opal's mind travel

Collectors and Their Collections

2012-02-05T11:30:00.000-08:00

What strange creatures we people are! All of my life I have heard the Biblical phrase about “collecting”. You know it: lay not up for yourselves treasures on earth. Few of us take heed when we read the phrase. We earnestly try to lay up for ourselves treasures in heaven by following Christ’s direction for doing so, but we ignore the first part! This became such a reality to me when we sold JMBBQ and had to start cleaning out stuff. And most of it was just that – stuff!

For 25 years, we had used the attic of the restaurant to “store stuff”. We kept adding and adding and adding until it was full to capacity. We weren’t exactly hoarders, we were just collectors. It was hard for Don or me to turn down a bargain, or get rid of something memorable, and all of the children found it a convenient place to put things they weren’t using and didn’t want to get rid of. So we “stored” it in the attic. As a result, we had chairs, tables, lumber, art work, old jars - you name it. We probably had it in that attic.

When we decided to sell the restaurant, we knew that we had to get rid of all that “stuff”. We also knew that it would be a monumental task. And believe me, it has been. We kept asking, “what do we want to keep”? Why keep any of it? We haven’t used it or needed it in twenty-five years. What makes us think we’ll need it in the next twenty-five? Our children and grandchildren will just have to get rid of it! And besides, we’ve no place to put it!

So we called an auctioneer and contracted to have a Saturday auction. Once we started clearing out our treasures, we discovered that some of them were just so sentimental that we couldn’t part with them. We couldn’t possibly get rid of G.I. Joe and his helicopter. And David had stacks of art up there. And then there was my collection of old bottles. And Don had all of the dairy records that the cows set from the beginning of our time at the farm; that was l956! There goes that mind-set again! Eventually, we became rather ruthless and separated the “sell” from the “no sell” – and a “maybe keep” pile. Well, you know what happened! Our “maybe keep” just kept getting bigger and bigger.

So we decided that we could put it in an extra room at the house, and go through it again – just to be sure! It cannot stay in that extra room for another 25 years!! The only thing left to do is to set a time limit and do it! Or we could just call Home With a Heart thrift store and tell them to bring a big truck (empty), and load it up! Somebody else can take it home and store it!!

The Evolution of Just More Barbecue

2012-01-08T11:54:00.000-08:00

We began Just More Barbecue almost 50 years ago. Our beginning was humble: a worn-out milk-can sterilizer, charcoal, and hickory wood. Don built a hot fire in the bottom of the sterilizer, placed hams on the racks above the fire, closed the door, and kept the fire going until the hams were done. Since the fat from the hams dripped down on the fire, there was always danger of the wood flaming up and destroying the whole thing. The doors sealed tightly though, and as a result, a lack of air prevented that from happening often. The hot, smoldering coals were just enough to cook the meat to 140 degrees in about 14 hours. We were dairy farmers. While we milked cows, the hams cooked. Don kept an eye on them, renewing the wood as it was needed.

In the beginning, we cooked barbecue just for ourselves, family, and friends. Our friends started serving barbecue at family gatherings and parties, and word got around about Quattlebaum’s Barbecue. When folks found out how good it was, we began to get orders for it. A lot of weekends we would cook 10-12 hams. The most hams we ever cooked for one occasion in the sterilizer (by then we had rigged two sterilizers) was 40. Finally, the barbecue business got so big that we had to get into it or get out!

When we were just considering what we should do, a small restaurant in Clemson came available. “Jack’s” was adjacent to The Esso Club, almost directly across from the football stadium. We decided to invest in it, and Just Barbecue was born! It was a small space with no dining room. But people lined up to get barbecue sandwiches, fries, slaw, and baked beans - and hot dogs. Yes, hot dogs. That remained our menu for several months; then we added Brunswick stew, country hash, rice and cobblers. It wasn’t long before we outgrew our little one room. We had a portable unit where we served when we really got busy – especially during football games. We often would experience long lines for 4 or 5 hours at a time during game day. In the tiny little kitchen, we would have as many as 8 people working in order to keep up with the orders.

Our catering requests became faster and larger! The kitchen was too small to accommodate the volume of business we were receiving. I might add: Don was keeping up with the cooking and chopping, Donna was teaching, I was teaching, Michael and David were still in school, and we all were working at Just Barbecue. We decided that we would purchase The Esso Club in order to have more space for the restaurant. That purchase allowed us to have a dining room and a room for a large wood-burning rotisserie cooker. It also doubled the amount of work we had to do. Don stayed at the Esso Club until it closed, usually at 2 A.M.; Donna taught, then went to the Esso Club to tend bar or work in the restaurant; David and Michael worked after school; I worked whenever I could fit it in to teaching, keeping the house running, and being a wife and mom. In other words, it was a lot of work!

We held special occasions at the Esso Club: the beach parties, where we hauled in loads of sand to cover the parking lot; Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs played several gigs for us during those events. Spitoono was started in the Esso Club, and was still held there at the time we owned the institution. We had live music every week at the Esso Club, mostly bluegrass.

We came in contact with a lot of wonderful people while in Clemson; we became particularly fond of the students. Many of them have remained friends through the years and they still come by to see us. Once, during Spitoono, a young man took one of the cash boxes. When he confronted his roommate the next morning and found out what he had done, he called Don and returned it, apologizing contritely. One young man from Miami ate at Just Barbecue almost every day. The next year, after he graduated, he sent us $100 and a basket of fruit as an appreciation gift. Another young man from Denmark borrowed $500 to help him get to California to do his graduate work. We assumed we had donated it for a worthy cause. He came back 10 years later to repay Don. Those kinds of memories we can’t buy!

Again, we out-grew our space. The catering requests became too large to handle in the small kitchen at Clemson. We had a large machinery building just behind our house on the farm and we decided to renovate it for our catering kitchen. It took a lot of work, but the “bones” of the building were strong and sturdy. Once we began work, we decided to add a dining room on the front of the kitchen. The project took us about a year, but by the time we finished, we had a large well-equipped kitchen and a dining room to seat 350 people. A stage provided a place for bands to perform. We opened Just More Barbecue in April, 1992, with a menu which included just barbecue and sides that go with barbecue: pork barbecue, beef barbecue, smoked chicken, baby-back ribs, spare ribs, brunswick stew, hash, rice, baked beans, cole slaw, corn on the cob, green beans, macaroni cheese, sweet potato soufflé, potato salad, marinated vegetables, hush puppies, rolls, cobbler and drinks. And we provided blue grass music for the enjoyment of our customers. Gradually the work at Clemson plus the new restaurant and the Esso Club became too much. So we decided to sell the Esso Club and Just Barbecue and focus all of our attention on Just More Barbecue. We have worked at it for 20 years. Again, the people we have met have been the best part about our restaurant. We have enjoyed the fellowship of many who have become like family. We have watched their careers progress, their children grow; we have grieved when older friends have passed on, and we have rejoiced with those who had new babies.

Now we have reached another milestone in our lives. The barbecue business and the dairy farm have been good to us. But we are tired! We’re not as young and enthusiastic as we once were; Don and I are almost 80 and Donna is 50. We would like to take care of the yard and perhaps do a little gardening, be able to take part in weekend festivities (we could never participate in events on Friday and Saturday, because we always worked)! We’ll be able to attend the graduations of our grandchildren, weddings of those we love, drop-ins at Christmas, have an occasional date night (even after 56 years), and maybe even to eat out on a Friday or Saturday night!

I hope that God will allow us to live long enough to fulfill the future plans He has for us. After all, that’s all that matters. It’s all been quite a ride. The ending will be both sad and happy. I’m sure there will be tears, but behind the tears, we’ll be smiling!

October

2011-10-10T08:45:00.000-07:00

October

Golden Days…

the grand finale

summer…

Elysium.

The embroilment of color,

fighting for a chance

be noticed first.

Summer…

making its final argument

for continuance.

Being A Caretaker

2011-06-27T08:28:00.000-07:00

God calls us to be all kinds of things. The important fact is that we must be responsive to His call. And if we are responsive, He will support us; sometimes it takes a while for us to believe that. Relying completely on our Lord is so difficult at times. We tell ourselves that we are trusting with our entire being, yet we find ourselves trying to take over the management of our lives; we are convinced we can handle things. Our human tendencies direct us to try to do things our way. We read the scripture to say “I can do all things”, and we fail to add the second part: “through Christ who strengthens me”. Being a caretaker falls into this category.

I have chosen to take care of my mother in her waning years. I love her dearly; yet at times, I feel so restricted and smothered that it feels as if I am on house arrest. And I feel guilty for feeling that way. I was fortunate to have a great mother. She gave everything she had to make a better life for me: her time, her money, her love. Now it’s time for me to give back. It’s the human part of me that gets tired, impatient, and just plain weary. It’s only with God’s help and support that I can continue! And if I ask, He gives me that support. I renew my physical and emotional body through His help.

Remembering Easter

2011-03-26T08:15:00.000-07:00

Thoughts of Easter always make me happy. When I was a little girl, the day really began on Saturday, because that is when we always had a major egg-dying extravaganza! That was always so much fun! Layers and layers of newspaper were placed on the kitchen table and hard-cooked eggs were divided between my brother and me. We had kitchen cups filled with all of the colors or the rainbow. Dipping each egg into the colored liquid, we stretched out the procedure as long as we could, mixing colors and leaving the eggs in the dye much too long. We usually ended up with multi-colored hands as well as eggs. My grandmother taught us how to dye with natural things: dried onion peels, pecan and walnut shells, and cooked wild strawberries – things she had used as a child to dye her eggs. After patiently letting the eggs dry, we were allowed to place them in a new basket with glistening green “grass”. We tried to handle them carefully, but it was a rare day when one of the eggs didn’t get cracked.

As a child, I always got a new dress and shiny shoes. I didn’t get very many new dresses unless I outgrew mine, but there was always a new one at Easter. Mom and my grandmother sometimes made it themselves, but occasionally it was “store-bought”.

Daddy and I always went to Sunday school and church. He always reminded me that Easter was not about new dresses and Easter eggs. The Easter bunny never came to see me when I was a child. I didn’t know he was supposed to. But there was always a new Easter basket with a chocolate bunny, some marshmallow chicks, lots of jelly beans and a book. In fact, I didn’t hear much about the visiting Easter bunny until I had children of my own! I never knew that the Easter bunny brought gifts!

After church I always had to take off the new dress and put on “play clothes”. Then we went to Ma’s house. Easter dinner was always full of good things: fried chicken, ham, potato salad, all kinds of vegetables, homemade rolls, and always coconut custard pies. I always looked forward to that, because just the minute dinner was eaten, we had the Easter egg hunt. We always had “real” eggs; when I was a child, there were no plastic ones. My grandmother loved to hide eggs and took delight in finding spots where they would be hard to find. She always placed them in tree branches, creeping vines, and flower pots. She had lots of good places to hide them at her house. Sometimes she would hide them before we ate lunch; and that always heightened the anticipation, because we weren’t “turned loose” until dinner was over. She always helped us find them too, delighting and giving hints as to where they just might be. Once we got up on Easter morning and found the ground covered in snow. We were so disappointed. But Ma had a solution. We just hid eggs all over her house. Weeks later, we found an egg on the top of the kitchen cabinet!

After we moved to the country, we always went to sunrise service at the church. Most of the time, we had to wear our heavy coats; it was seldom warm on Easter morning. Those were meaningful times. No one was dressed in Easter finery, and all came to celebrate the risen Lord- the real meaning of Easter. We went away with a renewed appreciation for eternal life and for our Lord who gave it to us. Those thoughts should be uppermost in our minds when Easter is celebrated.

New Beginnings

2011-01-29T12:37:00.000-08:00

Sunrise - the untimate beginning
God's promise of renewal,
Brilliance and beauty
Exuding reverence.

Butterflies, fresh from the cocoon,
The cocoon of safety and confinement
Into a world of space - and freedom.

Springtime, green and bright
With the hope of harvest;
Smells - peculiar only to Spring.

Easter, heralding the Joy of Rebirth,
God's assurance of Eternal Life;
Hope for tomorrow.

Seeds with life securely encased,
Needing only Nature's touch
To bring forth new beginnings.

And children...
God's reassurance of faith in human-kind,
Faith in His Creation.

New beginnings..
The chance to start over.
No remembering failures,
No holding grudges,
No finding fault.
New beginnings...
The gift of God's love.

Reflection

2011-01-29T12:16:00.000-08:00

Would that all of us could
Allow our armor to
Be cast aside and
Become a child again
For just one day.

To experience the joy
Shown in simple things:
A bloom of dandelion,
Or an ant on the path;
A rose wrapped in paper,
Wet with water so that
It stays fresh and green
Until it gets to school.

Would that all of us could
Feel wind on our face and
Laughter in our hearts, and
Become a child again
For just one day.

I’m Grateful

2010-11-20T08:34:00.001-08:00

There are so many things for which I’m grateful today. I have paused this week to consider my good fortune – not luck, because there’s no such thing as luck for the Christian. It’s all a part of God’s plan.

I am thankful that I have a God who’s always with me. I don’t have to search for Him. I don’t have to find a place to seek Him. He’s here beside me always, inside me and directing my way.

I’m grateful for a good man who’s been beside me for 54 years. I’ve never had to worry about being mistreated. I’ve never had to be concerned about his abusing alcohol or drugs. He’s always been here. He’s a hard worker – perhaps to a fault, but there’s not a lazy bone in his body. He’s always been good to our children- and to those who have become a part of our life, sometimes providing for them too. He has given us all he had, including a comfortable place to live. I give thanks every day for a warm house in winter – and a cool one in the summer. “Thank you, Lord” is a phrase I always pray when I walk in the door on a cold winter night.

I’m grateful that I had good parents who loved me, provided for us, and taught me about the important things in life: loving Christ, remaining faithful to my beliefs, loyal to those God has entrusted to me, giving to others. God has allowed me to have a mother with me for almost 99 years. She prays daily that the Lord will just take her home to be with Daddy. I tell her that it just isn’t His plan, and she’ll have to hang around with me until He’s ready.

My children are the joy of my life: those to whom I gave birth, and those who came to me by chance. I’m so glad I was allowed to have them in my life. How blessed I am to have had the opportunity to teach them, love them, and learn from them.

I’m grateful for others who have entered my life and contributed to my happiness: in-laws, mates of my children, grandchildren. What a blessing to have around us those who love us.

My years as a teacher will forever remain a part of my life for which I am grateful. I hope that those whose pathway I crossed caught a glimpse of my caring for them, of my love for children, and for my love for learning. How grateful I am for the ability to continue to learn, even today!

I’m not sure what kind of legacy I will leave, and it really doesn’t matter, as long as I have accomplished what the Lord wants me to do. I am grateful for the life He has given me, and for the privilege I have had to have those around me who have made my life what it is.

Life on the Edge of the Mill Hill

2010-10-26T12:11:00.000-07:00

Life on the edge of the mill hill was a secure one for me. My mother and daddy worked in Alice Mill for all of my young life. Since my brother and I were not allowed to stay by ourselves, we were taken to my grandparents early every morning. My grandmother fed us breakfast and sent us on our way to school. We always knew someone was close if we needed them.

When I was in the 6^th grade, I decided I was too old to eat breakfast. I had heard some of my friends say that they didn’t eat breakfast; they just got up, got dressed, and came to school. Now that didn’t get it with my grandmother – but she didn’t say a word. Instead, the next morning, she had prepared hot biscuits (hers were great!) with real butter, homemade apple butter, and a milkshake. Now Ma knew there was no way under God’s high heaven I would refuse such a feast, because those were my favorite breakfast foods in the whole world! So I ate!

It was not until I returned from Winthrop one fall that I reminded my grandmother of that occasion. In her own quiet way, she said,” Oh, yeah, I never did tell you – I used to put an egg in that milk shake and made eggnog.” She knew not to tell me at the time. I never would have touched the stuff! It was really a pretty good breakfast though: bread, milk, egg, and even a little bit of fruit. A smart lady she was! I always ate breakfast after that –I still do!

My brother and I walked to school every day. It was just up the hill from my grandparent’s house on Park Street. At the top of the hill, we had our first encounter with what folks today call “bullies”. His house was the last house on the right before we got to the school. His name was Jack. We approached his house in fear, because he threw rocks at us. He never left for school until he had his morning “fix” by persecuting us. By the time we got to the top of the hill, several others had joined us. One morning, somebody suggested that we pick up the rocks and throw them back at him! We did, and it only took a few days for him to stop antagonizing us. We never did become his friend, but we tolerated him!

After school, we walked down the hill and my grandmother always had snacks ready for us (and for our friends too, if they followed us home). My brother and I were always included in everything that our grandparents did: garden work, raking leaves, picking grapes or cherries, planting potato plants – anything they did, we were expected to do.

Daddy and Mother (one or both of them) usually got off work every day around 3 P.M., and they would come by our grandparents’ house to get us and take us home. We actually thought of both places as “home” and had free reign to go from one place to the other as long as somebody knew where we were. To leave without giving notice however, was a definite no-no! Daddy usually rested for about an hour when he got off work. I remember once when I decided that I could go to my cousin’s house and get back before he got up. Well, I just forgot all about time! Daddy started calling around to see if he could find me, called my cousin’s house, and told her mother to just let me stay until I got ready to come home. It was dark-thirty when I thought about going home. That’s the only time in my life that Daddy spanked me. I never did it again

I remember one day, my brother was helping Pa feed the pigs, and his friend Murray was with them. Murray had a biscuit in his hand that he had brought from home and no longer wanted to eat. So when they fed the pigs, he threw the bread into the feed trough. The pigs had had enough and didn’t eat it. Chuck (my brother) said, ”Look, Murray, even the pigs won’t eat your Mama’s cooking!” Pa really got Chuck for that!

Some folks thought that living on the “mill hill” was to be frowned upon. We never felt that way. We didn’t live in the mill village itself, but the mill provided our livelihood. And we never felt threatened by anything. Our doors were left unlocked. We were able to walk to school without being afraid. We played on the sidewalk after dark. I walked four blocks to take piano lessons by myself, when I was in elementary school. And if anyone threw rocks at us, we just threw them back!

Daddy

2010-10-21T02:54:00.001-07:00

Don Remembers

“My Daddy was a good man. I still remember him kneeling beside his bed every night and praying. He prayed for all of us; and I remember that he specifically always prayed for the troops during World War II.” He didn’t live a long life. He died of pneumonia at the age of 50. Penicillin was in the research stages and some was flown in to treat him, but it arrived too late. We were young: I was 10, Richard was 11, Martha (Sister) was 12, and Edwin was 16. The loss of Daddy was life-changing.

When the family was very young, we lived in town, in Chester, S.C. But when I was six years old, Daddy and Mama bought a farm out on the Great Falls Highway, and we started farming. We loved being out in the country. Daddy knew all about farming, because he was brought up on a farm in Williston, S.C. He had a job as salesman for Hormel Meat Packing Company and he traveled from store to store selling products wholesale. But he loved farming. Every afternoon when he got off work, and on Saturday, he and all of the children would work in the fields. We grew and canned the extra food which we ate during the winter months. We also kept chickens, and hens for eggs; we milked cows; and pigs were grown for pork. But the bulk of the work was in the fields during growing season. In addition to providing food for the family, we also had to grow enough hay and grain for the animals. Daddy was a hard worker, and he expected the same from all of us.

We used horse-drawn farming equipment, and always kept horses and mules for the farm work. Caring for the horses and mules was a job itself. We had a horse named Beauty who had a tendency to run away, and she could really run! One day, Daddy was plowing with her and came in for lunch, bragging about the fact that Beauty had done so well that morning. He went back to work after lunch to continue his plowing. Beauty obviously didn’t want to work! Suddenly, she broke loose and started running. The ropes from the harness were wrapped around Daddy’s wrists and the horse started dragging him and the plow. She finally hit a stump and his hands jarred loose. She kept going though, and ran through the chicken fences, tearing them down, ran through the fence at the pig pens, ran into the garage and knocked it off its foundation, and when we finally caught up with her, she was calmly standing in her stall chewing on hay. It took us a couple of days to repair the damage she did.

Daddy liked to go back to Williston to visit his brothers and sisters. I particularly liked to visit Uncle Dess and his family. He had lots of children and we all enjoyed being together. He and his family were asparagus farmers, and we were usually there when they had big flat bed wagons loaded down with asparagus. We usually took some home, along with a great big watermelon. His sister, Aunt Eloise, had never married, and she was an elementary teacher in Williston. For years, when I would go to meetings, people would ask me if I knew Miss Eloise. “She taught me,” many would say. All of Daddy’s brothers and sisters lived around Williston. Uncle Dess, Will, Dewitt, and Land were all farmers. Aunt Eloise and Ilma were his sisters.

Uncle Will was Daddy’s oldest brother and often would be in charge of his younger brothers. Daddy told the story about Will and his brothers plowing a field with a mule in the springtime. The mule lay down and wouldn’t move. Uncle Will told his brothers to build a brush fire around the mule and it would get up and move. It didn’t, and they lost a mule!!

Cooking was one of Daddy’s favorite things to do, but he didn’t like the electric stove. We had a big wood stove that he liked to use. He believed that the food was just better if he fired up the wood stove and used it when he cooked. He always cooked breakfast for the family. He would stir crumbled sausage into a big pot of grits, or cook grits, country ham, and red-eye gravy. And everything was always cooked just right.

Daddy followed the troops in World War II religiously. He daily pinpointed Patton’s trek through Europe, marking the progress on a wall map. During this time, our farm and the neighboring farm was used for maneuvers. They practiced full-blown war including the use of howitzers and all kinds of artillery. They dug foxholes all over the fields and woods. The Crain’s farm was called the red army. Our farm was across the highway, and it was the blue army. We grew lots of big watermelons; the red army had none. So Richard and I decided we would take watermelons to the red team. We knew we would be rewarded with candy bars (which were practically impossible to buy during the war) if we made it through the enemy lines. We each got a watermelon and started crawling under kudzu vines to try to get to the red army. We didn’t make it. We were captured by the enemy and kept hostage. Daddy had to come and negotiate with them to get us out of enemy hands.

I also remember that on one occasion, the truck containing the kitchen for the troops was sent to another destination, leaving one company behind without any way to prepare food; so Daddy and Mr. Crain, his good friend, cooked breakfast for 120 of the men. After church every Sunday, Daddy and Mama always took some of the soldiers home for dinner too. Mama always had fried chicken and all of the trimmings for them. They loved it!

One day Daddy was working at clearing some bottom land, and he got too hot. That seemed to be the beginning of his last illness. Mama was in Florida to attend her daddy’s funeral, and Aunt Eloise came to stay with us. Daddy couldn’t seem to recover from working and getting so hot. Then, he and I got the flu. Both of us had a high fever, and Daddy decided to get out of bed to try to help around the house. He became much sicker the next day, was taken to Charlotte to the hospital, and the doctors discovered he had double pneumonia. He died the next day. I didn’t go to the funeral. Betty, Edwin’s girlfriend (later his wife) stayed with me. I was 10 years old.

Granddaddy’s Florida Farm

2010-10-21T02:52:00.000-07:00

Don Remembers

Mama’s family lived in Florida, and we didn’t get to see them very often. When we did go, it was quite a trip. We left early in the morning and traveled all day. We passed the time away by counting the mules and horses and cows along the way. If we encountered a gray horse or mule, we could double the number that we had counted. Richard and I counted one side of the road and Edwin and Sister counted the opposite side of the road. We looked forward to the trip simply for that game alone.

Granddaddy lived in Sanford, Florida, and he was quite innovative for his day. He heated his house with solar energy before it was even an idea in the mind of others. He grew a variety of produce on his farm: celery, melons, and papayas as well as other vegetables. Mama would receive big barrels from Granddaddy with papayas and watermelons carefully packed in excelsior to prevent their being bruised or broken. Mama loved them, and he frequently surprised her with them. He also had turkey houses, where weasels often would invade the premises and kill his turkeys; he had to remain diligent. He also had to deal with rattlesnakes, particularly in the terra cotta irrigation pipes where the turn-off valves were located. At night, they slithered into the pipes, and I remember that he used to tell us about popping their heads off.

One of his major projects was the breeding and growing of gladiolas. He had acres and acres of them. A particularly beautiful one that stands out in my mind was big and white with a red throat. The flowers were packaged and shipped all over the country.

Granddaddy was married to his second wife. We called her Aunt Emily, because that was the name by which we knew her. His first wife died young, and we never knew her. Aunt Emily was her sister, and the two of them were married after she died. We just always thought of her as our grandmother.

When we were in Florida, Granddaddy would always take us fishing in the St. Johns River, and we never went without catching lots of fish. It was always one of the highlights of our trip. He always took us to see Uncle Bob Garrison who was Mama’s brother. He farmed hundreds of acres in the Sarasota area, and was so busy he seldom took a lot of time with us, but we liked going to see him. Uncle Bob offered me a job one time, but we were already building a house and involved in our own farm work, so I refused. Aunt Betty, one of Mama’s sisters lived in Bradenton and was married to Uncle Ed L. They were always fun to visit. (Aunt Betty used to make persimmon pie that was so good.) They lived on the Manatee River and had a dock that projected out into the river. Manatees would frequently swim within view of the house. She always warned the children to stay away from the shores of the river because alligators attacked anything within their reach. We believed her!

Granddaddy became very ill, and Mama went to Florida to see him. He died seven days to the hour before Daddy did. Mama lost both of them within a week.

My Friend, Willis

2010-10-21T02:48:00.001-07:00

Don Remembers

I was six years old when we moved to the farm. The neighboring farm was owned by Mr. and Mrs. Monroe Crain. Mr. Crain was the Chester county extension agent, and Mrs. Crain was an elementary school teacher. They had one son, Willis. Willis and I became close friends. That was 60 years ago, and we have remained friends ever since that first encounter. During our childhood and early adulthood, we shared work, and play, and school. We used to go camping in the woods behind Willis’s house and cook our meals over a campfire. We built a swimming hole by damming up the creek and swinging across it with a grape vine. Tackle football was a major game for us – no touch, regular tackle football. When I got to high school and got pads, I thought I was hell on wheels.

When we were 12 or 13 years old, we went to 4-H Club camp together. He and I worked all summer to earn the $4.00 to pay to go to camp for a week by working for Mr. Jim Bagley. He had a farm about ½mile from us. He had the only hay baler and combine in the community. We would work with him from daylight to dark for $1.00 a day, going from farm to farm to harvest everybody’s corn and grain. We would cut the corn with a machete and pile it around a “corn horse” – a wooden structure around which the corn was stacked. After the corn dried, a shock of it would be loaded up to feed the horses. The hay baler was a wire tied baler which was fed with a fork. If, in the process of feeding the baler, we broke a pitch fork, we would have to work a whole week to pay for it, receiving no other pay. When wheat was combined, it had a sacker instead of a bin. We used 200 pound sacks, and we stacked a big truck full of wheat. Mr. Bagley’s son, Sam, was very strong. He could lift the 200 pound bags of wheat and hoist them on to the wagon or truck as if they were nothing. It would take two of us to arrange the bags on the truck. We always took the grain to the grain elevator in Shelby, N.C. That was where the closest elevator was located, so we had to leave at 4 A.M. in order to get there. Sometimes we would have to wait long hours to unload because of the traffic ahead of us. We also harvested oats for the livestock. Oats were cut with a grain cradle and tied it up in bundles. We loaded it on wagons and stored it in the barn to feed the cows and horses. It was all worth all the work to get to go to Camp Long 4-H Camp. Camp Long was in Aiken S.C., and it was one of the few times when we did nothing but have fun all day. We had swimming, canoeing, archery, and all kinds of recreational activities. Every morning we got to go to the canteen to buy snacks. I had only 25 cents to last the entire week. The only thing available for a nickel was Luden’s Cough Drops, so that’s what I got every day.

Willis and Richard and I worked together on everything – for Mr. Jim, as well as in our own fields. One year we had an acre of cotton and made a bale of cotton off that acre. Willis’ dad became very ill, Daddy had died, and the three of us did all of the farm work together. Both of our fathers died much too early. The three of us worked well together and made the farms produce a living for us.

We sold our cows before my senior year in high school so that I might play football. Willis and Richard started to Clemson, and I finished my senior year in high school. The following summer Willis and I started working for Borden Milk Company in Chester during our summer breaks. Those summers were hard work but we earned 90 cents an hour!

Willis, Richard, and I stayed good friends, continuing to work together on the farms until we left to go to Clemson. None of us did very much farm work in Chester after leaving to go to school. Mama went to Winthrop to work as a house manager and sold our farm. Willis still lives in the house where his parents lived. We still keep in touch with each other. Every time I see him or call him, he’ll say, “Hello, my friend”.

Remembering Parenting Classes

2010-10-20T12:36:00.000-07:00

Child development and parenting classes were probably the favorite things that I taught. I had the best of both worlds: the high school students, whom I loved, and the little children who just wrapped themselves around my heart. To see the high school students teach the little ones and have the children respond to their teaching was priceless.

In the child development room, we had an observation booth. A third of the class of students worked with the children while the other two thirds observed, using structured observation sheets. The students who worked with the children had the responsibility of planning and executing activities for the children. The high school students were divided into groups who worked together to do the work required of them. We never had a problem with “slackers”. They were generally anxious to work with the children and wanted to have good plans made. We often had people to enter the observation booth unannounced, and the workers wanted to have their day with the children work smoothly.

The room was divided into centers, concentrating attention to specific subjects: a reading center, a numbers center, an art center, puzzles, dress-up center. The students who worked with the children were assigned a center where they were completely in charge, and one student in the group served as the chairman and supervised the group. He or she would sometimes have to step in to take the place of a student who was absent, though absences were rare when the group was working with the children. They loved that day. Their responsibilities in the group rotated with each work day, so they had the opportunity to plan activities in a variety of subjects. Each work day had a theme and the activities must be planned around that theme.

On the days that the children were there, my job was to stay in the observation booth evaluating the students who were working with the children. I never went into the room with the children unless a problem came up that the high school students couldn’t handle. That rarely occurred. Most of the students were so involved with the program that they foresaw any problem and were able to handle it.

The school provided us with a fenced yard where the children participated in outdoor activities. The students carefully planned the outside fun so that the little children were not just freely running about, but were engaged in learning activities too.

As their teacher, I observed extreme maturity taking place in the high school students. They discovered a lot about themselves while they were in the process of learning about children and working with them. Their class time without the children was intense. For one whole semester, we studied the developmental skill patterns in children: how they should behave at certain ages; what was normal and what wasn’t; what happened if they child missed a particular stage of development; how long it took a child to catch up if he did miss a stage of development. All of the class time focused on child behavior, and the students looked for those behavior patterns in their observations. We had several students to go to college to further study child development and early childhood education as a result of taking the child development classes. Some of those students are almost ready to retire from teaching! Doesn’t seem possible!

In the second semester of the class, the students studied parenting skills: responsibilities of being a parents; correct ways to handle a child’s behavior; the relationship between the parent’s behavior and the child’s behavior; the difference between discipline and punishment; allowing a child to suffer or enjoy the consequences of his own behavior; determining factors for a child’s learning; teaching a child to take responsibility for his own behavior as well as his own learning. In addition, we studied home management skills as it would apply to the family. The students put these skills to practice when they planned their programs for the child development room.

The first half-semester that the students were in my class was spent in the study of child development skills. Sometimes it was hard for them to grasp the idea that they had better learn these skill patterns because they would be using them in just a few weeks. Most of them settled down and studied, especially the closer time came for planning for the children. The second half-semester was spent planning for and working with the children.

The third half-semester was spent studying parenting skills, and the fourth half-semester, they worked with the children again. They made visuals and posters, planned skits, decided how the centers would be set up, made written plans for the work to be done on the days that children would be present; tried to decide what a parent would do in certain situations. Again, a surge in maturity took place during the time that they worked with the children and studied what they would do if they were the parent.

The high school students had many opportunities to guide the behavior of the younger children. They used the techniques they had learned during classroom time, and most of them did an excellent job in directing the children. One day, one of the little girls wrote all over a table with a crayon, and the student working with her told her she would have to scrub the marks off the table. She looked with disdain at the student worker and said, ”No, I can’t. I won’t do it.” The student calmly went to get cleanser and a wet cloth and presented it to her. She crossed her little arms, protruded her lips, and sat with a horrible frown on her face. My student sat beside her. The other students and children went outside for play time. The two of them sat! When the rest of the class came in and got ready to have a snack, the little one was not allowed to eat until she cleaned up the table. It didn’t take long until she started scrubbing. When she finished she looked up at the older student, smiled and said, “Now!” That is taking responsibility for one’s own actions! We often do not want to take time to allow a child to do that.

Hopefully, the students who enrolled in those classes learned something that made their family life a little easier. We never know the impact we have when we endeavor to give example – not just teachers, but all of us.

Recalling a Walk on the Beach

2010-10-12T12:07:00.001-07:00

The beach is almost deserted. No human voices, no mechanical sounds, no street clatter. Quiet. Almost lonely. I shuffle my feet in the dry sand, walking just above the most recent tidal high-water marks. Even there, the water soaks my sneakers occasionally, making me more aware of the crisp October afternoon. Lost in my thoughts, it was a while before I became aware of all of the noise around me – sounds that one did not hear in the summer when the beach was crowded with beach-combers and sun worshippers. One by one, sounds besieged my reverie; sounds which came not as clanging trashcans would, but sounds which quiet the soul and bring peace to the spirit.

I walked by a group of gulls blabbering to each other as they sat around their tidal pool bistro. They reminded me of a club of little old ladies who had not had the opportunity to talk to anybody lately. Their loneliness - and aloneness- gone, they were relishing the moments of togetherness. Their conversation and chatter made me laugh.

Above my head, terns were screaming delight at having narrowly missed a friend while performing acrobatics. I am reminded of my children when they were young, playing hard, never running out of energy, delighting in the joy of youth and of each other. Sharing the same air space with the terns was a flock of pelicans, brown and gray, flying in formation – formal, organized, with only the rhythm of their wings revealing evidence of their adult, grown-up presence. Skimmers were raking the surf, expecting a smorgasboard but having to return over and over to find just a morsel of seafood.

The surf commanded my attention, beating out a message of strength, controlled by some unseen power. And then out of the water, the dolphins came into view, playing leapfrog with the waves, rising and falling and whistling to each other as they announced the joy of their adventure in the sea. It was as if they were making fun of the waves and their force and fury.

Around the next turn, a blue heron was cautiously pursuing his next meal, webbing his way silently through the tidal pool. And an egret stood bemired in the marshy grass, revealing his presence in the occasional splash of erupting water.

As I turned to walk across the board-walk which traversed the tidal pools, there were crabs silently taking a crooked stroll, sidling through the rivulets of water. Sea oats caressed the sand dunes, whispering to the wind and to the surf and to me.

Sounds…..Silent Sounds…..Sounds which quiet the soul and bring peace to the spirit.

Quiet in the midst of nature’s noise!

Granny and the ‘Possum

2010-10-09T12:57:00.001-07:00

Granny Bowen was an old lady when I knew her. For many years, she had lived with my grandmother and grandfather, the three of them sharing home and living responsibilities. There was an orchard, a vegetable garden, a pen for hogs, a barn for dairy goats which were milked twice daily, a chicken coop filled with Rhode Island Red hens, and a great big mean rooster. Granny did a lot of sitting and rocking! She loved the Chinaberry umbrella trees that shaded the big back yard where she sat for hours watching my brother and me play. She would often say nothing for long periods of time, and I know now that she was probably remembering those days in Appalachia when she lived on the French Broad River with her brothers and sisters. As with most folks in those days, her family lived off the land. If the land didn’t produce it, they didn’t eat it. Her brothers hunted the woods for game to feed the family. Sometimes it was squirrel, or rabbit, or opossum; sometimes it was quail or mourning dove, or duck. If they were really fortunate, they would come home with deer or wild turkey. Sometimes there was not enough meat to go around for thirteen siblings, and it had to be extended with whatever was in the root cellar: potatoes, turnips, sweet potatoes. There were always dried peas and “leather britches”(dried green beans) that could be added.

My brother and I were great-grandchildren of Granny Bowen; not her only ones, but two of many. My mother was an only child and her grand-daughter. Since Granny lived next door to us with my grandmother, we were a close family. Mother was a working mother when no one else I knew had a mother who worked at “public works”. That was o.k. with us though, because we got to stay with my grandparents and Granny while Mother and Daddy worked in the textile mill. Our childhood was not deprived by any stretch of the imagination. There were always fun thing to do, and both of our “grandmothers” could tell fantastic tales that just happened to be true.

When Granny was in her later years, she often reminisced about her younger days. One day she was talking to my daddy and told him that she would love to have some ‘possum again, prepared just the way her mother did it when she was a youngster at home with her brothers and sisters. Daddy told her that he would do his best to find her a good specimen. He talked to one of the mountain men who worked for him in the mill and told him he’d give him five dollars if he’d find him a big fat ‘possum. It was about a week when he brought to work a hissing, snorting, and generally disagreeable animal.

Daddy brought the ‘possum home to Granny. He had built a wire cage for her to hold the animal. She wouldn’t think of eating the meat without feeding him for a long while so she would know exactly what he had eaten. (It seems that ‘possums aren’t too particular about what they consume.) So the cleansing process started. Every day, twice a day, Granny fed the ‘possum good, wholesome rations. Every day, he looked up at her with those soulful eyes, knowing for sure he had found a friend. He finally stopped hissing and snorting and just “smiled” up at her twice a day when she fed him.

After Granny had wintered and summered and wintered the ‘possum, the time arrived for eating. Daddy butchered him for her and presented the clean white meat to her for preparation. Granny seemed excited at first; she raved on and on about how good her dinner was going to be. None of us had any intention of eating any of that ‘possum. After a while we could tell that Granny might be having second thoughts about it too, but she continued the preparation just the way her mother had done. When she had finished her cooking, Granny sat down to eat her ‘possum and sweet potatoes. But she couldn’t eat a bite. She said that every time she started to take a bite, she saw that ole “possum looking up at her from that pen. She threw away every bit of it.

That was the last time I ever heard Granny mention ‘possum.

Mom Remembers

2010-10-08T10:46:00.000-07:00

My Mom is 98 years old today. She was born Monday, October 7, 1912. During her lifetime many of the events we call “ancient history” occurred. During the year she was born, the Titanic met its demise (on April 15). The Fifth Olympic games took place in Stockholm, Sweden. Woodrow Wilson defeated Theodore Roosevelt for president. Other significant events have taken place. IRS began to levy and collect income taxes on March 8, 1913. Ford began its moving assembly line to manufacture the T-model Ford, the first in history. The first electric refrigerator was manufactured, and sold for $900 – a lot for that day. (It was years before she and Daddy could afford to buy one.) In October, 1929, the stock market crashed, taking all of her daddy’s savings. In 1939, TV was first introduced in the United States. She experienced World War 1 and World War 11, as well as the more recent wars we can name. During World War 1, she and her parents went to the train station in Greenville to greet the troops being transported from one station to another. She still remembers waving and shouting to the men as the train inched its way through town. And she learned to drive an A-model Ford when she didn’t have to have a license.

Lately, she has been remembering events that took place when she was a young girl. Her parents had moved from North Carolina to Greenville, S.C., to take advantage of the textile boom taking place. Jobs were plentiful and the salaries were good for the time in which they lived. Her parents, Zoie and Isaac Davis, worked in Woodside Mill and lived in one of the houses the mill provided for its workers. She remembers that they lived on Seventh Street. Mom was an only child, and as a result, she was very close to her uncles, aunts, and cousins, all of whom lived in the same mill village. Her mother had 8 brothers and sisters, and all of them lived in and around the area. They obviously visited among each other, frequently eating meals and just spending time together.

Her grandmother (Granny Bowen) lived with them and she and Mom frequently walked to places in the village to visit other relatives, etc. They often went to Uncle Will’s house, taking him milk and butter. Her mother always kept a cow, and they provided milk and butter for several of the families in the village. “Uncle Will” was her mother’s oldest brother whose wife had died at an early age. He had the responsibility for caring for several young children, and Mom loved to visit them. She became very close to his children – they became almost like siblings. Uncle Will always cooked big meals, and all of them, including Mom, were seated around a big table to eat. One of the things Mom remembers most is the big pan of cornbread he always made. As they got older, his boys learned to play string instruments, and they would sit on the front porch and play and sing for hours. One of their Saturday night excursions was to go down to the company store to get hot dogs. She believes that’s why she likes them so much now.

When Mother was a teen, she and her parents moved to Easley where her daddy and mother were given a job working for Alice Manufacturing Company. For Mom, a new part of her life was beginning. For a few years, she and her parents lived on Railroad Street, and then they had the opportunity to build a house on Park Street (where they lived when I knew them). She met my Daddy at church when she was 16 and they were married when she was 18. She and Daddy both worked in the mill and lived on the mill village for a while. In 1933, just before I was born, they bought a house near her parents. They both worked to make it a pleasant place for us to live. Mother remembers planting roses, planting and harvesting vegetables, gathering eggs from the hen house, and cooking on the wood-fired stove. They heated water for baths, and warmed the house with fireplaces.

In 1936 my brother was born, and I would freely have given him away if I could have found someone to take him. I learned to love him though, and we spent wonderful childhood days together. He and I became constant play partners, and practiced undying loyalty in case of misunderstandings with our friends. Mother was witness to several incidences of our sticking together. Mother and Daddy continued to work while we were children. Daddy worked on the first shift and Mom worked on the second shift. When Mom came home from work, she always brought us a surprise from the canteen. I remember running to her apron pocket to see what she brought us every morning. She remembers caring for us and working too, and that was not always easy. Daddy was always a big help and Mom’s mother and dad, as well as her grandmother (Granny Bowen) helped to care for us.

In 1947, my parents sold the house in Easley and bought a farm on Highway 178: a Liberty address, an Anderson telephone number, and Pendleton schools for us. My Mom thought it was in the middle of nowhere because she had always lived in town. The house was big and beautiful, and we each had our own room. It was cold in the winter and cool in the summer; we loved it though. Mom was able to quit work, and Daddy got to do the farming he loved. He continued to work in the mill until he retired. Both Mother and Daddy became involved with the church and loved the work there. They became involved in the community and developed friendships among the people that were lasting and meaningful.

Most of Mom’s memories now center around my Daddy. They lived together for 52 years. She very often says, “ I miss your Daddy so much”. She readily admits that her parents spoiled her, and Daddy continued it after they were married. He always gave her gifts and flowers, and did for her sometimes what she could have done for herself. I’m glad her memories are good; very few are harsh and unhappy. How good to live for 98 years and be able to say that!

Remembering Wash Day

2010-10-08T10:44:00.000-07:00

Remembering wash day is not one of my favorite memories. In the days before automatic washers and dryers, getting clothes clean was a major task in most households. Ours was no exception. It all started early in the morning as soon as daylight appeared. All of the preliminary tasks connected with the day began as soon as breakfast was over. A fire was built under the big iron wash pot in the back yard, the pot filled with water, and a week’s worth of clothes was sorted. A bench was set up on level ground. It had to be long enough to hold at least three big wash tubs which were later filled with hot water from the wash pot: one for soaking, one for washing, and one for rinsing. Sometimes we had a fourth tub for a second rinse. The equipment was assembled which would be necessary for scrubbing and cleaning the clothes: a wooden paddle for stirring the white clothes in the iron pot, a scrub board for cleaning the really dirty spots in the knees of pants, etc., a full box of soap flakes, a bar of Octagon soap for extra help in cleaning the rings around collars and the knees of pants. As soon as I was able to reach the washtubs, I was drafted into helping with the “washing”. I never looked forward to the day, but was made to realize it was necessary if I expected to have clean clothes. Mom always tried to get my brother to help too, but generally he caused more problems than was worth the effort! He would just slosh the clothes around in the water and called it washing them. As a result, he was allowed to leave and play with his friends. I usually stayed until the very end, and my fingers were shriveled and snow-white.

The white clothes were put into the washtubs first, washed in the hot soapy water and then put into the boiling hot water in the wash pot. They were stirred with a wooden paddle until they were white and as clean as they possibly could be. After about an hour, they were lifted from the wash pot with the wooden paddle, rinsed, squeezed free of water, and hung on the line to dry. The colored clothes were next, and the dirtiest work clothes were washed last. If we were lucky, the sky would remain clear until all of the clothes were crisp and dry and folded. However, sometimes we had to rush to the clothesline and grab the laundry and quickly fold it to keep it as wrinkle-free as possible. Occasionally though when the rain caught us by surprise, we had clothes scattered all over the inside of the house so that they might dry.

I was taught that there was an art to hanging clothes on the line. If we hung all clothes that were just alike on the line together, it made folding a lot easier later – towels with towels, sheets with sheets, underwear with underwear, socks with socks. Nothing smells like clean clothes fresh from the clothesline. The smell of fresh air and sunshine can never be reproduced.

The Farmer’s Wife

2010-09-21T06:37:00.000-07:00

I once had a dream of becoming a farmer’s wife – just a farmer’s wife. Somewhere in the back side of my mind were lofty dreams of a big, two-storied colonial house stationed at the end of the lane. White columns at the front added to feelings of grandeur in my mind. Black and white cows grazed the pasturelands, up to their knees in lush, green carpet. Rows of corn and soybeans, laid out in symmetrical curves plowed their way into the furrows of my brain, and I experienced contentment just thinking about it all.

That first glimpse of what would become our farm is firmly recorded in my memory. It was like a dream materialized. The farmer I was getting ready to marry had the same dreams and values that had been so important to me for so long. As he and I walked through the wheat fields and orchards, we knew we had found our home…the white colonial house with the columns…the cows grazing in the front pastures…corn, soybeans…the whole package.

Along with our dream package, we found work – lots of work. We arose at 4 A.M. , extracted the white gold from the cows, baled hay, chopped silage, plowed fields; and we watched sunsets, listened to mocking birds, and counted the ducks and geese as they came home for the winter. Such moments provided a balance that helped to strengthen our partnership. I was the farmer’s wife I had always wanted to be. I cooked, I sewed. I preserved fruits and froze vegetables, hauled grain to market, fed calves, helped haul hay – all those things farm wives do.

Leisure moments were sparse, but we didn’t mind; we could see the end of the rainbow just over the next hill! The synchronized partnership worked; we believed we would see that pot of gold if we continued to work at our dream.

Decades passed. Years of drought began to take their toll; fields, usually green and lush in June, took on the appearance of October after the first frost paralyzes growth. Year after year it happened…brown fields and pastures…high prices for feed and fertilizer…low profits. Bit by bit we felt our life blood draining; we were falling into a great chasm of helplessness. Hope and optimism, generally steadfast in farm people, fluctuated daily. The dream quickly turned into a nightmare.

We had to sell our farm, the cows, and the pecan orchard where they grazed – but we are among the fortunate ones. We were able to keep our home and the surrounding acres. We still listen to the mocking birds; we drive down the same lane every day. We watch the sunrise and sunset from the same perspective—or do we?

We did all we could to achieve our dream. We worked, we prayed, we manipulated, we struggled. Man and nature’s coordinated efforts were more than we could withstand. There is no regret; no bitterness. No longer young, I still wonder how it might have been. But then, that’s the material from which dreams are made.

Remembering Mama

2010-09-20T16:40:00.000-07:00

Mama became a part of my life late- but once she did, it seemed odd to think of ever having existed without her. For me, life was never the same once I met her.

She was my idea of human perpetual motion. I was constantly amazed at the amount of energy she expended. Mama had developed though the years, a little running-kind-of-walk that set the pace for everything she did. She expected us to possess the same level of energetic ability. Though she was three times our age, she could do more work than all of us put together. Sometimes when we became tired and had to stop a task, she just kept going! It was all right for us to stop and rest for a while; she just didn’t need to! Her day began early – always with a bath, full dress, and make-up; none of this bathrobe and slippers business for Mama. From that beginning point, her day never stopped. She must have gotten tired, but it was never obvious to those around her. Even when she sat to rest for a while, her hands were working: mending, sewing, doing needlepoint, shelling peas, peeling apples.

In my opinion, Mama could do almost anything – except learn to drive. Several people tried to teach her, but were never successful. At first, I felt that I had to compete with her, but I soon realized there was no such thing! She made it perfectly clear that she wasn’t into competition. She did things for us and with us simply because she loved us, thus eliminating the need for competition. If she could do something better than we could, she simply taught us her skill – if we wanted to learn. Out first recollection of each other centered on our love for stitching and sewing. We sat and sewed and talked for hours when I was a student at Winthrop and she was the house manager. Our conversations ranged from her love of God to the proper way to peel a cantaloupe.

She was a believer in doing things well – or not doing them at all. As a result, she was an excellent seamstress. Her creations were often works of art. Perfection was her password. Many times I have heard her say, “That just won’t do”, and she would take all of it out. It didn’t make any difference whether it was her stitching or my stitching. The seams and final touches were always exquisite – bits of lace, or smocking, or appliqué – all hand done and just perfect. She especially enjoyed sewing for children, and would spend hours doing the handwork on a garment for them. A dress made by Mama would always make our eyes light up. It fit perfectly, had all of the right finishing touches, and we felt special every time we wore something she created. And nothing pleased Mama more than seeing one of us wearing one of the dresses she had made.

After I married her son, I always looked forward to Mama’s visits. She maintained a place of her own, so she had a life other than just her children. Her visits were fairly infrequent, but they were always intense. When Mama was in the house, things happened! She could never stop working as long as she knew there was something to be done. She did more work in less time than anyone I’ve ever known. In our farmhouse, there were always things to be done. Summer brought an abundance of vegetables to be canned and frozen, fruits to be preserved; and Mama knew exactly how to engineer such projects! She just couldn’t rest as long as she knew there were apples on the trees, berries on the terrace, or fabric in the sewing cabinet. In the evening, we patched the knees or seats of pants, began a new sewing project (or finished an old one) or sometimes we just sat and snapped beans to be frozen or canned the next day.

It always amazed me how much Mama could gear down for Sunday. That was the Lord’s Day and no work was done when she was around. She was a devout lady who loved God, and the subject of work on Sunday was definitely not up for debate. Most of Sunday dinner was cooked on Saturday; the sewing machine was folded up and tucked away; the house was cleaned and readied for the Lord’s Day. Clothes were pressed, shoes shined and set aside, and everything was put in order before going to bed on Saturday evening. Sunday morning with Mama was spent in church. Sunday afternoons were used for leisure conversation, long afternoon naps, and observing nature from the porch. She held the secret of God’s plan: the Sabbath was made for man’s renewal, not man for the Sabbath.

Mama’s frugality was the eighth wonder of the world. She had lots of practice though. Widowed at the age of forty-six with four young children and few marketable skills, she not only survived, but sent all four of the children to college. She learned along the way how to use two small pieces of fabric and stitch them together to make a designer’s dream. She could cook dinner for six from practically nothing. And she must have known a dozen different ways to make a gourmet dish from corn meal – some of which I never learned to enjoy. She taught me how to cook foods I didn’t know existed: fried blueberries, eggless fruitcake, liver mush. She taught me homemaking skills that my home economics education professors would not even touch!

When I think of Mama I recall the thirty-first chapter of Proverbs. Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. She was quite a lady. She never let me forget that I was a chosen one. I never let her forget that I loved her before I loved her son. We met while I was a college sophomore and she was my housemother. She introduced me to her son who has been my husband for fifty-four years.

I never cared much for mother-in-law jokes!

A Godly Woman is….

2010-09-20T16:31:00.000-07:00

The Bible gives specific instructions for becoming a good wife and mother. It isn’t an easy task to follow the rules, but God promises that the consequences are worthwhile and rewarding. A 1910 quote by G.W.E. Russell says,” The goodness of a home is not dependent on wealth, or spaciousness, or beauty, or luxury. Everything depends on the Mother. “ God’s instructions on how to be a good mother and wife are in Proverbs 31:10-31. One cannot even come close to achieving God’s directives without diligence and constant prayer.

The following characteristics apply to a Godly woman:

1. She is virtuous (verse 29), and Godly (verse 30)

2. She is a good wife: trustworthy (verse 11), supportive (verse 23), and shields and protects her husband (verse 12)

3. She is at the top of God’s list (verse 29)

4. She is of great value (verse 10)

5. She is rare (verse 10)

6. She is industrious (verses 13, 24, 27)

7. She feeds her family well (verses 14-15)

8. She is a business woman (verses 16 and 24)

9. She is healthy and strong (verse 17)

10. She works long hours (verse 18)

11. She does volunteer work (verse 20)

12. She takes care of the physical needs of her family (verses 15,21,27)

13. She keeps herself attractive (verse 22)

14. She is not stressful or anxious (verse 25)

15. She teaches her children (verse 26)

16. She is kind (verse 26)

17. She is energetic and always occupied (verse 27)

18. She earns the respect of her husband and children (verse 28)

19. She gives good advice (verse 26)

Visiting the Old House

2010-09-18T13:20:00.000-07:00

The walls creaked and moaned when I lived there. The sturdy timbers expanded and contracted according to the temperature. With no “artificial” heating and cooling, they were at the mercy of the environment. Standing stately and proudly by the side of the road, the old house has seen many generations enter and leave the front door. And such a fine old front door it is – beveled floor length glass that gives a view of the long front hall with heavy walnut wood surrounding the glass.

The doctor’s family lived in it first. An old country doctor, he was one who went to visit his patients in a buggy, knew them by their first name, and took care of them from the time they were born until they died. The herb garden at the side of the house provided many of the remedies he prescribed for his patients. The remains of it exist to this day, producing the same remedies – if someone just knew what to do with them.

What fun it must have been watching that old house being built. It was the finest, biggest, best built in the community. In those days, the community had its own high school, a general store, post office, and a party-line informing the people of important happenings among themselves. The old party-line telephone still hung on the front hall wall, bearing witness to days long past!

Big rambling rooms, each with a fireplace of its own for warmth, allowed the family to enjoy living inside. Lots of windows, big windows were included. Bay windows, beveled glass windows, plate glass picture windows, and diamond shaped windows added interest to the rooms. There was only one bathroom, and having one at all, for its day, was unusual. It had a big four-legged bathtub and a frosted glass window. There were mirrors over the mantels, marble hearths, a walk-in pantry, a butlers’ pantry, built-in china cabinets, fancy chandeliers - but no closets. Big over-sized armoires were used in those days so there was no need for built-in clothes storage.

Broad pine boards, finished to a high gloss provided flooring – even in the kitchen. Plastered walls extended into ten foot ceilings; summer days rarely got hot inside the house because of those high ceilings and cross ventilation.

Summer in the old house was fun when it was first built. Built in the edge of virgin trees, it was the perfect setting for a walk through the woods. Rabbits, squirrels, deer, opossums, and hundreds of different kinds of birds were common. Cool breezes caught by open windows, wide eaves, and a front porch, a side porch, a back porch – all worked together to produce a Southern atmosphere, a Southern summer never to be forgotten by anyone who ever lived within the walls of the old house.

The doctor built his office about twenty-five steps from the front door; the same sturdy timbers were used. Shelves for storing the big brown bottles of medicines were made from single twelve inch boards of heart pine. An examining room with plenty of light and fresh air was constructed in grooved boards, naturally finished.

The doctor and his wife lived to be old. Their children moved away, and the old office became a storage building. The grand old house geared down, taking a respite from noisy, growing children, but retaining it dignity and esteem. The generation passed on, and the old house opened its doors to other growing children, to other generations. They came – and they went. The house was bought at times by people with high hopes and dreams of returning it to its grandeur – but they came and they left. It needed money and time, and expertise – but none of the owners seemed to have it, so –they got by, but never restored the old house to its original beauty. It was no less home for its owners; it no less housed joy and happiness for its inhabitants; but still the house itself seemed to cry for help to all who saw it.

Then finally, people came and saw the potential in the old house; they loved what they saw and decided to do something about it. They went to work, and it again sits proudly – restored and stately - by the side of the road, proclaiming to all who see it the history it has experienced. I am glad someone loves it now.

I once lived in the old house. It holds lots of memories for me. I learned the value of hard work and the joy of helping on the farm along-side my Daddy. I went to middle school and high school while there; I started dating; I left for college and came home for breaks and summer vacation there; I got married and left, returning for Christmas or Easter or birthdays. The major events of my young life occurred in the old house. It is a permanent part of me. I’m so glad it’s still there!

God's Unconventional Solution

2010-09-17T04:26:00.000-07:00

     I sat in the amphitheater watching the ceremony.My two young sons stood proudly around the tribal campfire waiting their turn to be tapped into one of scouting's most honorable groups: The Order of the Arrow. Their uniforms were neat and looked store-bought new. I knew better.
     Just weeks earlier, we had taken stock of their scout uniforms in preparation for their stay at Camp Old Indian. To my dismay, nothing fit. In other families with two sons, there may have been hand-me-downs, but with twins, there are rarely hand-me-downs; these two boys were no exception. Everything they tried on was either too tight or too short, with the exception of one uniform which they wore every week. Two uniforms wouldln't be nearly enough. Between the two of them, they needed at least six or eight.
     I saw absolutely no way to buy those other uniforms. The farm we had bought years before was fast slipping from under our control. Years of drought and high interest rates had taken their toll. There just wasn't enough money to go around - certainly not enough to buy new scout uniforms.
     So I began to pray, "Lord, I really need those uniforms. This is to be a special time for our boys. Help me to get the money for the uniforms somehow." I didn't say anything to anyone - not even my family. I knew that Don would have sold a cow to get the money if I had told him about it. I just told the boys to get everything else packed and ready to go- and I prayed. I looked for extra ways to earn money- and I prayed. Nothing seemed to be working.
     The weeks passed, and it was three days before the troop was to leave to go to camp. Still no uniforms. The telephone rang on the morning of the third day, and another scouting mother was on the line.
     "Opal," she said, "I've just been getting Mark's clothes ready for camp. He has outgrown everything, and I had to go buy him more. I think the old ones will just about fit your boys. If you want them, I'll send them to the scout meeting tonight."
     I had prayed for money, and got uniforms without even going shopping! They were clean, pressed, and ready to go! I found it hard to believe that my prayers had been answered by a lady I hardly knew. But that's the way we are. We pray for something and then we're surprised when our prayers are answered. I opened the box of clothes that night and found uniforms practically new - not six or eight, but twelve. They were leftovers from Mark and his older brother, and they just fit our boys. Some of the uniforms had been stored for several years, and "by chance", that scouting mother I hardly knew had decided to clean out closets--"by chance" for her; God's plan for me! God's resources are unlimited; ours are finite. Our solutions are orthodox; God's solutions are unconventional.
     Since that day, there have been many times when God revealed to me his ability to supply our needs. There has never been a time when an answer to prayer was more obvious.

Remembering the Dogs of My Life

2010-09-16T17:49:00.000-07:00

     Chipper was the first that I remember. We had just moved from town to "the country" and Daddy consented to allow us to have a dog. He was a cute little terrier-type thing of unknown parentage, and we adored him. My brother and I had a playmate with whom we could romp and run through the woods at the back of our house. But alas, one day he escaped our attention, wandered into the highway in front of our house and was hit by a car.We were devastated. When Daddy got home from work, he found all three of us (Mom, my brother, and me) bawling like calves abandoned by their mamas. Daddy wasn't really attached to the dog and he thought we were silly; it was not silly to us. We were broken hearted! It was not long after that when an older lady in the neighborhood gave us another dog. She assured my brother that he was an excellent rabbit-dog. My brother liked to go rabbit-chasing, so that was all he needed to hear. The animal (I don't even remember his name, so that tells how important he was to me) was white with black spots and the lady told us he was a "damnation" dog. She thought she was telling us he was a dalmation. It wasn't too long until we all agreed with her; he had to go!
     After Don and I were married 54 years ago, we started our own collection of dogs that has continued until today. The first was Thunder. He was an Alsation shepherd, given to us by some friends, and was already an adult when we acquired him. He died of heart worms. The next was a puppy named Kaiser. He was a beautiful animal, another Alsation. But he was killed while he was still a puppy, by a neighbor driving too fast on our farm road. We were heartbroken.
     Next came a succession of shepherds. Joey was the first. He hated delivery men in big trucks. He once chased the gas delivery man up on the top of his vehicle! Then, Duke came along. He was a wonderful watch dog. When Don had to go on active duty with the National Guard, he stayed in the house with me; I always felt safe. Juneau lived with us next. She was an Alaskan malamute; a beautiful animal, loving and strong, and kind. She was mother to many beautiful puppies in her lifetime.
     Then, Donna decided that she wanted a dog. So, Sam was her basset hound. She didn't give him the attention he needed and we finally had to give him away.
     The Labradors were the next in line. Noel was the first. She was a Christmas present to Don, a chocolate lab whom he loved.  She was presented with a big red bow, and for all of her life, she could do no harm. Of course, she chewed a hole in the bathroom wall, chewed the facings off the windows in the sewing room, and was just generally bad. But Don loved her! She was lying under one of the pecan trees and was struck by lightning.
     The first of two Shermans followed Noel. They were both black labs. Don was working at the restaurant when Sherman One came to him highly agitated, barking to the top of his lungs, and would not give up until Don went to see what the problem was. When Don responded, our house was on fire. Sherman prevented it's being a total loss. Sherman Two was Don's favorite of all his dogs. He was a loyal companion until he died of old age.
     Now we have Liza Jane - so named because her black and white coat reminded us of Liza Jane Doolittle in My Fair Lady. She is a rescue dog; part wire-haired terrier and part Boston terrier. She was rescued from an abandoned house in cold driving rain without shelter and food. She adores us and we are overly fond of her. I could write a book about her. She's getting old, and I want her to live forever.
     The last one is Puddles. She's a little solid black cocker spaniel with a priceless personality, adorable and kind. We found her in a ditch on the side of the road and she just hung around until we couldn't turn her away.
     Not a single purebred in the bunch, but we loved them all. Dogs have a way of grabbing on to your heart and holding on! They become a part of you and you never forget them.

Rules for Bringing Up Children

2010-09-16T12:34:00.000-07:00

In child development/parenting class, my students kept urging me to give them some rules for bringing up children. These are the ones I developed. I tried to abide by them with my own children, but they will freely tell you that I certainly didn't always practice what I preached.

Being short or young does not make a child a lesser person.

Behave toward your child, and treat your child, with the same consideration and respect you would your best friend.

Never do for a child what he can do for himself.

All behavior has consequences. If at all possible, allow a child to suffer (or enjoy) the natural consequences of his behavior.

Before you punish a child, be sure it isn't your fault!

I never hurts to tell a child how you feel - positively or negatively.

Loving and spoiling are not the same. "Spoiling" is giving a child too many things, or doing for a child those things he can do for himself. "Loving" is unconditional - warts and all- just like he is.

You can give a child too much, but you can't love him too much.

The Education of Jennifer

2010-09-16T12:03:00.000-07:00

A True Story: names have been changed:
     Jackson found it difficult to read a complete sentence without hesitation. His writing skills were below grade level. He was a mediocre athelete- loyal in reporting to practice, diligent in his efforts, but still mediocre. However, as I sat in the observation booth watching him, I felt a trememdous sense of pride in his ability.
     The child development/parenting classes where I was teaching, and at that moment observing, were for juniors and seniors. The high school students enjoyed the class. Because of learning so much about why little children behave as they do, the older students often learned a lot about themselves in the process.  In addition to learning developmental skill patterns of children and parenting skills for adults, the students had the opportunity to work with fifteen three-to-five year olds brought into the child development center.They had the sole responsibility for planning and executing activities for the youngsters.While one third of the high school students worked with the children, two thirds of them carried out structured observation. As their teacher, my position was to remain in the observation booth and evaluate the student workers. I tried to allow the student teachers as much freedom as I possibly could in handling problems as they arose; however,I was always available if they got in trouble. We had only one rule in all of my classes, and that was a simple rephrasing of the Golden Rule: treat each other the way you want to be treated. Whether we were dealing with each other as teacher and students, or working with the little children, we practiced that directive. I have always believed that mutual respect is the only way to maintain order in any classroom, and the Golden Rule says it better than any rule I ever could have formulated. The high school students were always treated as adults; they treated me with utmost respect, and discipline was never a problem.
     Jackson was one of the students who had chosen to take my class, and he had attended for a full semester. His skills in working with the children had progressively improved until he now felt secure enough to be in charge of one of the learning centers alone. We watched and listened as he directed activities, encouraged the children, and praised them appropriately. As I listened, I recalled the shy young man who first entered my classroom just weeks earlier and realized how much he had changed.
     A particularly precocious four-year-old was in the learning center, quietly drawing and interacting with Jackson.  She looked up quite unexpectedly and said, "I don't like you, cause you've got black skin".
     Students around me gasped, shocked that a child would make such a statement, yet understanding all the while the honesty with which a four-year-old speaks. The group looked at me in unison, as if to say,"Well, aren't you going to do something?" I sat very still awaiting Jackson's response.
     Very calmly, Jackson smiled at her and said, "Well, that's all right. You've got white skin, and I like you just the same."
     The two returned to their art project, and the conversation that followed left us with a sense of love and brotherhood seldom felt.
     "Where'd you get your black skin"?
     "Well, I've just always had black skin."
     "No, you haven't! Did't you used to have white skin?"
     Jackson laughed. "No, I was born this way. When I was a little-bitty baby about this long (he measured with his hands) I had black skin."
     "No, you didn't!"
     "I did, too! Honest! You were born with white skin, and I was born with black skin."
     The drawing continued for a few minutes longer with Jennifer seemingly deep in thought. Then--"May I draw your picture?"
     Assuming his most "macho" position, Jackson answered, "Sure, does this look o.k.?"
     Jennifer smiled, and picking up a black crayon, drew a circle on the paper. She very lightly colored the circle, drawing some eyes, a nose, a mouth.
     Suddenly, her mouth dropped open, her eyes opened widely, and she practically screamed, "Oh, my goodness you've got black ears."
     Jackson laughed again and responded, "Of course I do. And you've got white ears."
     She finished drawing the exaggerated black ears and looked up at Jackson's hair, seemingly seeing it for the first time. Very shyly, she whispered,"May I feel your hair"?
     "Sure you can, if you'll let me feel yours."
     And there they sat -he stroking her long silky tresses, and she patting his closely cropped curls. They sat there for what seemed an unusually long time, staring at each other and allowing their differences to be thoroughly explored.
     She went back to her drawing, making sure that each curl was carefully placed. When she finished, Jackson asked,"May I have my picuture? It looks just like me!"
     Jennifer smiled and handed it to him, Then suddenly she climed on his lap, threw her arms around his neck, and squeezing him hard, whispered, "I love you. You are my very best friend."
     "And I love you too, Jennifer. You'll always be my friend, too."
      There were no dry eyes among those observing that scenario. We had watched a miracle unfold. The emotion of the moment was overwhelming.
     As I sat in my classroom that afternoon, long after the halls were quiet and the sounds of youth had evaporated, I recalled the incident. Maybe, just maybe, the Golden Rule had made an impact on Jackson and the other students. Maybe, just maybe, life-long learning had taken place. That, after all, is what teaching is all about.
     In a short twenty minutes, perhaps Jackson had succeeded in changing a little girl's whole concept of prejudice. He might have shouted angrily at her,"That's o.k. I don't like you either." But he didn't respond that way. Through his love for children and his tolerance of child-llike behavior, he just may have brought about life-long changes in Jennifer's attitude toward others. For one day at least, he taught her the real meaning of unconditional love, the love that Christ has for us, His children.    I love you just the way you are - no matter what you say, what you do, what color you are, what you wear, how you look.
       How fortunate Jennifer was to have met Jackson.

Visiting Aunt Flora

2010-09-16T10:31:00.001-07:00

My Daddy was a person who liked to stay in touch with his siblings, and as a result, we visited them often when I was a child. I loved going to see his sister, Aunt Flora, because that’s where my cousin Betty Lou lived, and it was always so much fun to go there. To begin with, Aunt Flora was a great cook. She always cooked “dinner” at noon time, and it seemed to me that she served the proverbial multitudes. There were always so many people to feed, because she provided lunch for all of the farm workers as well as anyone else who happened to be there. Fried chicken, roast beef, and farm-grown vegetables on the table made the meals outstanding. And she made wonderful pies! Nobody before- or since- made such good corn bread. She fried so much chicken; there were always lots of “crumbles” that Betty Lou and I always were allowed to eat. She always had snacks for us that were available while we were playing too. At the back door, there was a deep well where water was drawn by a windlass and bucket with water so cold that it tasted as if it came from the refrigerator. I was always fascinated as to how it could be so cold since the water was coming out of the ground!

The front porch was covered by vines that provided day-long shade, and on the porch was an old-fashioned swing that was wonderful. It would extend out over the yard when we really got it going, and jumping out at that point was great fun! We were reprimanded for it, but we sometime disobeyed! Big green rocking chairs were available for the adults, and after the noon-day work was finished, they were often occupied. Just outside the door, Aunt Flora had a water garden in a tub – except it was not called a water garden at that time. She just said they were her water plants. I thought it was “neat” because I’d never seen anything like it. The blooms of lavender and purple and white were constant all summer.

The farmyard provided all sorts of interesting things: wagons on which we could climb, bales of hay piled high enough to make a mountain, animals of all sorts. Some of the most interesting of the animals were the peacocks with their fan-like tails as big as I was, the most beautiful blue and green iridescent feathers spreading high and wide into the sky. I loved them! I didn’t particularly like the geese however. They were mean! When we were outside, they chased us and pinched the backs of our legs. No amount of running or screaming helped. In fact, that made it worse! The cows and calves were fun. The cows were kept for fresh milk and Aunt Flora churned milk to make butter and buttermilk. That too was fascinating to me. How that milk could turn into butter by just moving it up and down with a stick was unbelievable! Of course, there was a little more to it than that! Mules were kept to pull wagons and machinery. They all had names and were revered as working members of the farm. There were soft furry cats and kittens all over the place scurrying around the barns, working hard to keep the mice away. More often, they just curled up in the sun.

Uncle Frank had a car- a coupe, I think it was called – that had a rumble seat; and he let us ride in it occasionally. The wind in our hair and face was wonderful. It made us feel free! We didn’t get to ride in it often, so when we did, it was a real treat.

I loved to go to Aunt Flora’s house. It always felt good to be there. Betty Lou still lives in the same place, and I don’t see her nearly often enough.

Remembering Teaching

2010-09-15T06:48:00.000-07:00

I was never content or happy teaching anywhere else. Not everybody would agree with me, but I thought Wren was the perfect place to teach. So I stayed there 23 years. It was far enough away from home to prepare my mind for the transition I had to make between being a wife and mother and becoming a teacher; then when returning home, I had time for the opposite to take place.

I loved the homemaking profession. I really think that the disintegration of the family began about the same time that home economics was removed from the curriculum. It wasn’t “just cooking and sewing”, as so many referred to it as being. It was so much more. It dealt with family, children and their development, management, finances, nutrition, parenting skills, home decorating, entertaining, and helping to maintain a pleasant home atmosphere. Becoming a good homemaker is an admirable goal, and the homemaking teacher was the facilitator at one time. It’s sad that today’s students don’t have the privilege of participating in such a program.

Wren was the ideal place for a home economics program. I was supported by the administration and the community. The students were respectful and for the most part, enjoyed learning. There were camping trips and square dances and cook-outs; we had a student organization that encouraged leadership and participation in contests that enabled students to develop positive self esteem. We had a group of adults who met monthly to learn and practice homemaking skills. A child development program was established to teach developmental skill patterns for children and parenting skills for those who would become parents. We had 15 children with whom the students worked; it’s hard to learn about children without children! Students with all levels of ability participated in the classes. It was a good program and I loved teaching in it.

My Philosophy of Teaching

I believe that teaching is an honorable profession. I believe, that in the hands of educators, is cradled the future of America.

I believe that it is more honorable to teach students than it is to teach subject matter.

I believe that I should teach my students by methods that will enable them to retain as much knowledge as possible.

I believe that I should instill in my students the realization that the establishment and maintenance of a home is the most important profession in the world, because as the home goes, so does our nation.

I believe that it is my duty to help my students become aware of the fact that the family is still the most important institution in existence today.

I believe that it is only through education that we will be able to correct the ills of society that plague our nation and world.

Remembering Daddy

2010-09-14T20:03:00.000-07:00

Daddy would have been 101 years old on September 13. My memories of him are vivid. On the day my brother was born, I became Daddy’s girl, and I remained that way as long as he lived. My mother and I were the only two girls he had. A few years after he died, I wrote some words that captured the picture of Daddy that I will always keep in my memory.

“The white metal swing sits still under the water-oak tree, attached to the frame of an old swing set once used by all of the grandchildren. It’s rarely used now. Somehow it doesn’t fit - or suit- anybody any more. He used to sit in it at the end of an afternoon in the garden. He sat in the middle of the swing, both arms across the back of the seat, gently pushing forward and backward, never really moving his feet off the ground. Dressed in overalls and brogans, always with a hat or billed cap, he’d just sit, staring into space or holding a hose and watering a few plants. I used to wonder what he was thinking. Often he would sit until the sun went down, just enjoying the cool breezes that were always present on the top of the hill. If we drove up while he was sitting there, he always broke into a grin, called us over to sit beside him for a minute, always commenting about how his garden was growing or what I’d been doing that day. We always pushed the swing harder than he did, but he never said anything about it; just sat there, swinging along with us. The swing sits still and silent now. The breeze pushes it occasionally, but it’s not much fun now that he’s gone. No one sits there anymore.”

David now owns the swing. He refurbished it and hung it on his covered patio. I’m glad somebody still cares for it.

And in October, 1991: “How Daddy would have loved this baseball season! I can see him now! He always wanted the Braves to win-and this year they’re doing it. His eyes always would light up when he talked about the World Series. And I always thought that to him, the “Series” was fall’s one saving feature. He wasn’t much of an autumn person -always got a little down- but when the team he was pulling for won the series, it made his winter a little shorter. And in the spring, it was time for baseball again! I wish he could’ve experienced this year’s series, because he really loved the Braves. They were always losers while he lived. But maybe he has seat this year-- in the dugout with them! After all, they are winning!”

My Daddy was a good man, a good father, a good grandfather, a good friend, still remembered by many. He never had riches or fame. He worked hard all of his life in a textile mill; but the work he really loved was farming. He loved the land and being able to tend it. He also loved his church and the community in which he lived. And he loved me.

Visiting Harbor Island

2010-09-08T07:09:00.000-07:00

It’s not hard to find. If one gets to Beaufort, the destination is within reach. The most distinctive part about the island is the smell of the salt marsh. Perhaps that would be true anywhere along the coast, but the smell of Harbor Island is different to those who love it! The expanse of the Atlantic, the activity of the shrimp boats, the beauty of the dolphins arching their way down the shoreline, the Shrimp Shack just outside the gates—all bring one to the edge of paradise known as Harbor Island. Sun and sand and the smell of sun-tan lotion are a given. There’s no hustle and bustle. There’s no stress. There’s nothing that must be done. Just a screened-in porch facing the ocean, a rocker, and the sea breeze on an unbelievable October day - and one experiences the mode of relaxation seldom reached. There’s no commercialism, no noise, no loud parties, few cars, only bicycles and walking, people saying hello to each other even though they have never before seen each other.

Wildlife abounds: gulls, egrets, sandpipers, pelicans! Alligators live in the inland waterways and make an interesting excursion as long as adequate distance is practiced. Turtles nest along the water’s edge. Turtle watchers search for their nests and guard them with the diligence of a sentry. Turtles return every spring to the very beach where they were hatched decades ago and lay their eggs before returning to the sea. Survival of the species depends upon the care given to the hatchlings, and humans determine that survival to a large degree. The location of the nests is protected by wildlife legislation and guarded by the “turtle people”.

A local seafood company is just outside the gates. Shrimp boats are regularly arriving with fresh flounder and shrimp. The just-out-of-the-water taste is rare and satisfying. The Shrimp Shack provides a delicious shrimp burger if cooking dinner is just not an option. Eating-in is a choice: picnic tables and benches on a screened porch. Friendly people who get to know you quickly let you know that you are a part of the island family- even for just a short period of time.

Shopping is available, but not on the island. Grocery stores and sweet -grass baskets and fun shopping are all within reach. Even tea rooms and delis are near, but not on the island. Quiet and peace are the only amenities available without leaving the security of the sandy beach.

Visiting Calvary

2010-09-03T02:54:00.000-07:00

Calvary is such an apt name for it. For it is there that you indeed will be put in touch with Calvary; it is there that hundreds have had their first encounter with the Christ who died and now lives. You may be a bit surprised to see the little white church located on the side of Highway 178, out in the country. It’s been there since the 1940’s, and has been a beacon in the community since its beginning. When it first started, it was a little non-descript flat brick building of one room that would seat about 100 people. There were no rooms for special groups or classes. When the curtains were drawn, which separated the room into sections, everybody could hear what everybody else was saying; if one speaker became too vocal, the others had to listen to him too. On Sunday morning, after all the classes were finished, everybody gathered together for prayer and singing and worship. And after church the folks stood around and talked, because their Sunday dinner was already prepared at home. They were in no hurry to beat everybody else to the restaurant! Lasting friendships were made on Sunday morning - friendships that are still intact today.

Summers were spent getting ready for, teaching, and attending vacation Bible school. There were lessons about Jesus and getting to know Him; games and contests were played until late in the afternoon or evening. There were always trays of cookies and a brand-new tin tub full of lemonade, made with real lemons! The week terminated with “graduation” and a church-wide picnic with everything imaginable to eat!

In the fall, preparation began for the Christmas program. Little children and adults dressed up in bathrobes and blankets depicting Mary and Joseph, the shepherds, and the wise men. Everybody was on his best behavior and dressed in Christmas outfits. Some of the spoken parts were forgotten; some were expressed with passion and skill. The music may have been on tune or off, but it was the celebration of Christ’s birthday that was uppermost in the minds of the people. All of the children got a present and some fruit. Everybody left with an uplifted spirit and joy in their heart.

The little church grew in size and number, while not changing its aim and purpose. Today the new building has an ample sanctuary, lots of rooms for teaching, modern restrooms, and even an elevator. It still has vacation Bible schools and Christmas programs and outreach programs to witness to the home-bound, elderly, and sick. Their mission program will challenge that many bigger churches. The gospel is still preached; the minister broadcasts his sermon over a local radio station. The people still love the Lord; and the majority of them practice what they preach!

Visiting the Farmers’ Market

2010-09-01T13:52:00.000-07:00

Farmers have a unique profession. They feed everybody –no exceptions. Without farmers, no one would eat! There are dairy farmers, grain farmers, produce farmers, all shapes and forms of farmers. The American farmer, if allowed -and compensated to do so- could easily feed the whole world. He has the knowledge and the ability. Farmers are independent, yet dependent: on the weather, on their own ingenuity and creativity, on hard work, and on faith - not necessarily in that order!

Farmers’ markets are found all over the world. If a farmer has surplus food, he is going to either give it away or sell it. And sometimes that amounts to about the same thing. Farmers generally sell their produce very inexpensively. Not only does one get good food and fresh merchandise if he frequents these markets, but he comes away saving a great deal on his food budget. And it’s fun to go there!

Farmers’ markets come in all sizes. There are one-farmer stands; there’s the pick-up truck by the side of the road; then there are the co-operative markets. Some of the co-op markets are quite diversified – but then, so are farmers! The market in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, is one of the largest this writer has ever visited. One can purchase just about any farm product he can imagine. Even cedar branches and beauty berries (for decorating) are available; nuts, shelled and unshelled; live plants for transplanting in your garden; honey and syrup; farm-made cheeses; fried apple pies; entrees for dinner; meat for the freezer; and handmade crafts including furniture and rugs. Strolling down the wide corridors of the indoor facility is not only a feast for the eyes, but for all of the senses. One hears folks selling their wares, food sizzling on the grills, trucks moving in and out of the booths. The smells are tantalizing: food cooking, fresh citrus and other fruits, fresh pine and cedar, chocolates cooling on the marble slabs, gardenias in buckets, pungent bales of straw and hay for rabbits and horses. All sorts of little tidbits are available for tasting, and folks are encouraged to “take a bite”. The smoothness of the furniture and fabrics provides the feel of quality to the shopper.

For the farmer, or the wanta-be farmer, going to the farmers’ market takes on an entirely different aspect. Food products must be harvested, cleaned, and packaged. Scales must be procured. Change in a change box must be assembled. Bags must be found. The truck must be loaded. The alarm must be set early in order to arrive at the market place by 6-6:30A.M. Often, this means that spouse and children do the selling while others are at home continuing to tend and harvest the crops. It takes several hands to sell and package a pick-up full of sweet corn, several boxes of tomatoes, and a crate of string beans. Customers get to know the farmers, which ones have the best produce, and they become regulars – and friends, sometimes forever!

Visiting Winthrop College

2010-08-31T11:45:00.000-07:00

In 1951, to a country girl, leaving for Rock Hill, S.C. was like leaving for a foreign country.

When I was fourteen, we moved from town to “the country.” I started to Pendleton High School, and I was fortunate enough to have teachers who mentored me and convinced me that I wanted be a teacher. I had always loved anything related to homemaking, so I decided to choose home economics as my major. Besides, the home economics teachers I had were good role models. No one in my family had ever gone beyond high school, and I knew that I had to go to college to reach my goal – so I did. It wasn’t easy for my family to sacrifice and help me attend Winthrop, but they did, and I worked every semester to help earn my way. By today’s standards, it was cheap! Total expenses were $350.00 per semester and books were provided by the college – free to the students. Travel and a small spending allowance was all I needed. I made most of my clothes and ate my meals in the dining room. And loved it all!

Winthrop was another world. I actually had led a rather sheltered life, and going away from home was an adventure. My expected roommate and I had gone through high school together, and we were sort of like sisters. That wasn’t to be a major adjustment. Getting ready to go was exciting. I thought I had to pack everything I owned. All of my worldly goods were sent by train to Rock Hill, and men at the college picked them up and took them to my assigned room--no “moving in.” That in itself is very different from what happens today. When it left the train station, I wasn’t sure I’d ever see that trunk again.

I had been informed that I couldn’t come home until Thanksgiving. That too, I thought, would be no big deal – but it was. I think my parents believed that if I came home, I wouldn’t go back – and I probably wouldn’t have! I was so homesick I thought I would die! But I adjusted .

The first year passed quickly. I made lots of friends. I was chosen sophomore class president, and I moved into Bancroft Hall. My life changed. My house manager in Bancroft (we had adults “in charge”) and I got together and sewed a lot. I learned to love her; we spent hours together. Then, one day she introduced me to her son, and after dating for four years and my graduation from Winthrop, we were married. I’ve always told him that I loved my mother-in-law long before I ever loved him!

I loved Winthrop: the library (so many books, so little time); the dining room (all food made from scratch, and quite delicious); professors calling students by name; the home economics building with its long extended labs and grueling home management courses; the smell of tea olive in the spring; the front fountain always flowing ; the long blue line (we wore navy blue and white uniforms); Baptist Student Union meetings and retreats; late night conversations with my roommate; popcorn smell on the hall; rushing to get in from a date before 11 p.m. curfew; tea time with Miss Jones (she tried to make us into ladies); majestic trees and old buildings; the smell of freshly waxed shiny floors; everybody saying “hello” to everybody; little sisters; dances; May Day. I loved it; it’s priceless mind travel!

Visiting the Grape Arbor

2010-08-30T16:34:00.000-07:00

A shady little room stood at the very end of the garden at the brick house on Park Street. It was an interesting structure, made from poles and heavy wire. A muscadine vine was planted at two corners and a scuppernong vine was planted at each of the other two corners. In summer, the growth from the four vines covered the entire top and sides of the structure (an area of about 12’X12’), making the enclosure a shady “room.” Grapes approximately the size of a nickel hung in profusion from the top. They were lush and juicy with distinctively different tastes. Not only were they good to eat, but the preserves and juices made from them were exceptionally good.

The grape arbor became a magical place to “hang out” and play make-believe for creative children who at that time had no TV, no video games, no movies. The room became a cave on a dark gloomy day where all sorts of scary creatures could be imagined, a fortress for a carefully orchestrated battle, a palace where the prince took his princess rescued from the wicked ogre, a hide-out with neighboring children when the occasion called for it. But the area most often became a play house. One could live in splendor within the shady “walls” of that grape arbor. It was an edifice anyone with a vivid imagination would appreciate. Bricks and blocks of wood were put to use as stoves and tables and refrigerators. Tin cans and bottles became cooking utensils. The grandmother who lived in the house on Park Street would regularly surprise her grape arbor neighbors with a picnic. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with Kool-Aid and homemade walnut cookies for dessert were the usual fare. The grandmother would lower her long lanky body on to the brick chairs, set the food on the wood block table, and partake of a repast the likes of which one rarely enjoyed. The meal was usually followed by a story concocted in the grandmother’s imagination, taking the children beyond the realm of reality and farther into the wonderful world of make-believe.

One could not ask for a more magical place!

Visiting 517 West Main

2010-08-30T08:56:00.000-07:00

It was a straight walk-way lined with moss roses and boxwood that led from the porch to the street. Never a sprig of grass could be found among the plants and the profusion of color was constant from early spring until frost. To the side of the house was the rose garden, continuing the riot of color and spotless ground cover between the rows of thorny plants. The perfume coming from the flowers was attractive to bees and butterflies and even a rare hummingbird-and certainly to those who walked in the yard or sat on the porch in the evening. There was always a vegetable garden just above the roses. Spring brought the smell of freshly plowed soil and late afternoons of planting all sorts of vegetables: corn, beans, butterbeans, beets, squash, onions, tomatoes. Potential abundance was foremost in mind when the planting was finished, because preservation of all extras must be made for later use. Every afternoon was spent chopping and weeding to give the plants every opportunity for growth and optimum moisture. At the back of the garden was the hen house and fenced chicken yard. The words “free-range” had never been heard at that time, but that’s what it was! Fresh eggs were abundant. A big red rooster was the intimidating factor among the hens, so little people were rarely asked to gather eggs! That job was delegated to the adults!

The yard at 517 West Main was the community play ground. Children were always welcome. In summer they played tag beneath the street light on the lawn, rolling and tumbling in the freshly mown grass until well past dark. In the fall, they tumbled in piles of raked leaves. In the winter, they built snow fortresses and constructed snowmen, playing until clothes were soaking wet and fingers and toes red and stiff with cold. Hopscotch was always a favorite whether it was drawn in the sand or in chalk on the sidewalk. Skating on the public sidewalk was allowed as long as the children never went beyond the streets identifying the “block”. Many skinned knees and elbows were repaired as a result of skating! Jumping the concrete expansion joints was especially challenging, and learning to stop forward motion was a major educational experience.

The end of World War II occurred at 517 West Main Street. The steps at the end of the walk-way provided an unbelievable spot for observing the sights and sounds that followed the announcement that fighting had stopped. The street was a main thoroughfare through town, and for days, it was inundated with cars blowing horns, people shouting from open car windows, and sirens blaring-- day and night.

President Franklin Roosevelt died during this time. The railroad track where his casket was transported from Augusta to Washington was only a few blocks from 517 West Main, and people gathered on the bridge to watch the flag-draped train slowly make its way down the track. A silent reverence existed; only the moving wheels along the track could be heard.

Visiting Park Street

2010-08-29T17:39:00.000-07:00

The brick house was the only one of its kind on Park Street. The yard was big and green and child-friendly. In the back yard were big umbrella shaped Chinaberry trees that provided wall-to-wall shade in the summer. Just beyond the trees was a building called the “smoke house.” It was used as space for curing meat, storing dried fruits and vegetables, and stashing canned foods for winter use. All sorts of fruit trees were on the property: peach trees, cherry trees, apple trees, walnut trees. Apples and peaches were dried to make fried pies in the winter. Walnuts were cracked and shelled for making wonderful Christmas cookies! Then there were ½ dozen different kind of grape vines that provided luscious fruit in the summer and juice for the winter. The vegetable garden produced abundant produce for every season of the year. Even potatoes were banked for use in the winter; very little needed to be purchased beyond the home-grown food.

However, just in case, on the corner of West Main and Park was located a neighborhood grocery store. Access was easy – just run down the street to get there. As long as $1.00 was available, all sorts of things could be purchased: three pounds of beef stew for a dollar; a loaf of bread or a package of cinnamon buns for a dime; a pound of coffee for 15 cents, a quart of milk for forty-two cents, a candy bar for a penny; by today’s standards unbelievable! Going to the grocery store was a treat, and it was rarely done.

Beside the house was a steep drive- way that was great for riding wagons and home-made carts. The “street” was off limits however, and if the carts happened to go into the street, it was time-out for the rest of the day. Scooters were quite a challenge, because the slope of the drive was too great for control.

In the back yard, away from the house was the goat barn. Goats were raised for their milk. They were extremely fastidious. They didn’t like to eat food that had been touched by human hands. A platform had been made for milking, and the goats were milked twice daily. They produced rich, naturally homogenized milk that had a sweet taste, different from the other milk we were accustomed to drinking. The milk was quite good when icy cold. The homemade cottage cheese was also good.

A pen for pigs was located at an acceptable distance from the house. The odor could be offensive at times, so it of necessity must be located at the very back of the property- as far away as possible! The butchering of the animals occurred in the winter when the weather was the coldest. It was generally a two-day task with everybody in the family assisting in the preservation of the meat. Some was salted and cured, some was rubbed and sugar-cured, and some was canned. Generally the event provided enough pork for the rest of the year.

Nothing was wasted on Park Street, including scraps of cloth. There were often quilting frames set up during the winter months and several quilts were finished every year, providing cozy warmth for those fortunate enough to spend the night on Park Street.

Visiting Lloyd C. Douglas

2010-08-29T10:30:00.000-07:00

As a prolific reader, there are very few books which wrap themselves around the mind, latch on, and just stay there. Authors are the same; in the mind, they tag along with their outstanding books. One such writer is Lloyd C. Douglas and his book The Robe. It’s an old book, out of print, and hard to find; but it’s worth the effort of the hunt. It was popular in the fifties, and was widely read at that time. Douglas explores the scenario which could have occurred when Christ was crucified. Very true to scripture, it fictionalizes facts that scripture does not provide for the reader. The soldiers who carried out the death sentence come to life as Douglas describes them; one lives with those soldiers, struggles with the reality of what happened as they decide what to do about the Christ. Ultimately, the guards had to make a decision as to what to do with the robe that Christ wore before the crucifixion. Because of its seamless construction, the soldiers considered the garment very valuable, and they cast lots to determine to whom the robe would belong. The story follows the path of the soldier who won the robe, and the effect ownership had on him and those he loved.

The sequel to The Robe is titled The Big Fisherman, also by Douglas. It is a continuation of the narrative concerning the followers of Christ, and how they became strong believers and suffered the consequences of their witnessing. Specifically, it targets Peter -not only his relationship to his fellow fishermen, but more specifically, his witness to those outside his circle. Eventually, his contact with the owner of the robe solidifies his relationship to the whole Christian movement and his ownership of the robe.

Visiting Lake Cherokee

2010-08-29T10:18:00.000-07:00

Nestled at the foot of a mountain, at the edge of a national forest, one discovers-if one has been given good directions- a little jewel amongst the virgin pines and firs and dogwood. It’s hard to find without knowing it’s there. It’s private. It’s secluded. It’s a little bit of heaven on earth. The lake is small as far as lakes go; small enough for a canoe, but not a mighty motor-run boat. In the winter, the level of water is lowered so that folks may repair their docks and clean up the shore line. It appears desolate and abandoned, yearning for activity and the happenings of warmer days. But by summer time, the mountain springs replenish the cold water until it reaches the limits of the dam. Morning light shimmers off the surface, giving a mirror-like glow to the whole landscape. Ducks and geese abound, loving the quiet sanctuary the lake and its people provide. The swishing of a canoe going by is accented by a “hello” from its passengers to the newly arrived folks on the bank. The summer-time visitors have arrived to spend lazy days without the stress and cares of making a living. Full-time residents welcome the opportunity to visit with old friends that appear in increments of one or two at a time, catching up on all of the new babies that have arrived since last summer- good things and bad that have entered their lives since last they talked.

The woodsy smell permeates the surroundings. Occasionally the faint odor or charcoal drifts across the lake, announcing the fact that someone has gotten hungry, regardless of the time of day. The little cabin sits within a stone’s throw of the water’s edge. A screened porch makes it seem as if one is participating in everything that is going on outside: children are fishing and hunting frogs and looking for “ginger-pigs” hidden beneath the moss, the neighbors are raking leaves left-over from the winter. The enclosed part of the porch provides a sanctuary for quiet reflection and cozy warmth on cool and wintery days. A good book lying on the table convinces the reader to pick it up and discover the places to be visited while sitting on the shores of Lake Cherokee.

Visiting Canaan

2010-08-29T10:07:00.001-07:00

The mist rose from the valley to make the whole mountain into a magical forest. The virgin pines and hemlocks stood tall and straight, reaching their branches into the heavens. They appeared to have been on the land since the beginning of time- certainly since pioneers first roamed the woodlands. On the way up the mountain, small streams and waterfalls were seen along the roadside, some of them flowing from beneath an outcrop of rock. One of the waterfalls was hiding in a cave, the opening completely exposed to the road. I guess you could call the little paths “roads”. They seemed more like tiny trails cut into the side of the enormous hillside, so narrow that remaining on them required a miracle from God. One dare not meet another vehicle coming in the opposite direction. Something had to give, because there was no passing! Everyone came to a standstill until the bravest one could reverse his direction until he came to a wide place in the road, making passing possible. The drivers must be skilled and capable of maneuvering his vehicle with precision.

Upon reaching the pinnacle of the mountain, one was presented with a breathtaking sight. A lodge constructed of huge chestnut logs stood atop the apex, surrounded by those same ancient trees, dwarfing the lodge in their majesty. The smell of the pines and firs permeated the surrounding atmosphere, stimulating the senses. A veranda with a porch floor made of wide boards encompassed the front of the lodge. Two dozen rocking chairs appeared to have been there for years, and across the top of the porch hung 20 or 30 hummingbird feeders. Every one of them was covered in visiting birds, their humming clearly audible to all who cared to pass time away just rocking. The tiny visitors were so accustomed to people that they sometimes would buzz their heads or light on their shoulders for a few seconds. The interaction between man and the jewel-like birds was fun to watch.

Also lolling on the porch were two giant great Danes. Their size was intimidating, but they were gentle as lambs. All they required was a lot of food and a tousle of their heads occasionally.

It seemed that time stood still on that porch. Cares of the world were banished. Before one realized it, the day was over, and it was time to attempt that treacherous trail to the bottom of the mountain and back to the reality of living.

Dark seemed to come early on the mountain, and so did the end to our visit.