Blind Pig & The Acorn

Appalachian Writers

 
  
North Carolina Writers' Network West-commonly called Netwest has recently published an anthology: Echoes Across the Blue Ridge. The book is chock full of stories, essays, and poems written by writers who live in the Southern Highlands of Appalachia-or writers who have been inspired by the Southern Highlands of Appalachia.

The book was edited by Nancy Simpson who just happens to be one of my favorite writers. Some of my other favorite local writers turn up in the book  like Glenda Beall, Glenda Barrett, Brenda Kay Ledford, Marshall McClung, Sam Hoffer, and Estelle Darrow Rice.

I've read collections like this before-you never know when you combine so many different writers-so many different styles-so many different takes on the same subject if the project will fall flat or work. Without a doubt-this one works.

Once I got my copy-I sat down and read it through-most of it I read sitting on the front porch swing which was the perfect place to reminisce with the writers about days gone by. Standouts for me where-Great Granny Steeves by Karen Gilfillan, Listen To The Mockingbird by Gary Carden, and Memories of Summer by Marshall McClung.

Echoes Across the Blue Ridge is well rounded and doesn't just pay homage to the past of these mountains but draws the reader gently into the present with pieces like The Trillium by Glenda Beall. The story Glenda tells could have happened last week-even though I know it didn't. Chuggin' On The Chatuge by Shirley Uphouse gives a peek into the changes that have taken place in much of the Southern Highlands over the last 20 years and gives a dose of humor to the give and take that happens between native and non native folks.

I was pleasantly surprised to find Fontana Dam by Brenda Kay Ledford and Talking To Mama by Nancy Sales Cash-both center around people who were displaced when Fontana Lake was built. After tromping around the ruins of Proctor-I find anything related to the folks who lived in the area before the lake rose especially appealing.

Thomas Rain Crowe's Triple Negatives: Losing A Language tells his story of leaving the area in his youth and afterward-working hard to remove the taint of his mountain speech-but now he works hard to retrieve those words-those lost comforting voices he heard as a child.

I could go on and on-but by now you probably get the point-the book is a winner and if you enjoy reading about Southern Appalachia-you should get it-I know you'll be glad you did. The price is totally reasonable-$16.00 for a 200 page book of this caliber isn't bad at all. (+ shipping and handling if you order one). I'm thinking it would make a perfect Christmas or Birthday gift for that price.

If you're local drop by Carolina Crafting in Brasstown (just past Clay's Corner) to pick up your copy-or you can buy it online at The North Carolina Writer's Network site-just click here.

Tipper

p.s. While I don't have any writing in the book-one of my photos did make it in-yay me!

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Appalachian Writers

 

Today I'd like to introduce you to Sharon Rose McCormick-and to tell you about her new book Appalachian Rose.

I've never met Sharon in person-but having spoken with her by phone I know for certain we're kindred spirits with a common goal-to preserve and celebrate our wonderful Appalachian Heritage and Culture. Take a moment to read my interview with her-and I think you'll be as crazy about her as I am.

Sharon, tell me about your childhood-where you grew up?

I was born and raised in Wayne County in Southwestern WV.  I was the middle child of nine.  My father was a construction worker, farmer, mechanic, and all round jack of all trades and my mother, a homemaker.  My father's mother always lived with us and helped take care of us kids.  I got my artistic talent from my dad, mom, and grandmother.  I learned how to quilt, sew, crochet, embroider, garden, and cook at a very early age.  Most importantly, my grandmother gave me the love of reading.  We spent summers at the creek fishing, swimming, and bathing in the summer time. We always had farm animals to raise and slaughter, crops to tend and can, and  wood to chop.  We strung beans and had shuck beans in the winter.  We moved 21 times in 19 years as my dad's work took him from place to place.  We would wait until it was raining and flooded sometimes to look for a place to move to so we could find a place that didn't get flooded around it or in the bottoms around it.  We usually lived up a holler, across a creek, or up on a hill.  You knew when a car approached, they were either coming to see you or hopelessly lost.  My dad always drove a truck to carry all his tools for work and feed for the animals.  In summer, he, my mom, and my grandmother rode in the front of the truck.  We kids rode in the back.  When it rained or weather was bad, Daddy would put a plywood topper on it, and we would be on our way.  In winter, we just piled underneath several quilts made from wool clothing or blue jeans and went anyway.  I now have 4 grown children and live in Putnam County, WV halfway between Huntington and Charleston.  My children also embrace all things Appalachia.

Was writing something you enjoyed as a child?

By the time I was in junior high, I was already writing.  I was praised by my teachers and family for my writing and was given tons of encouragement by everyone.  My English teacher taught me the ins and outs of writing, especially poetry.  Poetry is still my favorite form of writing.  It is an elegant novel with all unnecessary words squished out, vibrant, concise descriptions, explicit nouns, and volatile verbs.  It squishes out every unessential aspect of the novel and condenses it down to its purest form.  My book is spattered with poetry throughout sandwiched between short stories. I also love writing children's books and short stories.  I don't have time to get bogged down in a long novel, and most people today don't have time or lose interest while reading a long novel.

Is Appalachian Rose the only book you've published? Have you published other things-poetry-essays?

Appalachian Rose is my first book, a long time in coming, but 3 of the poems in the book, Memories of East Lynn, The Trek, and Creeker have all won honorable mention in the Appalachian category of the W.V State Writers competition.  I  have written and illustrated children's books for kids in the family.  One poem, Boots,  was published in a book of poetry.

Seems everywhere I look I see rave reviews about your book-what was the idea behind it?

My book is mostly humorous because I believe humor helps relieve stress and makes all the bad in life bearable.  I do have a section of Thorns in my book about some of the bad in my life.  It is written as poems.  Poetry lets me talk about the bad, get it out of my system and move on.  I have stories handed down from my parents and grandmother.  I have funny and passionate stories of church, experiences teaching the mentally impaired class for 20 years, coaching Special Olympics, and a couple of  creative writing pieces.  Different people have been buying it for the varied material in it and because they also are interested in the Appalachian culture.  The material in this book is writing that I have done and hung onto over the past 30 years.  It was only after I raised my 4 kids by myself, and I became disabled and off work that I actually had time to put it altogether in manuscript form.

Where can folks buy Appalachian Rose?

Appalachian Rose is available at authorhouse.com which published it.  It is also available at amazon.com, booksamillion.com, target.com and other online book stores.  I will also be selling it at various locations this summer in person.  I have applied to Tamarack, our state Appalachian store in Beckley to be juried for sale there.  I would consider that a great accomplishment because only the best representation of the state's culture is sold.

Do you think it's possible to weave the old traditions into our modern day lives?

I think it is possible to weave old Appalachia into the new.  However, having to spend so much of education's time is now spent on reading, writing, science and math, not much is left for the study of history and culture.  Children in this state study WV History in the 4th and 8th grades.  But that is more than other Appalachian states.  There are Civil War Days, the Mary Ingles trail, numerous outdoor theaters, state parks and forests, and downhome days.  One of the largest events is the WV  State Arts and Crafts Fair at Ripley ever year the week of July 4th. So many people of old Appalachia have spent years trying to outlive the stigma of the drunken barefoot hillbilly, that they have thrown out all the good stuff.  What I would really like to see happen is that the people of modern day Appalachia weave the good traditions of the old Appalachia into their lives.  We have many people transplanted here.  I want them to learn about and appreciate the culture of the people that have been here for centuries.

Do you see a hunger for the old timey customs and traditions of Appalachia in your area?

One of the largest economic assets in WV is our tourism industry.  People come from all over the country to partake of our scenery, rivers, and culture.  Sales of arts, crafts, music, and writing are at an all time high.  It seems as the economy worsens there is more of a need for people to look back to their roots, and in many cases to come home to the hills and mountains of Appalachia.

Is there anything else you'd like for my readers to know about-your writing? Where you'l be book signing or reading excerpts from it?

I have been under the weather for a while, but I'm feeling better now.  I hope to be doing readings and book signings in the Huntington-Charleston area of WV this summer, and I am teaching a creative writing workshop at Putnam County 4-H camp in June.

When you hear the word Appalachia what comes to mind? Can you sum up what you think about it in a few lines?

When I hear the term Appalachia I always think of the mountains and how they change with every season of the year, then I think of the people of Appalachia, the true heart of Appalachia.  We are a hearty people with one of the best work ethics in the nation.  Pay it forward is centuries old in WV.  I help you today.  You don't have to help me tomorrow, but you will help someone else in the same spirit that I helped you.  We are an extremely charitable people giving more of our meager means than most people with much more financial means.  We are first to help in a crisis and first to join the military.  We are proud, but not puffed up.  We are the heartbeat of Appalachia.

I hope you enjoyed the interview with Sharon Rose McCormick-and I hope you'll pick up a copy of her book Appalachian Rose-cause I  know you'll enjoy it!

Tipper

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Appalachian Writers

(Photo by Valorie Luhr)

It's been three years since I first met Glenda Beall. We submitted one of Chitter's poems to a Poetry Contest for children-Chitter didn't win a prize-but through the contest we won a friend for life-Glenda Beall. From the first time I heard Glenda read one of her poems-I was hooked on her writing. It resonates with me in a way that's hard to describe-her poems weave their way into my mind and come back to me at the oddest moments-always comforting me with the knowledge that she's walked many of the same roads of life I have.

Glenda recently published a new book of poetry Now Might As Well Be Then-I thought this would be a great time to interview her for my Appalachian Writers Series.

When did you start writing?

I began writing when I was very young. I always loved opening a pack of Blue Horse paper and sharpening my pencils for school. I can still remember the thrill of having a fresh clean sheet of paper before me. As a little girl I built a place in the chinaberry tree behind our house where I could climb up among the leaves, sit and write while birds flew in and out of the branches around me.

Is there one person who stands out in your mind-who encouraged you along the way?

I kept my writing to myself until I was in high school and college and then I shared it with my sister, June and her husband, Stan. They were supportive, but it wasn't until I moved to Hayesville, NC in 1995 and met Nancy Simpson that I began to read my work for others and share my poetry. Nancy's classes for the next several years,  helped me to finally have the courage to believe in myself as a writer. However, I was of the age by then that I'd never reach the goals I'd had as a child.

Your most recent book is a book of poetry-do you write other genres as well?

I write personal essays, memoir and recently have begun submitting short stories for publication. A couple of short stories have appeared in online journals.

 

You also teach writing classes and work for Netwest-could you tell me about both?

 

I was inspired by Nancy Simpsonto help others who were like me - writers in secret but who were not confidant enough to submit work or share it. I teach at the John C. Campbell Folk School and at Tri-County Community College, but I have begun a new venture teaching at my house in my writing studio. Our first class is April 6, and I'll teach several more classes from now until September. We are also having guest teachers at Writers Circle, which is what I call my studio and my program.

 

I joined the North Carolina Writers Network in 1995 when I moved here. That made me a member of NCWN West (Netwest)a chapter of the state organization. In 2007,  I accepted the leadership of Netwest and enjoyed meeting the many members we have throughout the western part of North Carolina and bordering counties of South Carolina and North Georgia. I resigned as Program Coordinator last year when my husband passed away, but now serve as Clay County Representative for NCWN West. This organization has been most influential in my writing success. Through the website, www.netwestwriters.blogspot.com our mountain writers have gained recognition throughout the state and all over the country.

 

You haven't always lived in Appalachia-and yet much of your writing reminds me of my childhood here in the mountains-why do you think your writing resonates with so many folks in Appalachia?

 

I found a kinship with people in Appalachia because I had much the same culture growing up in southwest Georgia in the fifties and sixties. My father was a farmer and I grew up in a rural community, enjoying many of the same good things you and others here in Clay County enjoy. We always had a wonderful garden each year. My father butchered hogs when I was little, and we had a smoke house where hams. bacon and other good stuff was cured. We attended country churches and my brothers sang gospel music at all-day sings. My friends and I rode horses on Saturdays. We held square dances in the loft of a barn on our farm. I loved the simple life where I grew up, and I see some of it still in the southern Appalachians.

 

Where can people find your latest book?

 

My poetry book, Now Might As Well Be Then, is available from me, from Carolina Crafting in Brasstown, from Shrimps in Hayesville, from your local bookstores (they can order it from www.finishinglinepress.com) and it is available on www.Amazon.com.

 

Are there up coming events in your writing career you'd like to share?

 

On Tuesday, April 6,  I am judging the poetry submissions for the annual Clay County Arts and Poetry Contest and I'll be reading at the awards ceremony that evening at the high school in Hayesville, NC.

 

Friday, April 9, I will be reading at Mountain Perk in Hiawassee, GA at 7:00 p.m.

I am excited to be teaching and holding classes in writing at my studio in Hayesville, beginning with a class on Tuesday, April 6 and continuing throughout the summer. We have several guest instructors lined up also. I will be teaching again at Tri-County Community College in Murphy, NC in June.

 

When you think of Appalachia what comes to mind?

 

I should have been born here in the mountains. I love the climate, the friendly, down to earth people, the fact that every time I look out of my window the scene before me changes with the shadows on the mountains. The sky will change from light to dark in a few minutes, and at night it becomes a blue-black backdrop for millions of stars. I love the birds of all sizes and shapes that come to my feeders and light in my trees, especially the piliated woodpeckers, the hawks and doves, and the yellow finches that swarm in here in spring. Most of all, when I go away and come back, I feel a peace settle over me at my first glimpse of a mountain range. I am at home here.

 

 

I've selected 2 poems from Glenda's new book to share with you.

 

Tomato Man

 

Ruby tomatoes in small tan baskets

beg me to buy my lunch. Overalled

and raisin brown, he sits slumped

on the tailgate of a rusty red pickup,

his floppy hat a shade against the burning sun.

 

Will the two dollar baskets buy

groceries to take home to the waiting

wife who helped him pick the plump fruit?

Or will he go by Bernie's Quik Stop

buy a six pack or two, and cigarettes

that stain his teeth, tar his lungs?

 

He thanks me for my business, but his faded

eyes belie a mind that's somewhere else.

Today takes care of today. Tomorrow

he'll be here again, the tomatoes

redder, softer, a few fresh ones

sprinkled in, to appeal to people

who smile, and speak,

but never see him.

 

Blackberry Patch

 

Mother's voice rises above my bawling.

"Stop pitching a fit and get your bucket."

I plant myself on the top step

bare feet refusing to move.

 

My dread lies coiled deep in the brambles.

He slithered out when I thrust my hand

in to grab a plump one.

Fear-prickled, I danced in terror,

then streaked home screaming.

 

An ominous cloud shadows the sky.

Fat raindrops plop in the yard dust.

Reprieve. Blessed reprieve.  

 

I hope you enjoyed the interview. And if you liked Glenda's poems-I highly encourage you to buy her book-cause it's full of good ones.

 

Leave Glenda a comment-and I'll make sure she reads it.

 

Tipper

 

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Ghost At Hazel Creek

Today's post concludes a series of essays about people who were displaced by the building of Fontana Dam, all written by 8th graders at The Learning Center!.

Ghost At Hazel Creek

Written by Chitter Pressley

It was a pretty day and I was already planning to get out and do something. First I had to go get my dry cleaning. It was only four blocks away so I got creative and dangerous and rode my bicycle to get it. I was riding along when I saw this cute little dog. It stopped in front of my bicycle and barked really loudly but I don’t know why. I went to the Dry Wash Inn and got my clothes. The lady behind the counter looked familiar. I then realized who she was I said "hey your Pamela Branch the channel one weather reporter". I asked what happened she said she lost her job and had to work here. She didn’t want anyone to recognize her and she had to find work. I took my clothes, got on the bicycle, and pedaled away. In the same spot, on the way back that the dog stopped and barked, I saw a big capital J in red. I didn’t think much of it. I thought it was just some kind of graffiti and I went on with my day.

So my friend told me about a place called Hazel Creek. It sounded like a great place to go and visit on a cool fall day. I went to the internet to get more information. So that was it, I was going to Hazel Creek by myself on this fall day. No one else could go, they had to work or were busy. I made the drive to Hazel Creek a little over an hour and was finally there.

 I walked into the place and told them I was here to get on a boat to go over to the displaced community. They got some other people and me right on the boat and headed that way. The lake was beautiful, the leaves were gently laid on the water's surface and they were falling off the trees everywhere. We even saw a big black bear on the way over to the displaced community. We road over to where you got off to hike and said good bye to civilization. The man said he would pick us up around one thirty. I walked a way down the trail slowly and saw some other hikers. The other people who had been on the boat with me had already passed me up. I came to a big, long bridge and had a great view of the fast moving water below.

 I was half way across the bridge when I heard what sounded like someone behind me. I turned around ready to say "hey" or "how are you" but no one was there. I kept walking and I heard it again. That time I was sure there was another person there besides me, though I couldn’t see them. I had that feeling of being watched and I didn’t like the feeling at all. The sound of crinkling leaves got louder and faster. Then and there I saw it, a fast moving object was running through the woods right in front of me. The object more than scared me and gave me cold unfriendly chills up my spine. The thought of "what if this is it" came to my mind. That's when I felt it a hand on my back.

I whipped around and saw the object. This object was a young man in what looked like a service uniform from the era of the Civil War. I asked what was going on and if he was a ghost. He responded, "Yes, I am. I was killed in a tragic train accident. The train hit me and broke me in two. Now I am here to show you this place and terrify the little munchkins on Halloween." He continued, "But seriously, I am the afterlife of Jacob Fonslow Hall. I served in the Confederate State's Army in the Civil War."

 He then led me to the house that lay ahead. We walked down an old road, stopped, and proceeded to go in the house. He told me what the house used to look like inside, that it had beautiful fire places and nice, soft couches, with lovely, nice dishes in the cabinets. "Basically, nothing like it is now," I said.

He replied in a serious voice, "Yes."

 "Would you like to show me the rest?" I asked and he agreed.

 We walked up an old road that winded in and out. We finally cut up a trail and came to a cemetery. We walked over to a head stone and he said, "This is my grave, that section over there has some of my family in it. So does that one,” he pointed.

 He told me stories of what his family was like; the time his sister got in trouble for climbing a cherry tree because she didn't want a whipping. He told me that his dad was a great man and worked in the saw mill, while his mom kept the house and cooked some good food. He also shared that his dad would take him hunting in the woods sometimes all day. All the stories were great and we soon left the cemetery.

On the way back down, he showed me a chimney that was left from a house where he and his family lived. While he was talking, he looked happy because he was remembering all the good times they had. I was very glad because when I first ran into him he looked sad and very serious. "The place was nice, close to the river for water, and in the dry seasons, slow enough to swim in it. All was great at that time," he said.

We went back by the house and out the road. We came to the remains of a sawmill after what seemed like a very long walk in silence. He told me his father used to work there and showed me the remains of a cellar, but said he didn't remember much about it. We went back down the hill and into the remains of the saw mill. He showed me what he could remember of where every thing was located. "Since I was little," said the ghost again, "I don't remember much about it but more than the cellar. I remember that there was always a stack of logs here. My dad worked on the saw that was always standing here. He sent the boards through and cut them. One of my dad's friends, Bobby Joe Ford, worked on checking the machines and fixing them if they broke down."

On the way back from the saw mill, he showed me the old pieces of what used to be the little trans cart. The cart rode on the tracks. He told me after he got back from the war, he worked on the little cart. He made sure the tracks were okay, not gone or rusted.

While we walked around, I saw a lot of leaves on the ground in all sorts of colors. Red, brown, yellow, and even a peach color. It was all so pretty, I felt terrible that all these people just had to load up and move away from their homes; where they had lived all along.

We went back to get on the boat and rode back to civilization. Everyone looked very tired or sleepy. I wasn’t all that tired, actually just surprised at what I had seen. When we got back to shore, I got in my car after going to the restroom and made the drive home. When I got home, the big, red "J" wasn’t there any more. I couldn’t think of anything else but Jacob Fonslow Hall, the transparent man, I had seen that day. What he had told me and all the things I experienced at Hazel Creek will remain in my memory forever.

written by Chitter Pressley

Hope you enjoyed Chitter's essay, leave her a comment and I'll make sure she reads it.

I like to send a big THANK YOU out to each of you who took the time  to comment throughout this series of essays-each comment has made a huge impression on these young Appalachian Writers.

Tipper

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Meet a Ghost from Hazel Creek and They can share their Story

The series of essay's written by 8th graders at The Learning Center! are winding down-only one left after today's post. Hope you enjoy today's essay and thank you again for taking time to encourage these young Appalachian Writers with your comments.

A Hazel C reek Story

By Whitney Roberts

Meet a ghost from Hazel Creek and they can share their story.

The thought of rundown houses, underwater towns, and old worn out belongings of people they use to be always made me think of old horror books or movies. That was my favorite type of genre for a book or movie since I was younger, total gruesomeness. Still to this day, I hadn’t grown out of my habit of going down to the basement of my house and reading Stephen King books or anything in that category.

Tomorrow I was set out, with two of my friends from my school, Tripp and Lacey, to an abandoned community near Fontana Lake, North Carolina. My blood was pumping at the idea of going to a place that was filled with, bats, nasty bugs, wet buildings that have been half-way torn down, and most importantly…natural beings of the paranormal. I know we had a paper due on Hazel Creek Community, so I suggested that we really got some good information about what it looked like.

    Dude, I don’t think this is such a good idea of a trip.” Tripp scared me half to death, appearing out of thin air, while Lacey and I were walking to our vehicles one afternoon once school was over. It was raining and hard too. At that, we all three had the hoods of our jackets over our heads, shielding our hair and my glasses.

    “Dude, I’m not a dude.” I said to him instantly. I smiled at him then said, “Man I just wanna go and see supernatural…ness.” Lacey giggled as I added the “ness” at the end. Tripp still wasn’t convinced. Instead, he had wrapped his arms around his upper torso, with his hands under his armpits

    “Whitney, you know how I hate the idea of scariness and who knows what else in that category.” I could hear poor Tripp’s teeth chattering while he talked. Ever since he was a brat of a 6-year-old, he had never liked the idea of horror like I did, he had a hard past life. So I considered not fully forcing him to go. Just when I did consider it, Lacey jumped in and basically yelled at Tripp.

    “Hey! We have a paper due on Hazel Creek Community next week. You’re going whether you like it or not, mister I-don’t-like-horror.” Lacey always had a deep natural voice to her, but it had always sounded like a girl to me. She hit puberty big time at an early age. This time her voice got real high-pitched when she yelled at Tripp, I could see a vein popping out of her neck as she strained her voice. Tripp had lost the battle against Lacey and I, his green eyes practically yelled it at me that he didn’t want to go at all, it was the way he looked at me.

    Lacey’s platinum blonde hair had almost turned a light brown because of the rain, and Tripp’s messy brown hair had almost slicked back all the way when he ran his hand through it to get it out of his face. My dark brown hair had clung to my neck.

    Because of the rain, it had gotten absurdly cold. I had to get out my big fur jacket that I rarely use. Lacey had agreed to ride with me to my house while it was raining, she didn’t like the thought of driving alone while it was raining. I drove my dad’s old truck from when he had a mullet, which I don’t know when, maybe the seventies. The rain was coming down heavily as we arrived at my house. Once Lacey and I hurried into the house, my dad had left a note on the fridge, it was so easy to tell his chicken-scratch. The note said:

Gone out of town, trusting you to behave on at home and on the fieldtrip for your report. Love you, mom and dad.

It was funny because my parents didn’t know I was going alone with Tripp and Lacey. It was just us, exploring a supposedly “haunted” community.

“Well, my parents are doing the same with me. Mind if I spent the night with you, Whit?” Lacey asked me flatly as she read the note over my shoulder. I nodded and set out a place for her to sleep on the air-mattress in my bedroom.

It was midnight before we knew it, I wasn’t sleepy, and neither was Lacey. I could hear Lacey shifting her weight on the air-mattress, making air slowly ease in and out of the air-seal. “I can’t sleep.” Was all she said after making herself comfortable. I chuckled.

“Nervous about the trip tomorrow? You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. Heck, I’ll go by myself if I have to.” I said the last part with courage, hiding the true fact that I really am a little nervous…and scared.

“Nah, it’s fine. I’ll go.” Lacey said, sleep in her voice. After that, I stared at the ceiling, making tiny imaginary shapes in the wood. Lacey was asleep and I was wide-awake, thinking about what might happen tomorrow. What if a ghost was haunting the cemetery? What if there were wolves that ate anyone who visited the community? What if? Just what if. I have a lot of “what if” questions about Hazel Creek on my mind right now.

~

I woke to the sound of the door being slammed shut. I jerked straight up in bed, jarring my head. I groaned and rolled out of bed, hurdling myself towards the door. I opened it and ran down the stairs, half-asleep at that. I was knocking myself into the banister of the stairs and the wall, shaking the family portraits hanging from nails.

“Sorry I woke you, Whitney. I really have to pee.” Lacey said to be, anxiety was in her shaken voice. I opened my eyes wide enough to see her disappear into the bathroom. So, I just went downstairs and made myself some cereal and hot chocolate.

Once done with my cereal and scorching my tongue and the roof of my mouth several times from the coffee I made, Tripp called from his cell and told us to get ready, he was on his way right now to my house. I yelled towards the bathroom, about what Tripp said, to Lacey through the door. She yelled back saying, “OK!”. She was the first one to get ready so I went ahead and changed in my bedroom. I brushed my teeth at the kitchen sink also.

I jumped, startled at the noise of Tripp’s truck’s horn honking. Lacey and I were sitting on the sofa watching the news on a few teens getting busted for drinking and driving near here. My two luggage bags were at the door, so I grabbed them both as Lacey had hers in her hands before I had mine. Tripp honked his truck horn again, I was getting annoyed. Why did I have such a short fuse? I don’t know, I’ve been around Tripp for as long as I could take it.

I jumped in Tripp’s truck first, sitting between Lacey and him. It was still raining so, Tripp had always been a bad driver while it was raining. He had both of his hands clenched around the stirring wheel until his knuckles were white. His face was practically pressed up against the wind-shield. It was a grey day, the sky was bright and I could barely see out the wind-shield it was raining so hard.

“It’ll take at least twenty minutes to get to Hazel Creek.” Lacey said through her teeth. It was especially cold today. I wrapped my arms around my torso and had my head down, my chin pressed against a little lower than my collarbone. The road to Hazel Wood was a little bumpy, considering the limbs and branches that had gotten blown off of the trees and onto the road. The road was concrete, but it was broken in a few places along the sides, there were also cracks in the road that were slightly bumpy going over them.

I remember that we had to take a boat to Hazel Wood. My nerves changed right then, my heart had accelerated at the thought. I was not ready to do that, but I had no choice. I was now truly scared for my life. I never liked the idea of swimming or even being in water, because I never learned how to swim. I know I liked horror movies that had to deal with water, but I never wanted to go through with it in real life.

“We’re here.” Lacey said in a small voice, she was pointing at a sign that looked like it was at least over one-hundred years old. It said: WELCOME TO HAZEL WOOD COMMUNITY

There was a little motorboat that looked like it hasn’t been used in years floating along the gray-blue waters. The concrete road had ended violently and abruptly, with a jerk of the wheels going over the edge of the road that was a few inches down. We were on a, what looked like, a dirt parking lot. Once the truck had stopped, Lacey had already opened the door and was out before Tripp was. I sighed and scooted myself along the seat, hoping out of the Truck. Tripp and I had met around to the front of the truck, our shoulders brushed for the shortest second. He was shaking, and that made me want to take him home right then. I shouldn’t have made him go, but I wanted him to make a good grade on his paper. The other side of the lake had an eerie vibe to it. It looked like a graveyard, with all the mist covering the abandoned community like a blanket. The waters were moving easily over the large rocks, which didn’t look like rocks, it looked like peoples’ belongings from years and years ago.

Lacey was already in the uneasy-looking boat before Tripp and I had time to blink twice. “C’mon, people! Let’s get a move on. I don’t want the police come here after us.” Acid sarcasm dripped in her voice heavily. I glared at her as I patted Tripp’s shoulder, leading him towards the boat slowly. Tripp got into the boat before I did, I had a solid grip on his hand, so at that, I got into the boat about the same time he did. The boat gently rocked and creaked as we planted out feet on the old wood. I was worried that the wood might cave in or break, making my foot slip and fall through and breaking my ankle instantly.

I shook my head, getting out of my wonderland of horror. Lacey had started the motor of the boat with a jerk of her arm with the cranking string in her hand. The boat was moving before I had time to protest. When the boat jerked forward, Tripp had jumped and almost landed in my lap. I laughed and patted his knee. Lacey smiled slyly at Tripp. I looked down at the water below the moving boat, it looked like there was something moving beneath the water. Hopefully it was a fish or something. At that, I scooted away from the edge of the boat, which I was blocked by Tripp in my way. So I just kept my eyes on what was ahead of us.

Before we knew it, we were at the other side of the water. Lacey had jumped out of the boat like a professional. It was like she had done this before, knowing her, she might have done it several times. Tripp and I got out at the same time. Poor Tripp. He was trying so hard not to make a big deal out of this, he always liked trying to impress people.

“Wow, look at that.” Lacey said, pointing to a cemetery. Before I had time to look, she had already ran over to the place she had pointed at.

“Lacey!” I whispered fiercely, beginning to run in her direction. I was half-way to her when Tripp had begun to run with me, not wanting to be alone in this place. When I had gotten to Lacey, she was standing on one of the graves that looked like it was going to cave in at any moment.

“Lacey, get off of that grave you’re on!” I yelled at her viciously. But I was too late, the ground started to shake and the dirt and soil was beginning to crumble. Lacey noticed what was going on and staggered back a few steps onto fertile ground behind her. Tripp was hyperventilating next to me, and I just stared in amazement. There was loud groaning filling the misty air and the sound of wood snapping was unreal.

“What’s happening…?” Tripp breathed. I shook my head as the one thing in front of me was absolutely incredible. The sight of a, what looked like over a century old, coffin was standing straight-up right in front of us. The wood snapped at the coffin door sprung open. What was in the coffin was a skeleton, the joints were displaced and every bone looked broken, almost dust. But right before our eyes, the skeleton started to take form of a human. It started to grown long red hair. Muscles were starting to reattached themselves to the bones. Eyes were popping back into it’s head that were a bright green color. Finally, fair pale skin started to cover the muscles slowly.

“Who dares disturb my slumber?” The “skeleton” asked courageously. Lacey had backed away from the skeleton and bumped into me, which I grabbed her shoulders to keep her in place. I thought Tripp had fainted when he grabbed my arm, practically digging his nails into my skin.

“I-I-I’m sorry,” I stuttered in a shaken voice. “We were just visiting the area.” An idea popped into my brain, it felt like a light-bulb turned on above my head. “We have a paper due soon. I was wondering if you could give us some insight on the area. I believe you lived around here, Miss…?” I said, with a stronger voice now. I couldn’t believe I was talking to a ghost! It had gotten darker, the moon started to show in the dusk sky. The ghosts’ hair glowed in the dark, the same color as the moon, just not as bright.

“Patience Rustin Procter. I was the first settler here with my husband, Moses Procter.” Patience said, keeping her chin up. I take it she was going to give us her insight after all. “Us Proctors, which we had briefly settled in Cades Cove, we crossed the crest at Ekaneetlee Gap in 1829 and built a cabin on a hill in Possum Hollow. The cabin was located at what is now Proctor Cemetery.” Patience gestured behind her, making sure we saw the cemetery located where we were standing.

“Us Proctors were always on good terms with the Cherokee, which we lived further up the hollow. But let me tell you more about Hazel Creek.” Patience offered firmly. She sat down on the ground slowly. I thought she would just seep right through the soil, but she didn’t. She looked like just a regular human being. Except for her hair, it was on fire.

“Hazel Creek is a tributary stream of the Little Tennessee River in the southwestern Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina. The creek's bottomlands were home to several pioneer Appalachian communities and logging towns before its incorporation into the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Hazel Creek is now a back country campsite and historical area.”

    Tripp had gotten a little more calm as she spoke to us. We all three sat down when Patience did. She began talking again after a moment of silence. Lacey was basically sitting in my lap, she was shaking and so was Tripp. I could feel him shaking against my arm. Me, personally, I was fascinated.

    “In the 1930s, the Aluminum Company of America, which operated a large plant north of Maryville, bought up 15,000 acres (61 km²) above the town of Fontana as part of a plan to build a large dam to provide power to its plants. The operation moved along slowly until the outbreak of World War II, when the demand for aluminum skyrocketed. ALCOA turned its 15,000 acres (61 km²) over to the Tennessee Valley Authority, which quickly completed the dam in 1944. That year, the TVA bought out the remaining North Shore settlements, including those along Hazel Creek. As most of the land along the creek had little financial value, TVA could only offer prices that most of Hazel's residents found absurdly low. Those that refused to sell, however, were forced out via condemnation suits. The last families left Hazel Creek in November 1944, before the rising lake waters inundated the only major road out. The land was turned over to the recently-created Great Smoky Mountains National Park shortly thereafter, effectively extending the park boundary to the shores of Fontana Lake. The Civilian Conservation Corps, which had been operating a camp at Proctor since the late 1930s, repaired bridges, tore down buildings, and improved trails along the creek's watershed.” Patience took in a deep breath. “I’ve been in the ground for a long time, but I still know what’s going on around here.” She said with a small smile.

“Although only a handful of families had settled on Hazel Creek by the 1860s, the Civil War still had a major impact on the valley's history. Like most of the North Carolina side of the Smokies, the small population of Hazel Creek supported the Confederacy. This put them at odds with their cousins on the Tennessee side of the mountains in Cades Cove who were staunchly pro-Union. Union supporters fleeing Confederate North Carolina often fled to Cades Cove via Hazel Creek and Ekaneetlee Gap. Bushwhackers and vigilantes in Cades Cove and Hazel Creek launched raids against one another, usually to steal livestock and crops.” Patience finished off with a sigh and looked at Tripp…Lacey…then me. Her eyes burned a hole right through mine.

    “Is that enough information for you?” Patience asked me gently, hopefully trying not to scare me. When I nodded once, she stood up. Her red hair floated just above her shoulders. She entered her coffin all ghost-like, and turned around towards us.

    “Do not disturb me again, children.” She said, her eyes glowing red now. My heart started to accelerate when that happened. The coffin’s door slammed shut, and the coffin descended into the ground again. The ground started to close in around the coffin when it reached the bottom. It was like Patience had never moved an inch.

    “Did you catch all of that?” Lacey whispered to me. Her voice was uneasy. I nodded, I had a very good memory.

    “Let’s get the heck outta here!” Tripp yelled at me. When we were back in Tripp’s truck, it had gotten completely dark. It would be tricky getting back home.

~

    Two weeks had went by since that day. Tripp, Lacey and I had all three done our papers, but it was difficult. I had to help them both, they didn’t have a good memory at all.

I was standing in front of my teacher’s desk waiting for my grade on my paper. “Well,” Ms. Christy said. “I’ll let you see your grade for yourself.” She handed me the paper. I glanced at it. I had to do a double-take.

For the rest of the day, I was happy. I had made an “A” on my paper, so did Lacey and Tripp.

“I think the ghost should get the credit on our papers.” Lacey said, smiling.

Written by Whitney Roberts

Hope you enjoyed Whitney's scary story as much I did-leave her a comment and I'll make sure she reads it.

Tipper

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The Ghost Town of Hazel Creek

Today's post continues the series of essays written by 8th graders at The Learning Center!

The Ghost Town of Hazel Creek

By: Sarah Coffey

I was thinking about everything as I rode over by boat to the Hazel Creek Island that was once my home, my memories went back to all the good times that were once here. Going back in my memory of all the things that happened when we had to leave our homes and all the irreplaceable memories that went with them; how they could even do that to us? How could they just decide that we no longer lived there anymore and try to pay off our land and all of the precious memories that could never be replaced with any amount of money? How would they feel if someone came to their land and told them that they no longer lived there and had to leave all their memories? I’m sure they would feel the same way.

 Slowly I pulled the boat up to the land of where my home once was and I imagined all the people who used to live here, play here, and of all their memories a silent tear slid down my cheek. I thought about all the times we had spent there and, all the good people that were here they didn’t deserve to be kicked out.

 At a steady pace, I walked to the places people visited daily and saw the remains of the homes and what was left of the towns, also the people who were once here. Seeing the towns and homes in my head thinking that was all of our memories. I remember Proctor, Cable Branch, Medlin, Bone Valley, Ritter, Bushnell, Wayside, and Fontana. I remember the Calhoun House and what it once was. It was once a beautiful house that people loved to look at and admire, it once had a eye-catching porch decorated with rainbow colors of flowers, and how the house always smelled like fresh air from outside, how it once have crystal clear windows, it had nothing left of the way it used to be. I remember I used to visit them and they would always invite me to stay for dinner. Most of the time I would say thanks but I have to go but, when I stayed it always was a wonderful meal. My memories went back to when we would sit on the porch and listen to nature and we would watch the river and the animals would come and drink the ice cold water. I remember how nice it was to sit with the people that lived there and listen to everything around me. I went back in my memory to how we would sometimes talk until midnight and listen to nature and then I would have to walk to my home to rest.

 The house was now moldy and falling apart. It had an appalling smell that was never there when I spent my evenings. Most of the roof was missing and most of the windows were broken. The house looked as though it could fall down any minute and just be a pile of rubble. In my thoughts I pictured us on the porch talking and listening to everything around us. In my mind I went through the conversations I still remembered. We would talk about the town gossip and we would try to figure out if we thought it was true or not. We would talk about how all the little kids were growing up so fast and how it seemed like yesterday they were just learning to crawl. In my head I went through all the conversations and laughed at how we thought that some of the gossip was true. I thought about how everything seemed like it was just yesterday. But when I looked at the beautiful house it slowly transformed to how it looked now and I knew it had been a lot longer than just yesterday. I decided that I could no longer tolerate to look at the old putrid house any longer and decided to walk to the cemetery.

As I was walking I saw the aged chimney of the house that once stood there. The ashen color was burned into my memory and it had a stunning wraparound porch. It was also a very beautiful house that the people loved to admire but not that many people knew it was there, because it wasn’t a route they took daily. I saw the elderly people who used to sit on the porch and most likely listened to the people passing or thought about their life together. I used to wonder if I knew what was on their minds or if they thought about something entirely poles apart. I figured that they thought about what everyone else thinks about but I never really knew for sure. I remember when they wouldn’t be sitting on the porch and you would see smoke coming from the brick chimney. I always assumed they were sitting by the fire and enjoying the comfortable and cozy house. I slowly, walked away and I saw that the only part of the house that was left, the brick chimney. I started to snivel involuntarily as I thought about those wonderful people and how they wouldn’t hurt a fly, except during the summer when flies were dreadful here, yet they still had to evacuate because they had no other choice. No one who was once here deserved to be removed by the Tennessee Valley Authority, no one deserved to have to leave. They didn’t deserve to have all their recollections torn away from them.

    Slowly, I started to draw nearer to the cemetery the tears were soon wiped away and I was okay for the jiffy. The moment I saw the cemetery of people’s passed loved ones I started to remember the few people who I knew who died. I remember the people who used to visit the cemetery daily to see their deceased loved ones. In my mind I could see them standing by the graves crying and sometimes they would talk to the person who had passed telling them what they felt or what was happening. I used to think that they were crazy for doing that but I now understood why they did this.

As I stood by the graves that held some of my nearest loved ones I thought about how they might have died or how long ago they had died. I started to blubber quietly. I looked over the graves and saw the people I knew come to life and walk right past me. As I saw three people leave I couldn’t stay any longer, I quickly left so I wouldn’t have to watch anymore.

As I passed by the remaining chimney and the old Calhoun House I stopped weeping from the people leaving the memorial park and once again I was okay. I looked and saw the path that I wanted to take, it lead to the old clubhouse. Walking to the place where everyone hung out on the weekends in my mind I saw three houses that once stood that seemed abandoned. I looked and saw that there wasn’t any sign that there had even possibly been a house. All that was left of the homes was what I remembered. I saw the kids outside playing; saw the wife outside working in the garden or just watching the kids have a good time. Never once saw the husband; I assumed he worked in the day to provide for his family. I passed the homes and wondered where those people were today or if they were even still alive. Wondering, if they ever came to see where there old home once was.

 I kept moving forward to the clubhouse. I didn’t want to linger on the thoughts that might make me tear up; no longer did I want to whimper at everything around me. I stood at what was left of the clubhouse. Seeing the people that loved to party and seemed to always be there. Seeing the full picture in my mind, the people, the building everything, this was the biggest part of my memories. I began to look around seeing that there were only a few remains of the clubhouse. Except for the memories that I had of the people who were once there, there was nothing to indicate they were ever here, except for the few remains that were still standing.

After I passed the clubhouse, I decided to visit the old locomotive tracks. As coming upon them I saw that there were very few remains. In my mind going back in time and nothing was missing or out of place. Still hearing the distant whistle of the train as it passed by people. Seeing the train on the tracks, moving at no more than twenty miles an hour. Still seeing the excited children and passengers waving to the people that the train passed. I could still see the driver pulling the whistle to make everyone happy and smile. I could smell the smoke that came from the train. As the memory slowly faded into the distant past so did the train and its blow of its whistle. After that, I decided that I wanted to see what was left of my home.

Walking to my home and considering that there was nothing left. Bearing in mind that there were only the memories that were left of my home. I no longer had my garden full of rainbow colors, or the tire swing that was once in the tree, anything that was once here might as well have never existed. I could only see the memories I had left of my life here. Now it was overgrown with trees and bushes. At last I deciding that I would go see the mill and then leave no longer wanting to shed tears at everything that was there.

I walked to the mill replaying everything I had seen on my trip here. Knowing that deep down I really wanted to see the mill but, then there was part of me that wanted to just leave now and never look back, but still, I kept walking and pictured what the old worn mill would look like now. I began to see the ruins of what was not here of the mill considering that hardly anything was left. My eyes swelled over with snuffle and I knew that I had to get off the island. 

I couldn’t stand to remember anymore. I couldn’t stop crying (sad musicL) at everything I saw. It wasn’t fair they shouldn’t have had the right to come in and just take our homes. How did they even have the courage to do something like that? I was running toward the boat and passing were the pieces of the homes and of the clubhouse; I couldn’t see what it had once been it was like my memory had been fogged over. Only seeing the people and their worried faces when they were told to relinquish and how they always seemed to be preparing to leave. I saw how they must have thought how am I supposed to just leave all my memories and my land? How am I supposed to just leave where my family grew up? I can’t just leave there land so you can do whatever you want to it. I didn’t want to see their worried looks anymore I was running even faster to get to my boat. Finally, I saw the boat and I quickly hopped in and sped away.

 As I left I thought about what I saw today and all the flashbacks that I had had and what it now looked like I thought to myself, I didn’t want to remember anymore I wanted the worried looks of the people to leave my mind, I wanted it to just be erased from my memory, but deep down I knew that was part of my life and I never wanted to forget it.

I didn’t return to Hazel Creek for a long time I just went over and over what I remembered about my visit in my head. I didn’t return until I felt that I had enough strength to not sob my eyes out at everything I saw. It wasn’t easy returning when I did and seeing everything again the way it was left, but each time I went I grew stronger and stronger, eventually it hardly bothered me at all.

I will always remember everything about where I grew up, the people, the animals, the homes, the locomotive, the mill, and the clubhouse, everything. I’m sure I will always remember everything about my home, and will visit as much as I will be able to…

by Sarah Coffey

Hope you enjoyed Sarah's essay as much as I did-she really captured the heartache those folks must have felt when they lost their homes. Leave her a comment and I'll make sure she reads it.

Tipper

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Friday the 30th at Proctor

We continue the series of essays written by 8^thgraders at The Learning Center! with one written by Chatter Pressley

Friday the 30th at Proctor

It was Friday the 30^thand TLC was going to what was left of the town Proctor at Fontana Lake in Robbinsville. It took about an hour to get to the lake. Once we got to the lake, we got on a pontoon boat. The boat was big, tan and it seated a lot of people. As we drove out on the lake, the water was very choppy. I sat at the front of the boat so I got a little water on me but it was cool and refreshing.  When we were about halfway there, we saw a bear cub, small and as black as coal dust. Ten minutes later, we arrived at the shore. Then the boat turned around and drove away.

When we got on the shore, we started walking until we reached a bridge with a sign telling us what remains still existed. As we looked at the sign, we decided we would head up toward the old clubhouse and the lumber mill. On the way up to the clubhouse and the lumber mill we saw what was left of an old foundation. There were big, square, grey, concrete blocks on both sides of the trail.  

When we reached the remains of the lumber mill, a tall, dark-headed, young, beautiful woman approached us and apologized for making us wait she was just running a little late.  From there she talked to us about the mill and told us that it was the town’s biggest industry that kept the town going. Then she took us to the clubhouse and said she remembered that was where she ate often as a child. We thought she was she was only kidding because she couldn’t have possibly lived back then.

From there, she took us to the clubhouse where we found pieces of pottery. On the way down from the clubhouse Katie and I found an old grape vine that was big and long. We asked our mom if we could swing on it and she said yes. Then we swung on it which was very fun. Then we headed toward the only house that was still standing kept up by the forest service. 

She continued leading us toward the house. Once we reached the house, we went inside from the back porch and entered the kitchen. We saw a stove, a very old sink, and some cabinets on the wall. Then we walked into a pretty big room that might have been the living room. Next we walked into what was the bathroom and behind the door there was a shelf and a mirror. We continued following into many other rooms in the house. After that we went onto the porch and into the last room that could only be accessed by the porch. In that room there was some old furniture and an old table. There were fireplaces all throughout the house because back then that was the only way to keep warm.

 The beautiful woman told us that Granville Calhoun use to live in that house. She would visit him often when she was little and he would give her candy, but again, we just thought she was only kidding. Then she showed us an old room under the house which was an old food cellar. I guess that explained the shelves I saw.

Then we went and headed toward the Bone Valley cemetery. It was a pretty good way up to the cemetery. About halfway up there, we saw the remains of an old house where just the chimney was left. We looked around the chimney and I found an old jar along with some pottery. When we got back on the trail, we continued walking towards the cemetery. Right before we reached the cemetery, we walked up some stairs.

When we started looking around the cemetery, we thought that the long hike was well worth it. The graveyard was amazing; there were people who were born in the 17 and 18 hundreds. I remember seeing a gravestone marked: born October 20^th 1920 died October 20^th 1920. There were all kinds of gravestones of confederate soldiers and children, it was so sad but so interesting at the same time.

 After looking at the Bone Valley cemetery, we had to head back toward the house. Then when we just cleared the woods, the beautiful woman told us that she remembered everything about the town. She enjoyed living in the town until the TVA took it over. She said she missed all her friends and family because when the TVA took over Proctor, all of her friends and family were separated.

She then told us this is where the tour ended. She said to all of us that we had have been a good group but she must go. As she slowly walked away, she faded away into thin air. We kept walking until we reached the shore. When we got back on the boat we asked our selves who she was but we all decided that we would never know.

written by Chatter Pressley

I hope you enjoyed Chatter's essay.  Leave her a comment and I'll make sure she reads it.

Tipper

p.s. I want to thank all of you who have left comments for the kids-it has made each of them feel very special-and I believe motivated them to continue writing.

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Return To Hazel Creek

Today's post continues with a series of essays written by 8th grade students at The Learning Center!

Return To Hazel Creek written by Hailey Saraney

 

    I was sitting around the Christmas tree on Christmas Eve with my grandchildren, Tyler, Quinn, and Ryder. Tyler asked me, “What was it like back in Hazel Creek , Grandma Lucy?”

“Yeah!” said Quinn.

“Ok.  Have you seen Mary Poppins?” I said. They all shook their heads yes. “Alright, you know how Burt draws a picture and Burt, Mary Poppins, Jane, and Michael jump into the picture?”They all shook their heads yes. “Lets draw a picture then, and I will show you.”    

    Kim, my daughter, looked at me as if I had grown two heads, but the kids got a kick out of it. They had the chalk out before you could bat an eyelash.  “Alright,” I said, “Where do you want to go?”

“Your old house!” they all said in agreement.

“Ok, I will draw it!”

   I started to draw the memory of my old house. I first drew the red shingles. Then I drew the wooden steps leading up to our front door. The house was white, so I used white chalk to make the house look real. “Alright, it is finished! Everyone hold hands.”

   Everyone grabbed hands even Kimberly. I chanted the words “Hazel Creek, Hazel Creek take me back to my home land.”    

   The room spun around us like a spinning top. It felt like it would never conclude. Then boom! We were standing on a busy road; I was back in Hazel Creek. There were a ton of people, some poor some rich. I saw the Ritter logging company sawing at a huge tree.  The weirdest part of it was that Kim was no longer an adult, and I was not a little old lady who got sympathy from others, we were both children.  

We looked so out of place there because our clothes were so different. We went to the General Store to get some new clothes. The boys got new suits, much to their chagrin, and hair cuts too. Kimberly bought a pale pink dress that looked like the sunset. My dress was the color of a blue sapphire after it’s been polished. We both bought hats, shawls, shoes, and jewelry that would match our dresses. Our hair was put into the hottest style there was in the 30’s, it was the style I called ”the tuck.” When we were coming out of the store I saw my friend Sheral Whitmire. Sheral called my name, and when I called back to her she smiled.  “Lucy! Hello! How are you?” she said

“Good. How are you?”

 “Who are these people?”

 “These are my friends!”

“Oh! How are you today?”

“Good! We are not from here we are newcomers,” said Kim. 

“Oh that’s nice. Why don’t you come to my house?”

“We can’t. My mama and daddy want us home to eat Christmas Eve supper with them.”

“Oh, Ok, have fun! Bye, Bye!”

“Bye.”

   The snow crunched under our feet while we walked down the dirt road to my house. As we neared the house, snow started to flurry down in little clusters. We hugged our shawls close to our bodies so we would stay warm.  We looked at the river, it was frozen solid. I told the other kids that we would go ice skating later. We got in the house and Mama asked who the kids that were talking with us were. So I had to explain who they were to her too. We set out beds for the other kids. It felt so weird having my mother and father cradling me. It had been so long ago when I had lived here.

During the middle of the night, we heard a loud banging sound on the door. “Open up!” yelled the voice. “TVA!”

My daddy ran to the door. “What is going on here?”

“TVA. We have come to tell you have to get out of your home at sunrise.”

 This was the day that I remember the best. But I had forgotten that we were forced out of our home on Christmas Eve.

“Why?” my mother asked    

“Well Ms... what is your name?”

“Ms. Creed.”

“Well Ms. Creed, we are going to flood this place to make a Hydroelectric Power Plant for the surrounding areas.”

“Why can’t you use some other area?” said Daddy.

“This is just the best place to do it. I don’t know because I am just the guy who runs around telling people to get out of their houses!” 

“What’s wrong?” Ryder kept asking me.

   Eventually I had to explain to him what was going on. My parents were running around franticly putting things in the wagon.  They put our Christmas presents into the wagon. When I asked my daddy where we were going, he just looked at me and shrugged. We set off, all of us in the wagon. My parents said that we would have to travel through a deep pit basically. When Ryder asked Daddy how much longer we had to go, he said that we had three days to left. I remembered coming back to this place to visit my parents’ graves and we had to take a boat through here. Quin was sleeping on my lap, Ryder was curled up in a corner, and Tyler was lying on Kim’s lap. I was looking out the back of the wagon. Sheral was leaning dangerously close to the ground.

“Sheral get back in the wagon!” I screamed.

   Either she didn’t hear me or she didn’t care. “Please, Sheral you’re my best friend.”

Sheral ignored my plea she had heard me you could see it in her face, but she just kept hanging there.

    Her wagon went over a bump and it jostled her so much that she fell off the back of the wagon. “Mamma, Daddy!”I called. “Stop the wagon.”

   The wagon halted.  I called to Sheral. Her motionless body just laid there. Her face looked toward the heavens. I jumped out of the wagon, followed by my parents and her parents. I sat there by her side sobbing. I remembered this day very well. Tyler tugged on my sleeve, “Can we go home now?”

“I want to wait for the funeral,” I replied.

“Please,” all the boys said in unison.

 “Please, I will see when the funeral is,” I walked over to her daddy.

“Mr. Whitmire,” I said.

“Yes Lucy,” he managed to say.

“When is the funeral?”

“Today hopefully, if we can get a hole dug.”

“Ok.”

    I went over to Tyler, Quinn, Ryder, and Kim. I felt bad when I saw them, the boys were crying on Kim’s lap. “Let’s go home” I said.

   I drew the picture of Time Square. We all held hands and jumped. Next thing we knew we were back to our old selves standing in the middle of Time Square.  We took the subway back home. The boys said that they never wanted to go back there again. But I wondered if I could have stopped the events that took place so many years ago.  

written by Hailey Saraney

Wow-what an exciting essay! I hope you enjoyed Hailey's writing as much as I did. I just love how she tied Mary Poppins into the story. Leave her a comment-and I'll make sure she reads it.

Tipper

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The Displaced Community - Hazel Creek

This is the second post of a series of essays written by 8th Graders at The Learning Center!

The Displaced Community, Hazel Creekwritten by Nosha Oneal

It was November eighteenth and time for my annual trip to Hazel Creek, where I had grown up and lived for twenty years.  I was here to revisit my town and the graves of my family.  The cemetery would be my initial stop.

    I was walking along in the graveyard of my family.  I remembered so much about this place.  My family grew up in a remarkable log cabin less than a mile from this graveyard.  I was home schooled by my family. They must have done some marvelous work since I went to Yale.  I remembered where I worked with the lumber company, and the rivers I played in for twenty years.  I positioned chrysanthemums on the majority of my families’ graves before I left. They were my Papa’s favorite flower.

 
  
      As I walked along toward my old house I thought, “How different would the previous sixty six years would have been if I had lived here?”  We would have probably stayed a middle size town and I would never have gotten too live in Atlanta.  Although we kept in contact, my family and friends did not all move together.  I wish we had.

    I was there, my home for twenty years.  My great, great grandfather had built it in 1905, the same year my great grandfather was born.  In its time, it was a two-story four-bedroom two-bathroom hickory and maple abode; it even had a two hundred and fifty square foot living room.  We had the largest house in fifty miles. Unfortunately we now have the largest heap of scraps in those fifty miles.

 
 

    You could still see where the spiral stairs once stood going up to my bedroom.  This was once a flourishing, prosperous town and now very little of it can even be called ruins.  Even as I went to my favorite branch of the creek I saw it was run down. It was now little more than a slow trickle because of a beaver dam.  I would have knocked the beaver dam over but I realized that, as this had been my home it was now the beavers’.

    As I rode the boat to shore, I thought of all the others who have been displaced by the Tennessee Valley Authority throughout the years.  It was a miserable move in some ways but an enormous pleasure in others.  We undoubtedly would have had to work a lot harder.  I honestly do not know whether the TVA was a horror or a helper.

Written by Nosha Oneal

I hope you enjoyed Nosha's essay-I certainly did. You can see-he really thought about the sacrifice made by the folks who were removed from Hazel Creek-and questioned if the end justified the means.

Hope you'll leave Nosha a comment-and I'll make sure he reads them!

Tipper

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Hazel Creek

Today's post begins a series of essays written by young Appalachian Writers.

 

Hazel Creek by Elliott Queen

I was sitting on the boat, wondering what this place would be like that we had just drove an hour to get to; waves seemed to hit the plastic windows, I couldn’t tell, they looked wet and fogged up back at the shore. Suddenly Hailey screamed out, “Bear!!! Bear, there’s a bear!!!” Everyone sprang from their chairs with their cameras in hand trying to get a snapshot of the small Black bear crawling along the steep, rocky bank. I just looked briefly then went back to thinking. The story about Hazel Creek was interesting; a whole community displaced almost in an instant by the TVA, all the people having to give up the land that many of them grew up on, and then once everything was said and done, the TVA didn’t even offer to give the land back to those who wanted it. This field trip was going to be interesting; I knew it and I couldn’t help wondering what we would find once we got there. 

    Another 20 minutes or so later we got to the island. We stopped in a “good” spot, which cut out some of the walking in exchange for 1 ½ feet of mud. Yet that also meant that we got to the remains of the community quicker, so we stepped out of the boat and began our walk down the trails. At first we were going uphill at a gentle pace, and then we reached the top of the trail and began to descend. While we were walking, I noticed that there were loose bricks lying along the trail; I stopped and knelt down to examine one. The brick was red and worn, and you could just barely make out the name Stevens engraved into it. On the opposite side from the name, there was a red splatter. My first thought was paint from the 1930s, but I then thought that the paint would be gone by now, blood would be too, so I was puzzled, then Katie Pressley came up and said, “That’s animal blood.”

 I was half amazed and half creeped out that she knew this, but I didn’t question. I dropped the brick and continued on with the group, wondering who this Stevens family was. After a few minutes of walking, a few other kids and I were far ahead of the rest of the group when we came to a large wood bridge. Across the bridge, I saw an old woman in an old style dress and shoes, just standing, staring at us. I turned to AJ and said, “AJ, do you see that old woman over there?”

I turned with him to look again, but the old woman was gone. AJ smacked me upside the head for bothering him; no surprise that I didn’t bother AJ again for the rest of the day. We crossed the bridge across the river, and came upon the only maintained house from that time. I was shocked at how new it looked from where I was standing; windows, a sturdy structure and a clean coat of white paint.

We continued in the opposite direction from the house, about a third of a mile, until we found what we thought was the old Ritter Lumber Mill and began to explore the buildings. Sure enough we found a sign that read, ‘Ritter Mill’ after exploring the large brick buildings. Troy, his girlfriend Allison and I found a small brick building filled with barbed wire, large backdoor and wood stacks in the corner of the room. I thought that this might have been the furnace room or storeroom and crossed over the wire in a place where the bricks had remained stacked higher than four feet. Being careful not to shake any bricks loose, I got off in the other side of the room quickly stumbling back into standing straight. I looked around and saw in the doorway that same old woman from the bridge, again just staring.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Follow me,” was her only answer.

    At least I knew she could talk and wasn’t some deranged and crazy victim of a horrible crime that had been traumatized into not talking. She turned and went to the left of the doorway. I ran to follow her, but when I got outside, she was gone, nowhere to run and no trees to hide behind. I took a step forward and tripped over something really heavy. I turned to look at what had tripped me and saw a large saw with “Stevens” engraved into the rusted blade. Again this Stevens person came up… or rather brought me down. We headed back to the main trail and just as we had gotten back on schedule, I saw our mystery woman wandering through the woods. I asked Ms. Mary Jo about her, but again she had made like Houdini and disappeared; leaving me to be called a “silly goose” by Ms. Mary Jo.

Troy and I lead the group to where she had been, and we found the remains of an old house and garden; even though what we really found were slabs of concrete from the foundation, and bricks arranged like mountains/zigzag pattern like in modern gardens. I looked on the concrete slab and in the lower right was the word “Stevens.” We found a toilet later with “Stevens” printed on it; I was starting to think that the “Stevens” were big people in the community. This idea made me feel important that I was the first person to discover the “Stevens” family’s stuff.

We made our way back to the house and, much to Mark’s disappointment we had to leave anything that we’d found on the trail behind so we could move faster (Mark had found a heap of twisted metal that looked just like a flamethrower). We had planned on continuing on, but instead chose to stop at the house for lunch. This provided a great opportunity to explore the house. After we ate, Mark said goodbye to his junkyard treasure ‘Little Torches’ and both of us went into the main part of the house. The people who were absent didn’t miss much with the top of the house. It was moldy, judging by the smell, it had been for a while, strange white powdery substance covered the floor, and various names carved across entire walls really made the house feel like a rotten old house. Naturally, Mark and I first went to the names on the wall seeing Franks, Kepharts, a Smith or two, and at the top of the list the name Joanna Stevens-1923; that’s a long time for graffiti to be on a wall. After deciding that we couldn’t stand the smell of the mold in the house, we joined the others in the basement, a serious upgrade compared to what we were leaving.

The basement was originally built for full-sized people to be able to stand and walk around, but in the long 80 years, the elements had taken back the house and filled the basement with so much dirt that you had to crawl on all fours to get around. Ten, fifteen minutes went by, then we found a bat hanging from our beloved basement’s ceiling and the teachers made us come out for safety reasons. We were about to leave for the cemetery, so the teachers had let us go and explore the transport bus. A few of us piled in the bug infested bus and sat down, we could see a lot more stuff from outside the bus, but we all pretended that the windows were a much better view and just sat. I saw the ‘crazy old woman person’ walk past the bus and made an excuse for all of us to exit the bus; too many ladybugs, I wasn’t totally lying there were at least 100 in the bus.

After three quarters of a mile hiking up and down the sloping hills, we reached the stairs that would take us to the cemetery. Troy and I were the first ones to the top of the stairs and again I saw the old woman standing on a grave looking at the small Marble headstone. I immediately approached. I wasn’t being respectful, unfortunately, but I had to get to the bottom of this whole thing. The first thing that I said this time was, “You used to live here before Fontana was built, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she replied softly.

“Are you a Stevens?” I asked.

This time she just nodded. “You’re Joanna Stevens-1923, aren’t you?”

“Yes. My family and I lived here for years before Fontana. Our house was small, bricks covering the outside of the walls.”

“The brick with ‘Stevens’ engraved into it was from your house!”  

“Yes. A gigantic storm hit shortly before we were forced to leave Hazel Creek; our house was destroyed, scattered everywhere. My family moved into the house you just came from; our friends the Jones’s owned it then. That mark on the wall with my name was how tall I was when we left Hazel Creek, we would measure every Saturday.”

“The name on the wall; the dash wasn’t a dash; it was a line of how tall you were, and the storm is why we found the foundation slabs and decoration for the garden so far from the other bricks from the house; a storm scattered them?”

Joanna nodded and began to walk further up the hill towards another grave. I followed. As I walked, I noticed that the grave she had been looking at was for somebody named Jonathan Stevens.

“Why do you always disappear when I try to show you to my friends?” I asked.

The woman pointed to the small grave at both of our feet. It read Infant Queen and right beside it; a grave that read Hillman Moore. These people must’ve been my relatives.

“Your family came from here. Living here in Hazel Creek like my family a long time ago,” the woman answered.

“So my families, the Queens and the Moores, lived in Hazel Creek, and because I’m their family, you’re trying to talk to me?”

 Joanna nodded. “I could show myself to your friends if I wanted to, but I don’t want to.”

“I bet they see you now,” I said.

“No, they can’t,” she quickly answered.

I didn’t question, I took her word for it. My new acquaintance, Joanna Stevens, began to tell me the whole story. She explained to me how when she was young, after her house had been destroyed, she moved in with the Jones family in the house at the bottom of the trail. Her father Jonathan Stevens took a second job at the Ritter Lumber mill as an assistant saw worker. In the earlier part of the 30’s Joanna and her family left Hazel Creek in pursuit of a new job; the mill had decided it was time to abandon ship so they did too. After the 40’s, the TVA was done with the land, the dam was built and the lake was as high as it was going to go, but still the Stevens didn’t get their land back. Jonathan now dying gave up looking for work and moved the family back to the area surrounding Hazel Creek. Jonathan’s last words to Joanna were, “Some day we will have our land back, and we will have our home again.”

Over the next 50 years, Joanna’s mother would die, Hazel Creek would be completely bought by the National Forest service, and Joanna began to visit regularly.

“So, that’s what happened. Jonathan was your father; I saw his grave. You still live around here on the mainland?” I asked.

“I used to, but now I have a new home. Thank you for listening to my story, now I feel truly peaceful. Goodbye.”

I stood there again thinking of what had happened here years ago. I wanted to ask Joanna more questions.

“Wait!” I screamed. She was already gone; nobody else was in the graveyard, not even the 8^th graders, yet I could hear a little girl giggling and happily calling out “Mommy and Daddy.” I looked at the grave below me on the hill, in shock I read:

        Joanna Stevens

           Oct. 19^th, 1914-Nov. 28^th, 1985

I stood there at the top of the cemetery feeling strange. It wasn’t a bad feeling, but not completely a good one either; I felt blissful. I guess anyone would feel that way if they’d spent all day chasing a ghost through the woods only to have her disappear after talking to her for five minutes. I felt like I’d helped Joanna move on in a strange way, which kind of helped in calming me down, but still I had met a ghost. I questioned why she contacted me at all, I wasn’t some kind of medium; I couldn’t ask rich dead people for their safe combinations. I stood there puzzled, trying to make sense of the whole thing. Then it came to me; maybe she needed to tell her story to move on, and since I had relatives from Hazel Creek, I was the one that she wanted to tell. I think that’s the story I’ll go with, makes about as much sense as this whole day. I began walking down the wooden stairway that had lead me to the cemetery when, again I heard the little girl’s voice; it said in a joyful tone, “Goodbye.”

I answered softly, almost to myself, “Goodbye Joanna.”  

I met up with the group almost half-way down the up-down, up-down climb of the cemetery trail. The whole group was together; even the slow-walking teachers. At the end of the walk downhill, we walked back towards the spot where we were first dropped off by the ferry. After walking almost another hour, we came to the Miss Hazel ferry itself waiting at the shore. We were about 10 feet from the boat, ankle deep in grey mud when I saw a young girl standing with an older man and woman at the top of one a cliff; she waved and, waiting until nobody was looking, I waved back. I knew the girl was Joanna, the older man was probably Jonathan Stevens and the woman must have been Joanna’s mother. Joanna and her parents disappeared soon after; into thin air, and I felt the strange feeling that I had back at the cemetery, only this time I was happy. I was suddenly yanked back into reality by Ms. Mary Jo calling me a, ‘silly goose,’ again for standing on the boat ramp and not taking my seat.

I took my seat, afraid of falling off of the now-moving boat, and along with my 14 fellow 8^th graders, began the journey back home, still thinking of what had happened here. I had met a ghost, explored an old community and had a pretty good lunch. All things considered, it was a good day. I can’t wait to get home and try to take a nap.

by Elliott Queen

I hope you enjoyed Elliot's essay as much as I did-leave him a comment and I'll make sure he reads it.

Tipper

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