashville and the wide world with a line that reached to Emory Gap. 

While the railroad allowed stock and crops to be sold beyond the plateau, families here were still largely subsistence farmers.   Somehow, that term has become almost derogatory, as though survival is not enough.  In that day before you could compare whether your car was newer or faster than your neighbors, when no one had the latest iteration of cell phone or other technological gadget, wasn’t it enough to have good food on the table and healthy children?

And all of that abundance takes us right back to the land.  I think the land and the culture of those who’ve grown up close to the land is probably that ‘managing’ part of the rural poor. 

In years past, if a man could manage to get a little spot of land, he could begin building something – not just a home, but building a family and a life.  He would cut timber, work in the mines or hire himself out as farm labor until he could save enough cash money to buy a milk cow and maybe a mule to pull a plow.  He would put out a crop to feed both family and stock – and his whole family would help him. 

Sure there were cold times – homes weren’t insulated and heavy woolen coats were often a luxury.  Yet, if he worked hard cutting wood, his wife could sit close to the fireplace with the baby and they’d be okay. 

And there were hungry times as well, when crops didn’t fare well and the forest didn’t give up the game.  Yet, with a little grace (and a garden must be planted with prayer), and a lot of hard work, the land would give just about everything that family needed.  Clothing spun from cotton or wool, meat and vegetables to eat, could all be had with just a tiny amount of knowledge and a little spot of land.

It’s really no wonder that the home-place was revered.

Two Fellers Under One Sled

This article will bring us to the end of Callie Melton’s book “Pon my Honor”.  I hope you’ve enjoyed them as much as I have. 

Old man Johnson had a boy named Henery that was a might funny.  He was a big raw-boned and slow-footed boy.  And to make matters worse, when he got to the age for his voice to change it started and then stopped smack dab in the middle of the process.  So Henery always talked two ways.  He’d start out in a fine little boy’s voice, then he’d wind up in a big coarse man’s voice.

Folks would always have a heap of fun about the way Henery talked.  But it was all good-natured fun and not making light, for everbody knowed that it was a sin to make light of anybody’s afflictions.

One day his Pappy started Henery out in the sled to gather some nubbins for cow feed.  On the way to the field, Henery had to go down this little steep place, and the old mule got scared when the sled bumped his hind legs, so he just up and run away.  He run so fast that he run over a big rock and turned the sled over on Henery.  Then he broke loose from the sled and just kept right on going.

It knocked all the wind out of Henery when the sled turned over on him, but as soon as he could get his breath back, he started hollering for help.  He just wore hisself out, so he had to stop to rest.  While he was resting he heard somebody coming down the road, so commenced hollering again.  “Help! Help!” he yelled in his fine little boy’s voice, and then “Get me out! Get me out!” in his big coarse man’s voice.

Now the man who was passing by the sled was a stranger in these here parts, so he didn’t know about Henery and his two voices.  The man listened a couple of time, looked at the heavy sled, and then said, “Well, iffen two o’ ye’ can’t lift that sled, what do you’ens ‘pect me to do?”

And with that the man went on down the road, leaving Henery hollering his head off.