Time Traveling Tourist

 

If I could time travel, I would for certain carry a good supply of paper and pens with me, as well as a camera! I think that I might go back to 1545 to Belsay Castle in Northumberland England, close to the border with Scotland. There, I believe that I could meet my 13X great-grandparents Lancelot and Ann Fenwick Middleton, as well as my 12X great-grandpa George, a baby at that time.

The Belsay Castle had been built by Middletons and inhabited by them for some time. It would be nice to visit a real castle that was actually a historical family home and a castle seems so far removed from the simple abodes of other family members that I am familiar with. I could have visited other greats there, but I just could not resist visiting my family’s very own Lancelot!

So, I would visit my greats and I would surely pester them for stories concerning our family history. I would observe how they went about their lives living in a castle already a few centuries old. I would record everything on my paper and with my camera so that I could bring it all back with me to share with current family. And while they shared family history with me, I would share family future with them. I would tell them stories of their 10XG grandson  Calvin Middleton and his daughter Nancy Middleton Smith. I would tell them about some of the simple but so fine folks that resulted from their union.

Now, Belsay castle is just over 21 miles from Hadrian’s Wall which had been built by Roman Emperor Hadrian to defend Rome’s northernmost holds from invading Scots. If I could use my time travel skills to zoom on over to Hadrian’s Wall rather than depending upon the travel methods of the day, I would certainly visit that historic site before visiting Scotland.

My DNA indicates 40% Scottish ethnicity so I must have a few ancestors from there. I suspect that my McQueen and Davidson lines may have originated in Scotland. Even if I couldn’t visit specific places where they lived because I just don’t know where that is, it would be wonderful to visit their homeland and imagine that the sights I was seeing were once viewed through their eyes too.

I would also visit Ireland. I know that my Nolen and Flanary lines have ties to Ireland and others likely do, as well. I would visit County Carlow. My 13XG Gpa Donough Hugh Nowlin was born there in 1545 so I could meet his dad 14 XG gpa Awly Nuallain Nowlin and find out who 14XG gma was! Perhaps I could even rock my 13XG gpa to sleep while singing a lullaby! I would love to visit Dublin where my 9XG grandpa Pierce Nowland was born. He would in the future migrate to America and reside in Virginia.  

I imagine that the landscape of both Scotland and Ireland would make me feel right at home. I always feel like a prodigal daughter come home when I am in the Appalachians and those mountains were once connected to the mountains of Ireland and the Scottish Highlands. They were all part of the Central Pangean Mountains of the supercontinent Pangaea during the Triassic period. They would later drift apart but perhaps there is some metaphysical tie that is not as easily rent asunder as mere stone, trees, and earth. My ancestors who left Ireland and Scotland for America and traveled to eventually settle in Appalachia must have felt a familiarity and perhaps felt like they had come “home” also.

So, that is my where and when I would travel for my distant past time travel. I would love to do as I have written, but I have a greater desire to travel to a place and time less distant and more recent. For this trip, I would want to be accompanied by my children, my niece, and my granddaughter and we would go back to around 1967 to Anglin Branch in Owsley County, Kentucky. Who knows we might even run into me as a seven-year-old visiting Grandpa and Grandma David and Nancy Middleton Smith with my parents and my younger brother David. That would be kind of freaky seeing myself as a seven-year-old, But it would be neat for my kids, my niece, and my granddaughter to see me as a kid, their uncle and father as a kid, and their grandparents when they were quite young. Of course, they know that we once were young too, but they probably have a difficult time imagining that. Heck, sometimes I have a hard time imagining those wonderful and carefree days too!

Even as a child, visiting my grandparents there on Anglin was like a "traveling back in time" adventure.

My family lived in Dayton, Ohio. Our home was very modest, but we did have indoor facilities and we got our drinking water from the faucet in the kitchen. It had central heat from a furnace. We lived on quiet and paved Knox Avenue. We had a pretty nice little yard but it wasn’t huge. We could easily see the homes of neighbors living to the left and right of us and the fore and aft of us. There was a pretty nice field directly in front of our house that belonged to our trash man Bill Guthrie but houses lined much of the street. We had a telephone and television. Of course, our television was not anything like current TVs. They were big and boxy and only had a few channels and the black and white programming went off the air at midnight.

Now when we visited Grandpa and Grandma, we traveled into the hills of Eastern Kentucky. We traveled some curvy roads to get there and my brother David, who was prone to car-sickness, would often have to move up to the front seat. It seems that watching the landscape coming at you through the windshield is less stomach-curdling than seeing it fly by out the side window. So we traveled some “treacherous” roads to arrive at Anglin Branch Road. Now back then, Anglin Branch Road was just a dirt road and did not even have gravel. Anglin branch had its own little twists and turns and rises and falls. When that dirt got wet, and it seemed that our visits were often accompanied by rain, the dirt of Anglin Branch would turn into a mud slick. No one drives better than my dad, but when it rained, often even Dad could not coax the car to navigate that mud slick. He would often have to park the car and we would walk the rest of the way to Grandpa and Grandma’s house.

There were a few folks who lived along the way. I remember Oscar and Laura Edwards lived in a little white house tucked back into a holler on the right. Laura always had the most beautiful flowers around her house; sultanas, lantanas…I can’t remember what they all were but I know that they were all beautiful! Lishie and Sarah Green lived in a house on the left. I don’t remember much about them but Sarah was some kind of cousin.

There was a log type two-story home on the left just before reaching Grandpa and Grandma’s house. This is where Laura Edward’s father Henry “Hen” Sandlin had lived. In 1957, despondent over ill health, he went to his barn and hung himself. Grandpa was the one who had cut him down from the rope hanging from the rafters.

So after passing Hen’s old place, Grandpa and Grandma’s little piece of Heaven was there on the left. It was a little white-sided farmhouse. In the winter, smoke would be rising from the coal stove in the living room and the coal grate in the bedroom. That and layers of Grandma’s handmade quilts was what kept a body warm in winter. In summer, Grandma had flowers in the yard. She always had a couple of old tire planters filled with moss roses. I remember hollyhocks blooming profusely in the side yard. Dad tells me that Grandma had grown huge dahlias as big as dinner plates at some time, but I don’t remember them so maybe that was before my time.

Grandpa and Grandma had electricity and a faucet in the kitchen which they used for washing dishes and filling washbasins and tubs for sponge baths and tub baths. They didn’t have indoor facilities but they had a two-holer outhouse down a worn path alongside the waters of Anglin Branch. There Charmin was replaced with outdated Sears and Roebuck, Montgomery Ward, Alden, Spiegel and J C Penney catalogs. At night, we would slide a five-gallon lard stand converted into a chamber pot from under the bed to pee. I can almost hear the sound of pee hitting the side of that metal lard stand!

Grandma drew drinking water from a well just off of the back porch. She would drop a bucket down into the well and then pull up some of the coolest and sweetest water to cross any lips. She would pour the water from the well bucket into a metal bucket that would be kept on the enameled Hoosier cabinet in the kitchen. There was an aluminum dipper that rested in the bucket and everyone would dip out a drink of water and sip it down from the dipper before placing it back into the bucket for the next thirsty person. Thankfully, we didn’t have worries about Covid-19 back then!

Now, back in Dayton, some family members had enough land to raise gardens so we did have homegrown produce there but much of our food came from the local grocery. On Anglin, Grandma gathered eggs for breakfast from her laying hens. If a hen had quit laying or too many roosters tried to rule the roost, we might even have chicken and dumplings or some scrumptious fried chicken. Grandpa milked the cow for milk and Grandma would skim the cream off of the top and rock it in a gallon jug over her knee until she had some delicious butter. If visiting during the cool times, a hog might be slaughtered and we could have some fresh pork tenderloin to eat with Grandma’s homemade buttermilk biscuits, tenderloin gravy and fried apples. Sometimes Dad would pour a bit of Bob White syrup onto his plate and mix in some butter to eat with a biscuit.

Grandpa and Grandma didn’t have a salt shaker; they had a little bowl of salt that they kept on the table. If you needed salt, you would take a pinch and sprinkle it over your food. Grandpa had to use salt substitute because of heart trouble so he was stuck mundanely shaking from the little cardboard “bottle” of a substitute. He didn’t get to pinch like the rest of us.

Grandpa and Grandma raised a big garden and Grandma knew how to turn that produce into tasty meals. Fresh corn and green beans, new potatoes, juicy ripe tomatoes, sweet potatoes…  Grandma made them into meals fit for royalty or even some of her Middleton ancestors that called a castle home!

She also knew how to preserve that produce for later. Some like arsh potatoes, sweet potatoes, turnips, cabbages… could be stored for a time in a root cellar. She canned much of their garden harvest and she even canned sausage. She also dried apples, pumpkin rings and I can remember helping to make green bean necklaces to dry for shuck beans. She made lots of jellies, jams and butters from the fruits they grew.

Grandpa had an old mule and a horse named Silver. Grandpa grew tobacco to make a little money and he used the mule to plow the tobacco base and his garden spot. I have seen both him and Uncle Gayle walking behind the mule-pulled plow geeing and hawing to let the mule know where to go. In Dayton, my uncles used tractors to plow their fields but on Anglin, time marched at a slower pace and old ways still clung to life. Mule power still won out over horsepower.

Grandpa and Grandma did not have a television or telephone for many years. They would get them later, but I don’t really recall them having a TV. It sounds like it would be a boring place for kids but there was a creek behind their house. In that creek, there were minnows and crawdaddies that called to children like sirens. We would borrow one of Grandma’s mason jars or an empty coffee tin that hadn’t already been repurposed as a spittoon and we would wade in the creek, lifting rocks trying to make temporary hostages of the crawdaddies and minnows that would dart by. We would show our catches off and then slip them back into the creek so we could use our jar to catch fireflies. Sometimes we would spy a blue-tailed lizard and take chase. I don’t recall ever catching one and I honestly don’t know what I would have done if I had caught one; probably immediately drop it!

While revisiting my grandparents, I would ask them all of the questions that I never realized that I had while they lived. I would ask Grandpa about his family. I would get him to open his trunk and tell me who all of the folks in the photos were. I would ask him if the picture or two that we think are of his dad Billy really are Billy. I would ask him who Eula was. I would ask Grandma what her favorite color was, how she came to meet Grandpa, what her happiest moments were. Mostly, I would hug them and tell them how very much I love them.

I would sit on the front porch upon woven-bottomed, straight-back chairs with Grandma, Grandpa, my children, my granddaughter and my niece. Grandma would likely be rocking a jar filled with cream over her knee and Grandpa would likely be shaving curls of aromatic cedar from his whittling stick. We would listen to the music of a cooling rain on the tin of the porch roof and as the mist began to rise from the hillsides in front of us, my children, my granddaughter, and my niece could hear from my grandpa about how when the mists hang in the hills, his giant friend that lives there is smoking his pipe.

Perhaps, they would be terribly bored to go with me on my trip back to see Grandpa and Grandma, but I hope that for the short time of our visit, they could step away from the busyness and distractions of today, deeply breathe in fresh air full of the scent of rich earth and just enjoy the simple lives of simple, but oh such very special people that were their great and great-great grandparents. I hope that they could understand what truly strong and loving folks they come from! 

I would also hope that Grandpa and Grandma would meet their great-grandchildren and great-great-granddaughter  and could understand what truly strong, loving folks have resulted from their union! Our strong roots have resulted in some strong, beautiful, empathetic and loving branches!

 

 

Ancestor Potential

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This is not a story about my newest ancestor find. I like to remind folks to record their lives today because today is tomorrow’s past! So rather than recording a recent ancestor find, this is a story about a more “recent” potential ancestor in my family. It is a story about my granddaughter Jooniebug who will be three in November and one day, she may truly be a future descendent's ancestor find!

When Roxanna became pregnant with Harper Jooniebug McCommon, we were all reluctant to be happy. You see, Roxanna and Jeremy had lost a baby soon after they were married just shortly after learning they were pregnant. Roxanna experienced complications early on with Jooniebug. We did not want to get too involved with happiness because we feared that we would lose our Jooniebug and our happiness. And we all prayed for our baby’s health and safety.

Sometime early on in her pregnancy though, Roxanna saw a beautiful little bird’s nest in a bush in their yard. The next day, there was a beautiful little blue egg in that nest. The next day there were three; the next there were four!
That robin’s nest was a nest like an untold number of other robin’s nests. It had no claim to fame. Daddy and Mommy Robin were not little robin celebrities. Their nest was made of small twigs and was not made of spun gold.
That robin nest in the tree in Roxanna’s yard was special though. It was special because it was a robin’s nest in a bush in Roxanna’s yard. It was not in the neighbor’s yard. It wasn’t even in a bush in Roxanna’s yard back hidden in the corner. It was almost right outside her door. It was a nest that she noticed. It was a nest that held the potential for life at the same time she held the same and it was in her yard where she would notice it! And in our minds, that normal little robin nest became a sign from God that we need not worry. He had this!
Roxanna had a few scares during the early months of her pregnancy. She became worried and frightened. Each time she did, I would remind her that God does not give robin’s nests to just everyone! Our baby was gonna be fine! That normal, robin’s nest had become a sign of hope!




                                                   



                                                    

                                                   

                                                     


   



Our beautiful and perfect Jooniebug was due on the 16th of November but she debuted a few days later. She had to be in the NICU for a few days but she went home on a Thanksgiving day that was truly a day for thanksgiving!




                                                    



When we had visited my daughter’s family after Jooniebug’s birth, the camellia bush that had served as a source of hope was filled with beautiful blossoms. It was nearly December and despite cooler temperatures, this bush was filled with beauty. I took those blossoms as a further sign of hope. In spite of the “cooler temperatures” that life will send her way, my Jooniebug will blossom, persevere, or as her great-great-uncle Olen, forever the Marine might say, “adapt and overcome”!


                                                   



Speaking of Uncle Olen, my Uncle Olen has welcomed the births of nieces, nephews, great-nieces, great-nephews, great-great-nieces, and great-great-nephews. I have never seen him react to a family addition as much as he has to Jooniebug. When my Uncle Olen heard that Jooniebug was due in November, he swore that she would be born on November 10th, the Marine Corps' birthday. He fought in Viet Nam as a Marine and “once a Marine, always a Marine” is his motto. Even when she was born several days after the 10th, he says that her “real” birthday is November 10th but she can celebrate two birthdays. He has only been able to actually see her once but is completely enamored of his “Little Jarhead” and swears that she will grow up to become the first female Commandant of the Marines. I just cannot figure out why Uncle Olen has taken so much with Jooniebug; I guess it is the fact that she was born in the Marine Corps’ birthday month. I don’t know why but this big ol’ Marine is totally wrapped around Jooniebug’s little finger. He isn’t the only one either!


                                                 



Since Uncle Olen is always calling Jooniebug his little Commandant Jarhead, I took a couple of photos of her for him as a little Marine. I got some edits in a Facebook group to make it look a bit more "official".





                                          



I sent Uncle Olen a copy and he had it photoshopped even more and sent me a copy.



                                           




                                                      

                                                        Another photo of the Commandant.

The first time Jooniebug went to her new preschool, her mother took a photo of her as she entered the school. My mom and I think that she looked just like the Marine Commandant inspecting the barracks. I asked the same Facebook group to photoshop it to make it look like she was really inspecting her troops so I could send it to Uncle Olen! Someone kindly made a great picture of the Little Commandant.




                                                     

                                                            


I made a little quilted collage picture for Uncle Olen also. It is supposed to represent Jooniebug saluting her great-great-uncle Olen. I didn’t put Uncle Olen in full profile to hint at how far she has to look up to him, but also so that he could represent all Marines, past, present and future.




                                                    



So God willing, this little girl who has so many folks enamored of her will one day grow up to have a family of her own. Even if she should choose not to become the first female Commandant of the Marine Corps, I am certain that she is destined for great things. I imagine generations of her descendants telling stories of their grand, great, great-great, great-great-great… whatever grandmother Jooniebug. I can imagine them regaling over the many things that she will accomplish in her lifetime and being proud to descend from a woman such as she will surely become.

Who knows, perhaps they will even happen upon this story and think about the big strong Marine who was so totally enamored of their grandma, his Little Commandant Jarhead!

Back to School Anthology

 



This back to school story is an anthology of sorts that begins with my father, Donald Smith.

My dad grew up in a very rural area of Southeastern Kentucky. His parents had a small farm in Owsley County and the family basically depended upon what they raised in order to survive. They grew most of their foodstuffs and they grew a small base of tobacco for a cash crop to purchase what they could not supply themselves.

Now, in neighboring Clay County was a boarding type school called the Oneida Baptist Institute. Dad’s three older sisters had all gone there and two of them had graduated from there. So in 1952, when it came time for Dad to go back to school and enter high school, he packed up and followed in the footsteps of his older siblings and went away to Oneida Baptist Institute.

 

Oneida Baptist Institute did have tuition but students from the surrounding area worked at the school to offset that tuition. The students all had their different jobs and Dad’s duties included milking the cows. Dad did not have a problem with milking the cows but he did have a problem. You see, supper began being served well before the milking was finished and by the time the milkers came in for their supper, most of that supper was gone!

Now, Dad’s parents never had much money, but they knew how to grow a garden and they knew how to raise hogs and chickens for eggs and meat. They also had a couple of cows for dairy products. They had no extra cash but they never went hungry and they always had my grandma’s delicious meals to eat so this going to bed with a measly supper was just not going to cut it.

Dad lasted for a couple of weeks at Oneida Baptist Institute. After that, he returned home where he attended the local Owsley County High School. He went to school on the bus every morning and returned home in the afternoon. He probably even had to help with the milking when he got home but he always went to bed with plenty of Grandma’s delicious but simple home cooking in his belly! 

My second back to school story involves my mother Loretta Nolen Smith.

My mother’s mother died when Mom was only nine. When Grandma Rachel died, she left Grandpa Boyd with seven children ranging in age from ten months to nine years old.

Grandpa Boyd loved his children but he had farm chores and he worked away at the mines. He tried for a while to do it all and keep the kids together, but in the end, he just couldn’t. He found family members for all of the kids to go live with, at least temporarily. Mom, the oldest, and Uncle Johnnie, the youngest, went to live with their mother’s sister, Alta’s family in Dayton, Ohio.

Now, Aunt Alta’s brother John was married to my dad’s sister Hortense, and they lived very close to each other with only a field separating their homes. Somewhere along the way, likely while both were visiting Uncle John and Aunt Hortense, Mom and Dad met. Their families had lived less than a dozen miles apart in Kentucky, but it took visiting mutual kinfolk in Dayton, Ohio for the two to meet.

Well, they met, fell in love, and when Mom was 16 and Dad was 20, they married. When Mom and Dad married, Mom had to drop out of high school. Mom had always loved school. When she was younger and still in Kentucky, she had read every book in the one-room schoolhouse, even the math books. Having to drop out of high school was not easy, but she loved Dad that much.

 

After my brother and I were born, Mom did go back to school; she went to night school in order to get her high school diploma. It probably was not easy for her to go to night school, study for her classes, and still do her household chores with two young children. With support from family, she was able to do it. Mom received her high school diploma in 1965 right about the time I graduated from kindergarten with my Bachelor of Rhymes degree! 

 

In the 1970s, Mom felt a need to go back to school again. She wanted to become a registered nurse and wanted to attend the local community college. For some reason, Dad was not too happy with this, but Mom was determined. Eventually, Dad quit resisting as Mom was going back to school, regardless of any resistance. Mom enrolled at Motlow State Community College and went back to school yet again.

So from having the desire to return to school to actually doing it, it was not easy for Mom. Mom studied hard and she learned many things, including the fact that getting a “B” instead of an “A” can be a blessing! Mom became a registered nurse in 1975 and she treated her patients with a caring heart, knowledge, and diligence until she retired. I do not believe that a patient could have ever received better care than that they received from Mom!

Now, the last part of my back to school anthology involves my daughter Roxanna Hajjafar McCommon, who teaches German in a Memphis, Tennessee area school.

This year, Covid-19 reared its very ugly head. The last school year ended virtually due to the pandemic. Many seniors graduated either virtually or in drive-by ceremonies. The faculties and students at schools across the nation adapted and thought outside the box to continue their educations in spite of less than optimal circumstances.

I was hoping that this school year would remain virtual, as the pandemic is still going strong with new cases and new fatalities happening every day. Alas, in spite of not having this virus under control, and in spite of many people refusing to follow logical guidelines in order to get it under control, Roxanna had to return to in-school teaching. The students could opt for a virtual or in-person education but the teachers have to be there for those students who opt for the in-person method of education.

Four weeks ago, my daughter went back to school to teach. She has worries about the safety of herself, her family, her students and their families. She is trying her best to make sure that all guidelines are followed. She says that her students have been pretty good about following guidelines but some have to be reminded to pull their masks up to cover their nose and mouths. Regardless, there have been some Covid-19 exposures.

 

So this year back to school has not been an eagerly anticipated event for many. Instead of making back to school purchases of paper, pens, backpacks, notebooks…, teachers and students are searching for hand sanitizer, masks, disinfectant cleaners…

The joy of students being able to see their friends, to hug, to high-five, to fist bump, to enjoy extra-curricular activities, and the joy of teachers to see their kids back after an even longer than usual absence will be overshadowed by the necessary precautions of fighting an invisible yet deadly foe. May God protect them all.    

Preserving Food and a Way of Life

 

        

 Summer sampling; frozen fried corn in front; canned green beans, liberty pickles, canned tomatoes, smoked apples in middle; shuck beans/leather britches in back                                   

In the past, our Appalachian ancestors had to be very adept at coaxing their sustenance from the land they lived on. They knew how to garden and oft-times they did this by the signs. The hillsides around their homes provided additional plants that were foraged to eat, as well as for medicinal uses. Those ancestors raised animals for eggs, milk, and meat to provide nourishment for large families. Hunting and fishing supplemented their families’ food supplies.

Now back in those times, folks had to know, not only how to provide sustenance, but how to preserve it. They had no refrigerators or freezers except those provided by nature. Milk and perishables could be kept in spring houses where cold water could let the family keep these things a bit longer. They would usually butcher their hogs when the weather was cool so that the fresh meat might last longer. They could cure meat with smoke, salt, sugar... so that it might keep ‘til the leaner times. They could can meat. My dad says that Grandma would make balls out of ground sausage, fry the balls and then place the sausage balls into canning jars, cover them with grease and store them for a delicious sausage, gravy and biscuits meal in the future.


                                      

                                           Public domain photo                      

Fruits and vegetables were canned outside in large water-filled tubs that held the produce-filled glass jars. They would keep the water boiling for hours over a wood-fueled fire in order to properly preserve the canned foodstuffs.

Food could also be dried. Pumpkin could be sliced into rings which could be draped around string and hung up in hot attics or outside until the heat from the sun dehydrated them. Green beans could be pierced by a needle and strung on strings and dried also. Some folks call these dried beans shuck or shuckie beans; others call them leather britches. I call them good.

                   Public domain photo; Pumpkin rounds drying

                                        

  Public domain photo; Green beans drying to become shuck beans.

Produce could be pickled. Corn, beans, cucumbers, cabbage were a few things that might be preserved by pickling. I asked Mom and Dad why anyone would pickle green beans or corn when they were so good canned. This pickled produce could be stored in large crocks. Dad said that maybe folks ran out of canning jars and could not afford to buy more and thus they pickled the produce so it could be stored in crocks. Lye could even be used to convert grains of corn into hominy which could be stored in crocks also. Past folks had to know how to preserve the harvest of the feast time to provide sustenance durin’ the hunger of the lean times.

Now Dad, Mom, and I had gone to an orchard one Wednesday last fall to pick up a bushel of Arkansas Black apples. Past family members might have preserved them in any number of ways. Some apples were simply stored in the coolness of a root cellar that had been dug into the cooler ground. Some were dried. Grandma spread out clean sheets onto sheets of tin out in the yard. Then she would carefully spread the peeled and sliced apples on top of the sheets. There they would lie in the hot sun until they were completely dry. After dry, they would be placed into muslin bags and kept for future use in a stack cake or to make fried, dried apple pies. Grandma might have peeled apples and cooked them over a low fire with spices to make apple butter. She would even use the peelings to make apple jelly.

                              

                    Public domain photo; Apples drying outside

                      a mountain home in Jackson, Kentucky. 

The apples could also be smoked. Dad calls it smoking apples but some folks call it sulfuring or bleaching apples. Whatever you call the process, they sure are good!

So one fine day last fall, Dad, Mom, and I spent the morning peeling and slicing apples so Dad could smoke them.

 

I think that fried smoked apples, seem to have a hint of a sorghum taste and that gave me the idea to start putting a bit of sorghum in apples that I am frying instead of adding sugar. Fried apples AND sorghum... that is a tasty combo!

So, anyhow, we got the apples all peeled and sliced. We had a 16-quart pressure cooker full. Dad put half of the peeled apples into one clean cotton pillowcase and the other half into another one. He tied the two pillowcases together with some twine and took it outside to the garage. 

Dad has a whiskey barrel in the garage that he smokes apples in. He has the barrel wrapped in plastic sheets to keep the smoke in. Dad puts some charcoal into a small shallow pan, lights it and when the charcoals are glowing, he carefully puts it into the bottom of the barrel using pliers. 

He places a little pouch, that he makes out of a square of cotton fabric or paper towel, filled with three to four tablespoons of sulfur powder on top of the coals.

 Then he drapes the two apple-filled pillowcases over an ax handle that he places across the top of the barrel. He covers the barrel with an old quilt that he fastens around the top. 

The apples are saddle bagged in clean cotton pillowcases over the ax handle over the coals.

 
                                  

Dad smokes the apples overnight and then places the apples into sterilized quart jars with lids. We put a little piece of wax paper between the disc and the jar. The sulfur tends to rust the lid, making it hard to take off and the wax paper makes it easier. Then they are ready to store until you are ready to eat them. After they have been smoked, they look like you just peeled and sliced an apple. Overtime, they do shrink up a bit as they lose some of their moisture but they still sure taste good with a homemade hot and buttered buttermilk biscuit! 

Smoked apples the day after smoking.

Smoked apples one week after smoking.

I cooked these this morning 9/3/2020, nearly a year after they were smoked.

They fried up nice.

I love that sound; almost like rain falling!

                           

                                   And they went down good!

So one fall day in Middle Tennessee, my family carried on a bit of Appalachian culture that family members have probably done for centuries. There may have been some minor differences in what we did. I can’t help but think in spite of those minor differences, Grandpa and Grandma and family members that passed long before we were even born were looking down and recognized exactly what we were doing. I also can’t help but think that they might just be a little pleased that we were not just preserving apples, but also a little bit of their way of life.

The Old Country

 

When I read that phrase, “the old country”, I think of a feeling of longing, I think of a sense of loss. Even if that old country was left for good reason, even if intolerable circumstances were left behind, even if beautiful dreams drew folks away from that old country, I believe that it is still yearned for in some deep and haunting way. 

For in leaving the “bad”, surely so many “good” things were left behind. Many people that had played a part in the making of sweet memories had to remain behind; Grandma, Grandpa, aunts, uncles, cousins… For certain the places had to be left behind; the familiar kitchen where the smell of grandma’s cooking made one’s mouth water, the home in which children took their first wobbling steps, the tree under which the magic of a first kiss occurred…

So in my mind, the phrase “the old country” signifies a place that was left behind, but not without feelings of loss and a yearning that goes with one to the grave.

Now, in centuries past, I have had family who left an actual “old country” to cross a seemingly endless expanse of water in vessels which I equate with a collection of large toothpicks. I am a landlubber and have no desire to be on the ocean in a modern-day cruise ship with modern technology and weather tracking. No, I have a difficult time imagining the desperation or the glorious dreams that would make taking that journey a viable option. So, I will write of my own “old country” which is not even another country.

I was born in Dayton, Ohio. Both of my parents had been born and spent their early years in rural Eastern Kentucky, so both sides of my family had long histories there in Eastern Kentucky. Many of those family members had migrated to the Dayton, Ohio area. The automobile industry had several factories or related factories in that area and the jobs were good with good pay and good benefits.

Several family members who did migrate to the area ended up living very close to each other. I suppose that it was nice for these rural Kentucky folks who had moved to the big city to have familiar faces around and so they set down their roots close to other family members. 

Now, by the time I was born; my parents, the families of two of my dad’s sisters, and my great-aunt’s family lived within a few blocks of each other in our little corner of Dayton. My great-aunt and her husband had raised my mother and her brother Johnnie from young ages, so they were more like grandparents to me than great-aunt and great-uncle. My great-grandmother Granny lived with my great-aunt so I had her with me in my childhood too.

So, I grew up with all of these family members around and saw them all on nearly a daily basis as they were all within a short walk of each other. When I was born, a cousin who was eleven and a half years older than me, we all called her Kookie, claimed me as her own. She told Mom that I was her baby and so she often walked to our house to pick me up and carry me on her hip to her house to visit with Aunt Alta, Uncle Bug, Granny, Cousin Dale, Cousin Denny and Uncle Johnnie. Sometimes we would walk across the field to visit with Aunt Hortense and Uncle John and we might even see Aunt Davilee and Uncle Sherlock. For certain we would see boocoodles of cousins of every kind! 

                                Cousin Kookie and Me

I know that I have many memories in my actual childhood home, but such was my nomadic life that I seem to have as many sweet memories in the homes of family members.

            My home on Knox; Aunt Lola holding Cousin Kathy

                           and Granny holding Brother David
  

                    Inside our living room on Knox; I'm standing,

                          Uncle Johnnie holding Brother David

                 Kitchen on Knox; Dad with my brother and me

I recall sitting on Aunt Alta’s front porch, waiting in anticipation for Granny to slice open a huge and perfectly ripe watermelon. I also remember waiting on that same front porch for one of the grown-ups to bring a gallon jug of cold, sweet root beer from the root beer stand up at the end of the road.

        On Great-aunt Alta and Great-uncle Bug's Calumet porch;

               Uncle Johnnie, Great-aunt Alta and Aunt Lola
 

    Celebrating birthdays at Great-aunt Alta and Great-uncle Bug's on Calumet; Me and my brother in front; Granny and Uncle Johnnie in back

          Great-aunt Alta and Great-uncle Bug's Calumet kitchen;

                               Great-uncle Bug and Granny

                        Great-aunt Alta and Great-uncle Bug 

                        in their Calumet Lane living room

I remember waiting anxiously for Granny to open the cardboard box with holes along the top and a cacophony of peeps emanating from therein when a new order of baby chicks had come in! 

                    Great-Aunt Alta at her Calumet Lane home; 

               Granny's chickens and chicken house is to the right; 

                Uncle John and Aunt Hortense's Maeder Avenue 

                                  home can be seen in the distance.

I remember visiting Aunt Hortense and going upstairs to visit with Cousin Glenna who had a grand collection of horse figurines and could tell the spookiest stories! Her room was in the attic and the roofline went low on one wall and there was a small attic access door. She told me that she kept her dead people behind that door after filling my head with stories of spectres! 

    Uncle John and Aunt Hortense at their home on Maeder Avenue;

               With children Glenna (in front), Gerald and Sissy.

           Uncle John and Aunt Hortense's Maeder Avenue home; 

                   Me in Glenn's room with her horse collection.

I remember visiting Aunt Davilee. Her kitchen was arranged with a “U” of cabinets that looked over the dining area. For some reason, her kitchen always reminded me of the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. Maybe that was because she had a microwave oven. I had never seen a microwave before except as prizes on game shows. I guess that I figured that a microwave was so technologically advanced that there had to be one on the bridge of the Enterprise! 

     Aunt Davilee and Cousin Larry at their Maeder Avenue home.

So, that is the way I spent my first eight years of life; in Dayton, Ohio surrounded almost constantly by a welcoming and loving family.

My idyllic childhood changed in my eighth year. In April of that year, my dear Granny died. I had been around Granny nearly every day of my life. When I wasn’t shadowing Kookie, I was shadowing Granny. She took naps in the afternoon and I often lay down beside her and took a nap as well. Any other time, I fought off taking a nap like Van Helsing fought off vampires!

Granny had been perfection on Earth. I reckon that she was human and had to have had some imperfections, but I never saw them and I have never really talked with anyone who had anything bad to say about her. Oh, she did expect young’uns to listen and if they didn’t, there were consequences, but I do not consider that a fault. In my mind, it only increases her perfection.

So in the spring of my eighth year, my young heart was filled to breaking with the cold dark winter of the loss of my angel Granny. As I was dealing with the loss of Granny, a couple months after her death, my family moved from Dayton, Ohio to a farm on the outskirts of Wartrace, Tennessee. Today the population of Wartrace is a little over 700 and supposedly, it has been growing. My graduating class had less than thirty and that included the kids from nearby Bell Buckle also!

So, I was transplanted from the city of Dayton and the center of boocoodles of family to a farm a few miles from the town of Wartrace, Tennessee with only an aunt, an uncle and an older cousin that lived a mile or two up the road. That cousin was a couple years older and my brother and I were too immature to be good company for him.

We lived on a farm with acres of our land to the fore and aft. We had neighbors to either side, but they had no young children and you couldn’t even see their houses unless they had their porch lights on at night and you searched really well through the trees.

I had lost Granny; and with the move, it seemed that I had lost most of my other family as well. 1968 was a very bad year.

Now, we still went back to Dayton to visit Aunt Alta and Uncle Bug, Aunt Hortense and Uncle John, Cousin Kookie and other family members as often as we could. It was about a seven hour drive and if you have ever driven from Middle Tennessee to Ohio, you likely have passed over the I71/75 bridge that crosses over the Ohio River. It is just after crossing over this bridge that you pass under the “WELCOME TO OHIO” sign as you enter Cincinnati. As we passed over that bridge, I knew that “home” was just a few miles up the road. I knew that I was going home and a sense of contented exhilaration would fill my soul! I suppose that that bridge was like the ocean taking me back to my own “old country”. For years, every time I crossed over that bridge I experienced that same wonderful feeling of being home. 

Unfortunately, the years have been accompanied by the loss of so many of those family members that I grew up around. Aunt Alta, Uncle Bug, Uncle John, Aunt Hortense, Aunt Davilee, Cousin Kookie, Cousin Sissy, Cousin Denny, Uncle Johnnie…are all gone. With their loss, the familiar homes where sweet memories were made were sold to others.

Now, when I do go back to Dayton that sense of returning home is no more. I still have family there that I love and love to see, but my “old country” is gone. I cannot revisit the actual “old country” but in my mind, the “old country” with its people and its places lives on. When I see a baby chick, I remember my sweet and perfect Granny. When I sit on a porch swing, I remember a similar swing on a porch where thoughts of juicy watermelon and cold glasses of root beer made my mouth water. When I slice a delicious homegrown tomato, I remember the tomatoes grown in the gardens of aunts and uncles.

So my “old country” is not even a real country and perhaps it has never even been a real place. Maybe it is a state of mind where even if people and things there are not perfect and even if they are not actually there anymore, they represent an immortal, beautiful and familiar sense of home.