Blind Pig & The Acorn

The Baccer Patch

Today's guest post was written by Ed Ammons.

The Baccer Patch written by Ed Ammons

The worst memories of my young life are of the 'baccer patch'. It all started in the fall and winter when Daddy would pile up a huge pile of brush, let it dry and then burn it completely to the ground hoping the fire would kill all the fungi and weeds that could harm the new tobacco plants.

He would then build a frame around the bed using freshly peeled poplar poles. Next he and Mommy would rake the dirt inside free of any rocks, roots, or dirt clods. Then they would mix tobacco seeds with corn meal, to get the seeds to spread more evenly, and sow them in the bed. They would cover the seeds and corn meal mixture with the back of the rake and their hands so as not to cover them too deep. They covered the bed with a thin gauze cloth which was tacked around the sides to the pole frame. The cloth was thin enough to let in light, air and rain. If the weather looked like it might get too cold, they had an assortment of old quilts, blankets, and anything else that could be thrown across the frame to protect the tender plants.

When there wasn't enough rain the plants had to be watered. Mommy would take her cupped hand and throw water on the plants so she could get just enough water in just the right place. One neighbor would give his tobacco plants an extra boost by watering them with tea, water that had been filtered down through a barrel of composted horse manure. More often than not Mommy and Daddy would end up having to buy some plants every year.

When Mommy and Daddy decided the new plants were big enough and the weather was warm enough, it was planting time. The field had to be plowed first. Daddy would hitch up the horse, when he had one, to a turning plow. The ground had to be just right. Too wet and it would dry out into clods the consistency of a used brick. Too dry and the plow would run only a couple of inches deep. To make it tougher parts of the field might be dry when other parts were wet.

Next he would use a float or a harrow to break up the rough ground left by the plow. A couple of years I remember him cutting down a small tree, hitching it behind the horse and dragging it around the field to smooth it even more. If he was lucky it wouldn't come a hard rain and wash ruts across the freshly prepared field and force him to do it all over again. Or maybe the rain would wait until the plants were in the ground then come and wash everything away together.

Daddy never had much luck with horses or mules. He didn't have money to buy young ones, so he ended up burying one horse and selling one that got too old to work. I don't remember it, but he told me about an old blue mule he had that broke its neck skidding logs. I don't know whether blue was the color of the mule or his name.

On years Daddy didn't have a horse, he might borrow one from a neighbor. On years when a neighbor needed a horse, Daddy would loan his. Sometimes he would pay someone to come and plow. It wasn't unusual in those times to see an old farmer with his horse or team fully harnessed dragging its singletree or their doubletree with a plow attached. The plow would be on its side so as not to wear out the point or plow up the road. The farmer would bring up the rear, strolling along at the horses' plodding pace, occasionally turning his head aside to squirt a stream of brown 'baccer juice; from his mouth. You could hear this combo long before you saw it. One neighbor had a horse that knew how much his owner loved to talk and would stop automatically whenever it passed someone along the way.

Looks like I've wandered away from the 'baccer patch'. Anyway, as modern times approached and farmers were becoming mechanized, nobody was loaning their tractors. So Daddy did the best he could with what had. He bought a ''garden tractor'' which had two big wheels under the engine with handles that extended back to the operator and held the throttle and direction controls. To crank it you had to wind a rope around a pulley, put the choke on and jerk with all your might. If you were lucky the thing might start after the 155th try. There were several attachments to be had but Daddy only had a plow and disc harrow. The plow wasn't like its ''hillside turner'' cousin that could be flipped over the end of the row and go back the other direction. This plow was stationery and you had to plow in circles with it like you do in the flatlands.

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Pap never raised tobacco-nor did his Daddy or Grandpa that I know of-so I don't have any first hand knowledge about growing tobacco. I have heard Pap describe how his mother started tomato seeds in the early spring-she did it almost exactly like Ed's parents started their baccer seed.

Ed's line: "Or maybe the rain would wait until the plants were in the ground then come and wash everything away together." reminded me of the Poor Man song-remember it? If you missed it you can go here to hear it.

I hope you enjoyed Ed's baccer memories as much as I did-leave him a comment and I'll make sure he reads it!

Tipper

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Life On Wiggins Creek

Today's guest post was written by Ed Ammons.

My Beginnings written by Ed Ammons

Life, as I know it, began on the 1st day of October 1950, in a three room shack, in a holler called Wiggins Creek. Wiggins Creek is in the Needmore community of Swain County, North Carolina. The house wasn't at the end of the road, it was past the end, unless you happened to be driving something with 4-footed drive like a mule or team of goats.

My Mommy told me that I was blue when I was born and that they had trouble keeping me breathing all night until daylight when Dr. Mitchell got there. I was delivered by Lula Sanders, who was known as a midwife in the Needmore area. I don't know whether she had any medical training, but her husband, Oscar, had been a medical corpsman in the Army.

I am the 2nd child of a family of 6. The oldest of us, Harold, was born in 1949 I know not where. Then it's me. Then Rhoda, born in 1951, maybe in a hospital, maybe not. Then came Freda Lois, 1953-2002. Freda was born in a hospital, as were Stephen, born July 24, 1955 and Doris born in 1957.

Our Daddy was Fred Ervin Ammons, born 1919 in Swain North Carolina to Allen Clingman Ammons and Flora Buena Cunningham. Mommy was Thelma Belle Breedlove, born 1924 to Alfred Gaston Breedlove and Cora Lee Dehart.  

The story goes that the doctor told Mommy after Harold was born that, because of the way her body was structured, she shouldn't have any more children. So she had at least seven more, five of whom survived. Mommy was what she called, shortwaisted. That could be the reason she lost at least two children at or before birth. I don't know how their bodies were disposed of, but I'm sure, knowing my Daddy, they had a proper burial, in a proper grave, even though it might not be marked.

We all lived in a little boxed and slatted house until 1963. Boxed and slatted houses had no frame. The walls were one inch thick boards of various widths. The cracks between them were covered on the outside by narrow 1/2 inch thick slats that kept out some of summer's heat, winter's coldest winds and an assortment of natures little creepy crawly things. The inside of the walls were covered by wallpaper held in place by short big headed nails called wallpaper tacks. Wallpaper tacks were noted for their ability to work their way out, fall to the floor, land there with the pointy end up, and then wait there patiently for the next barefooted kid who wandered by.

The house was covered by a ''tin'' roof . A collection of various sized and shaped pieces of sheet metal that had been gleaned from the remains of older structures. That's recycling at it's finest. The metal was nailed to boards that were attached at a 90° angle to the rafters. The ends of the rafters were exposed allowing the wind to flow easily through. That is also where the birds, bees, and dirt daubers built their nests. And bats. And snakes.

On many a cold windy winter night one of those roofing pieces made its last valiant effort and was ripped back by the wind with a sound of a misshapen gong. If you were lucky enough to be snuggled up to somebody warm and you were lucky enough not to have peed on yourself and your source of warmth, you would pull the cover up over your head and hope the wind died down. Then it would die down and all would become peaceful and calm. Then just as you started to dose off you'd hear a small sound. It started as a low moan, like in the distance a cow had lost her calf. Then it increased to the cry of a mother who lost a child. Finally the sound rose to the scream of a lost soul being tossed into eternal damnation. Then WHAM that loose piece of tin started banging again.

For all the horrible howls the winter winds could create, the sweet sound of a summer rain was more than a match. Not even the sweetest lullaby over the lips of a loving mother whose child has already fallen asleep can rival the nocturnal whisper of a gentle rain on a tin roof.

The kitchen was a shed style addition to the main house. The kitchen roof therefore had less pitch and was more prone to leaks. Leaks were considered part of the structure in those days, so there was always a ready assortment of pots, pans, buckets and pails which hopefully hadn't rusted themselves through since the last rain. Leaks from melting snow were less a problem as they dripped slower and the container emptied less often. Winter leaks sometimes became icicles and could be broken off and thrown outside. Or licked into eternity.

Our kitchen had three windows. One was in the outside door, one near the table, and one over the sink. The cook stove was a four eye ''Rome Eagle'' with a hot water reservoir, a warming shelf and an oven thermometer which I don't think I ever saw move. The stove sat between the table and the sink. The sink had a spigot that turned the cold water on and off. The hot water was on the stove when there was a fire going. The water from the drain ran out a pipe, across the back yard and into the little branch that ran behind a big black walnut tree.

Our early toilet facilities were of the detached shed roof design, consisting of four walls, a door with cracks more suited for looking out than in, and a wooden latch. It also included seating for one and most of the time disposable reading material. Unlike most of our environmentally unfriendly neighbors, who had two-seaters over the creek, ours was over a hole dug in the rocky ground. From time to time a new hole had to be dug, the little building sledded over it, and the old hole, containing artifacts of its time period, covered over with dirt.

Water was supplied to us by a little spring that ran out between some rocks up on the hillside behind the house. It wasn't a torrent, just barely more than a trickle, but it never failed us. And it was good water. It had spring lizards in it. We couldn't keep them out. It was the best water around and we knew it and the lizards did too.

Daddy piped the water from the spring to a little open concrete reservoir he had built to store enough water so as not to run out at peak times, if there had been any. The reservoir would freeze over in the winter and fill up with algae in the summer and leaves in the fall. The pipes had to be cleaned out from time to time, but overall it was a better system than some of the neighbors who had to dip water from the spring and carry it in the house in buckets or others that caught water from a spout in the branch.

Daddy had also built a little ''spring box'' below the overflow from the reservoir. It was made of wood and covered with moss but it lasted several years and served very well as a refrigerator until we got electricity. It was probably more sanitary than our modern refrigeration systems because of the constant flow of cold water through it. Germs, being opportunistic creatures, would soon tire of doing the backstroke, and drift on to greener pastures.

If Daddy milked the cow, I don't remember seeing it. Mommy always did it until some of us youngins got big enough to learn how. She would wash and scald the milk bucket with boiling water, then put hot water in the bucket to use to clean the cows tits. She took along a towel to dry the cow when she was satisfied the udder was clean. She poured water from the milk bucket into her cupped hand and gently washed the cow’s tits and sack. This gentle washing and massaging probably reminded the cow of her calf and induced her to release her milk. Mommy never let water from the washing get back in the bucket. After milking Mommy took the fresh warm milk back in the house and strained it through a washed and bleached white cloth into a half gallon jar that had been scalded in the last drainer of dishes. She then put a lid on the jar and set it in the spring box. She repeated this routine morning and evening, seven days a week, spring, summer, fall, and winter. The milk would stay in the spring box until it chilled and the cream rose to the top. Then it could be brought back in the house as needed. 

Mommy saved the cream in another clean jar, always putting it back in the spring box after each new addition, until she had enough to do a “churning”. Then she would leave it out in a warm place until it ‘‘turned’’ soured. She would close the lid tightly and shake it back and forth to gather the butter. This process usually took fifteen or twenty minutes. The butter would start as tiny yellow globs hardly visible in the white cream, then quickly grow larger and begin to clump together forming a mass occupying about a forth of the jar. Next she spooned the butter out into a bowl and worked out the rest of the milk, added a little salt, wrapped it in waxed paper and put it and the buttermilk back in the spring box.

When we had more than one cow giving milk and more than enough to drink, Mommy would sour whole milk in a crockery jar and churn it that way, but it was never as good as butter made from the soured cream.

Then electricity came and the refrigerator changed all that. Nothing ever tasted the same but Mommy had it a little easier.

Daddy raised chickens. Not just a few for eggs and Sunday dinner. Daddy raised chickens to produce hatching eggs for other farmers to raise broilers and fryers. He couldn't sell cracked, misshapen or double yolked eggs. So we ate eggs. And we needed only one rooster for every ten hens. So we ate chicken. And hens that weren't the right breed and couldn't mix with the pure breed couldn't be sold or used. So we ate chicken.

People would come and buy eggs and chickens, but there was always still too many left for us. I remember one chicken killing well. Daddy was cleaning them and laying them out on a table made of two sawhorses and an old door. One of the neighbors’ dogs came up and couldn't resist grabbing one of those chickens. When he took off with it, our old dog Pooch took off after him. Pooch came back in a little while with that chicken and laid it on the ground beside the table. Pooch was smarter than the average dog, because he didn't put it back on the table. That chicken was awful dirty by then and needed to be washed again. Pooch knew not to put it back up there with the clean ones.

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I hope you enjoyed reading about Ed's childhood days as much as I did-leave him a comment and I'll make sure reads it!

Tipper

p.s. Foxfire Winner:

The handy random number generator picked number 119 for the Foxfire magazine giveaway-so who was #119-it was Shirla! Send me your address Shirla and I'll send it on to the folks at Foxfire. Thanks to everyone who entered the giveaway-I do believe this is the largest response I've ever gotten!

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Fred O. Scroggs

Remember back in May when I was prowling through somebody's things? (if you missed it-you can click here to read it)

Several months ago, Pap called to tell me a story he had heard while loafing down at Clay's Corner. It was a very interesting story. He said he thought Clay had got the old tale from somebody at the folk school. I asked David Brose, Folklorist for the John C. Campbell Folk School, if he knew about the story. He did, and he most graciously invited me to visit their archives and read the story for myself. The boxes I prowled through that day belonged to Fred O. Scroggs. I never knew Fred O.-but I've heard about him my whole life. Over the years, the story of how he wooed Olive Campbell and Margurite Butler to build their folk school here in Brasstown has become a fairy tale of sorts to most native Brasstonians.

For a history buff like me, Fred O.'s boxes were fascinating: they held interviews with Civil War Veterans; they told stories of real life events-some funny-some sad that happened here; they held credit ledgers from Fred O.'s store-I poured over every entry hoping to see the name of a person I had known until finally I did-Clate Mason.

In those boxes I found several things I wanted to share with my Blind Pig readers-but first I wanted you to know who Fred O. Scroggs was. There are numerous pieces written regarding Fred O.'s relationship to the folk school-but I wanted a fresh perspective-I wanted to hear a native Brasstonian's take on Fred O. Scroggs. Lucky for me and you I found exactly what I wanted-take a few minutes to read David Anderson's thoughts and memories of Fred O. Scroggs. I think you'll enjoy it.

 
Fred O. Scroggs-photo provided by the John C. Campbell Folk School

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Fred O., A Dependable Anchor in a Small Community

By: David C. Anderson

It appears to me that it is often the case that a person’s contribution to a community is not often recognized or appreciated until after that individual has departed the scene.

I am speaking primarily about small communities and more particularly about the Village of Brasstown, the place where I was born and raised.

If you think about it for a minute, it becomes fairly obvious that most families or communities have a person who perhaps unknowingly acts as the anchor for the entire unit. When this anchor is cut away for any reason the entire family or community begins to drift away much like a boat that is cut away from the mooring. There is (or was) a person in every small community, long before the days of all the magical things like computers, telephones and such gadgets, that were regularly called upon to help solve everyday problems or situations for their friends or neighbors.

I believe Fred O. Scroggs was such an anchor for the small settlement of Brasstown.

I don’t pretend to say that I knew this man from everyday perspective, but I can say that as a small boy growing up in Brasstown I came in contact with him from time to time. These contacts with Fred O. as well as numerous other old timers usually took place on Saturday mornings at the general store, or across U.S. Highway 64 at Bass Arrants mill house. Both of these establishments were also located dead in the center of Brasstown.

Stories are still floating around Brasstown about Fred O.'s contribution toward locating the Campbell Folk School on several hundred acres of Scroggs family land. Several reports have him participating in some of the first meetings with Olive Campbell and Margurite Butler, the co-founders of the school, and as the story goes when they mentioned that the proposed school was to be patterned after the Danish Folk School model, it is said that Fred O. promptly gave a lengthy dissertation outlining his familiarity with the Danish school model. This might be the case? However, it is a fact that he took a big hand in forming some of the community organizations in Brasstown in the early 1920s and was heavily involved in community affairs well into the late 1950s.

Fred O., I sincerely believe, was a good neighbor. I remember very well the time in the early 1950s when as a small boy, my father, Cline Anderson, and I walked to Fred O.'s house on Settawig Road to see if Fred O. could be hired to wire our house for electricity. Electric utility lines were just being installed in some of the coves and the folks in Anderson Cove were anxious to be part of this modern convenience.

The deal was made, and within a week or so Fred O. and Walter Arrant came by and began wiring our house for electricity. I don’t remember just how long the two of them worked, but I know it was several days. My mother would make a good country dinner for the two of them each day. (lunch was called dinner back then) I didn’t find out until many years later, when my dad mentioned it to me, that neither Fred O. nor Walter Arrant would take payment for their work. I always felt that there was really no greater service to ones neighbor than to offer ones talent for nothing more than a heartfelt 'thank you’ and a hearty meal.

From this point on I always had a greater respect for Fred O. and his numerous other contributions to his community, and more than that, to his neighbors who were in need of his talents.

I remember Fred O. as a lean man, slightly short in stature, who walked with a smooth gait and with a slight lean to the right. It’s been a day or two and I could be wrong about whether the lean was to the right or the left…. none the less, in my minds eye I can still see him walking along the road there in Brasstown in such a fashion.

I remember him as having a cigarette in his hand most of the time.

Once while visiting his rock shop there at his home place on Settawig Road he went to great lengths to describe and demonstrate to this small boy how it was possible to make a perfectly round marble by using a hollow pipe and a piece of rock. I dreamed of how nice it would be for a boy to have a fist full of custom made marbles in the pockets of his dirty blue jeans.

I remember once while hanging out in Queter Caldwell's store here in Brasstown, Fred O. was studying a cigarette display with a picture of man's face. He was describing that no matter from which angle you viewed the photo the eyes seemed to be looking directly at you. He certainly paid attention to detail. He was right. I tried it. It worked.

The question has arisen as to when Fred O. began his detailed interviews with the then surviving Veterans of the American Civil War and detailing other events that he counted worthy of mention. The dates listed on many of his writings are from the early to mid 1920s. Based on his interest in history and as is displayed in his printed work, it appears that he was keenly aware of the importance of preserving the personal stories of the Civil War Veterans as well as the documentation of other events that were taking place in his present time. We are all richly blessed by his undertaking, for through his work we are placed in the presence and in the lives of individuals that would otherwise be lost forever.

In later years I became part owner of the Rockhounders Building that still stands here in Brasstown. The exterior of the chimney is laid up with blue and white Marble and the inside of the chimney is veneered with dozens of examples of minerals from this area as well as other areas of the country. Each item displayed is marked with a metal pin with a number corresponding to a master list describing each item laid up and displayed in the rockwork.

Guess who? You guessed it! Fred O. was one of the folks responsible for this piece of art.

Perhaps it would be a consolation to some of us to know that just maybe after we have long since passed from the scene that someone would take time to mention our name in an unsolicited tribute to our better character. Perhaps by sharing these few insights about Fred O. someone might have a better insight to the varied talents of this man.

It seems in some sense, that of the innumerable facets of one's life whether simple notes such as these would have any significant bearing on the whole? At the very least we can continue to debate whether or not Fred O. leaned to the right or to the left as he walked along the road here in Brasstown. The other small items I have pointed out are as I remember them.

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I hope you enjoyed David's thoughts on Fred O. Scroggs as much as I did. I know you'll enjoy the treasures I found while prowling through Fred O.'s boxes-I'll be sharing them along the way here on the Blind Pig & the Acorn.

Tipper

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Mountain Folk - Mary Lou McKillip

 

The first time I ever met Mary Lou McKillip she was telling a story about an old hound dog. She had my rapt attention from beginning to end. As she told the story, in my mind I pictured a few of Papaw's hunting dogs like Smokey and Old Blue. I knew right then Mary Lou would be a perfect person to interview.

 

Mary Lou was born on April 13, 1942. With a hearty laugh she told me she was born Indian style-at home. She said "they would have at least sent for the doc but there was a big snow on the ground." Since Mary Lou was the youngest of 14 children, I'm sure her Mother knew enough to handle things on her own anyway.

Several months after I first met her, I sat down with Mary Lou and her husband Truman to ask her a few questions.

What are the biggest differences you see between the days of your childhood and today?

Oh I would say tv and the other material things children have today. Of course when I was a child most folks lived on a farm and that meant chores for everyone in the family even the children. There were hogs, chickens, and cows to tend too. I never mastered ringing necks nor milking either one. Even with the work we had lots of fun too. We had a bingo game most every Saturday night and people would come together to play and visit. Every 4th of July everyone would take a picnic down to the river. Mother had a lard bucket with a hole cut in it to cook with. Family and neighbors would play horse shoes and eat together.

 

Seems like you told me you were the youngest of a large group of siblings?

Yes there was 7 girls and 7 boys-The Lord's number on both counts. I was the baby of the family. A lot of the older ones were married and gone from home long before I came along. I was a little spoiled since they knew I'd for sure be their last one. My Father doted on me and couldn't really bear to punish me. One time Mother was going to give me a whipping and I run and climbed up the apple tree to get away. My Father was sent to get me down and finish the job. He got me down but that was the end of the whipping.

Don't you play the piano?

Yes I've been playing since I was 13 years old. My family was very musical. My Mother played the organ. I've been singing since I was just a child in Mother's arms. One of the tales they told about me was me singing and Mother's trying to quiet me by putting her hand over my mouth. I just kept right on singing through her hand.

Is there a memory that stands out in your mind that you'd like to tell me about?

Ever since I was big enough to know what it was I wanted to go to school. One day I was out playing in the yard and I slipped off from Momma and went to school. I had memorized a little book called Bright Eyes. The teachers all thought I could read! Of course they soon found out I couldn't and that I wasn't old enough to be there. But even though I wasn't enrolled they let me come to school the rest of that year.

Can you tell us anything about the current events of the time-what sort of things were going on in this area when you were a child?

Mother and Father had 5 sons and 3 son-n-laws in WWII so that made a big impact on our daily lives. Of course most families had loved ones in the war. You could hear people praying on the surrounding ridge tops, praying for God to spare their sons, praying for the war to end. I remember the joy we felt as the end of the war was announced on the radio.

When did you start writing?

I was about 16 years old when I started writing poems and songs. I wouldn't let hardly anyone read them. My Daddy encouraged me to send them off to magazines and such. As an adult I've always said I'm the bumble bee writer. Haven't you heard Bumblees can't fly but since they don't know it they do? Well I'm the bumble bee writer-I can't really write but since I don't know it I do it anyway.

What is your life like now compared to when you were a child?

We still grow a garden and put food up. Truman promised me when he retired he'd help me with my writing, and he has. As a whole I'm afraid the people of Appalachia's trust in people has changed over the years. We used to never even lock our doors and a deal could be made just by a handshake now you have to have it all down on paper and approved by lawyers. So much change makes tears come to my eyes when I think about it all.

What does Appalachia mean to you Mary Lou?

It's such a serene place, my roots run deep. I wouldn't take anything for my childhood here. My heart is in the Appalachian Mountains.  

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I hope you enjoyed my interview with Mary Lou. She told me "I just love everybody that'll let me love'em." I say the world needs more of the kind of love Mary Lou's got to offer.

Leave Mary Lou a comment and I'll make sure she reads it.

Tipper

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An Innocent Moonshiner

 

Today's guest post is written by Ed Myers (Bryson City, NC)

AN INNOCENT MOONSHINER

By way of background and to establish at least half of my bonifides, I hail from Oak Ridge, TN, a modest little scientific community created by the U.S. government in a previously unoccupied hollow of the southern Appalachian mountain range (is there any other?), and known far and wide (at least to its residents) as Atomic City, USA. To place the place, Oak Ridgers were once proud to be a part of the Manhattan project and number five on the Soviet Union’s hit list.

Still, despite having been raised in this culturally bizarre setting, in my heart, I have always been a mountain boy, one with deep roots and bare feet in Union County, TN, an equally radioactive place in its own right known more for the explosiveness of its shine than its U-235.

My mother’s people were and are from there, and at the age of 12, she introduced me to a few of these proud and crafty miscreants via the unlikely route of the Southern Appalachian Regional Science Fair held, at least then, in Knoxville.

Our junior high school (as such were known in the sixties; never got used to “middle school”) was allowed one contestant for the annual title of “Best in Regional Science”. I was the one selected that year, not because I had any particular scientific bent, but because I could (and as my close uncles did for a living) sell vacuum cleaners and shoes to folks who had yet to join the grid.

My “science” project was The History of Moonshine, which beat out a kid who made a primitive computer by making magnets dance on a red-hot frying pan (go figure). He won the thing the next year with the same project, but in his defense, he didn’t have the opportunity, as I did, to live…albeit all too briefly…amongst a flamboyant tribe of outright and rightly pleasing liars who possessed only a passing familiarity with the law.

So, I won the pre-competition and had to deliver. My father’s people were Church of Christ from middle Tennessee, so no help there. But, my mother’s were straight up hillbillies and artists of liquor-ish ways, as I was to learn only too (alright, not too much “too”) well.

They knew how to make it from potatoes, from store-bought sugar, from molasses, from peaches and plain old bleached flour if need be. But, their open air “secret”, at least in those parts, was to make it from the hardest, ugliest, most indigestible mule corn they could find.  They taught me how.

The long and short of it was you got some burlap bags, soaked them in water and laid them on a single layer of corn, right by a warm place. Then you waited for sign.

Some said it was a hollow moon rising just above the peaks. To others, it was the chirping of spring robins as they gathered on the land to feed. To my people, however, it was the first sign of life, the swelling of the corn until it just barely cracked its shell and its natural sugars were most concentrated. No sooner; no later.

Perhaps this is why some people call moonshine “the breath of life.” Of course, they may be thinking of something else.

When the sprouts had sprung, as it were, you gathered up all the corn, even those kernels that were a little late in the game, tossed them into a hollow log shaped for the purpose, and mashed them plenty with a two-handled hickory maul to make, well, mash.

You then stole your mother’s clay butter churn (for very small batches), put the mess inside with varying amounts of warm water (about a four-to-one ratio), threw in a cake of yeast, covered it up tight (except for a small hole in the lid) and waited…and waited (about three weeks)…for the resulting “beer” to ferment. I well remember the smell of sour yeast and young liquor that coated your lungs and everything else in the neighborhood.

When the yeast stopped digesting all that sweet corn syrup (in the process “making” grain alcohol), you waited some more…and more (again, about three weeks, unless you “clayed” it the fermented beer)…until it settled to the bottom of the churn. Then, you poured off the refined beer on top, strained it through the burlap sacks you used before, and put it in the still.

The other open secret, aside from the use of bastard corn, was to cook the beer under a very low heat so that most of the alcohol vapors rose ahead of the steaming water into a cooling coil and condensed into the bottle beneath it.

At this point, and depending on the skill of the maker, the white liquor was about 160-180 proof. With practice, you could tell the proof by the size and number of the beads that danced on the surface when you dropped a drop, or by just burning it and judging its purity by the color of the flame. Or, you could drink it and hope you survived enough to croak an opinion.

If you were careful, and took pains to sop up the little bead of poison oil that develops on the beer (another secret step that eliminated most hangovers, or so I’ve been told), what remained was a good quart to quart-and-a-half of undiluted zing, or what has justly become known as “sweet white lightening.”

I know, because I did it, fermenting the beer in my mother’s bedroom (which was unfortunate as the churn cracked and we had to keep my grandmother from my father’s side away for a while).

To shorten the tale, I didn’t win the cup, or ribbon, or whatever, but I made the cover of the local newspaper, and my exhibit was by far the most popular in the place, particularly amongst the other contestants who otherwise wasted their time with such endeavors as mapping variable enzyme levels in cow udders.

And truth be told, I have to ask and thereby answer, who needs dancing computers, when you could be the one dancing?

###

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Now that was a story! Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did-leave Ed a comment and I'll make sure he reads it!

Tipper

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Habitual Words

Today's post is a blast from the past. It was originally published here-on Febuary 11, 2009.

Have you ever been around someone who used the same word or words in every sentence? Years ago, I was introduced to a man-who at the end of every sentence said "and what not". I remember being obsessed with listening to him-to see if just once-he wouldn't say "and what not". Never happened-he said it at the end of every sentence just like clock work.

A few other habitual sayings I've heard:

• you know (one of The Deer Hunter's best friends says "you know" at the end of all his sentences-you know)
• anyway
• you know what I'm saying
• now it'n it
• like
• ah or uh
• now
• well
• the thing is
• so

I'm sure you've heard some of the ones I mentioned, but sometimes folks habitually say things that aren't so common.

When Pap was growing up, Old Man Bud Baker lived over in the next holler. Pap said everyone loved Bud-he was a lot of fun to be around. Bud's habitual saying was "si hell". Pap said no matter what Bud was telling or talking about he always started it with si hell.

Pap said one day Bud came around telling "Si hell I killed a rattlesnake that was 5ft long yesterday." Pap's father said he didn't really believe there were rattlesnakes that big. Bud answered back "Si hell I know it was cause I measured it."

Another elder from Pap's childhood, George was fond of saying "now I hell" at the beginning of his sentences. Actually Pap said George's entire family took up the habit of saying now I hell.

George lived at the head of Pinelog and one day a trader came to see him about buying a milk cow. The trader asked if the cow was a good milker-George told him "Now I hell she gives a waste of milk"-taking that to mean she gave to much milk to use-the trader bought the cow. Didn't take long for the trader to figure out the cow wasn't a good milker. He soon came around to ask about the cow's lack of milk. George said "Now I hell I told you she gives a waste of milk-enough to cream your coffee but not enough to make gravy!"

L.C., a local gentleman, is known for saying "I tell you what" at the start of his sentences. I guess my habitual saying is "well". While I don't say it at the start of every sentence-I do say it quite a bit.

Well how about you-do you have a habitual saying or know someone who does?

Tipper

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Christmas Time

 

Christmas Time by Wayne Newton

When I was a boy we had two Christmases. The first one was in the log cabin where we lived, and where Papa made sure that Santa Claus came on Christmas eve. The cabin Christmas was pretty basic, a pine top, fastened to the wooden floor, near the fireplace, some tinsel, and a few candles. There was fruit (one apple, one orange, and one tangerine) and hard candy in the big work sock transformed into a stocking, and nailed to the mantel above the fireplace. This telling makes it sound pitiful, but in my mind, there was magic in each of my Boyhood Christmases.

As Christmas time approached each year, us boys started getting excited for the fun to come. We begged and pleaded with Papa to take us to find a tree. Now when you live in the middle of hundreds of acres of pines, finding the right one sounds simple. But the Longleaf Pine is different from any other. It doesn't look like a Christmas tree.

When the seed sprouts, it sends a root down, and for the next several years (as many as 8 or 10 yrs total), while the taproot system goes ever deeper, there is little to show above ground. The tree resembles a large tuft of bright green grass, though the needles are much larger than the wiregrass. And the Longleaf pine doesn't have branches until it is several feet tall. This characteristic makes it ideal for poles, but you have to search a while to find one suitable for a Christmas tree.

So when Papa agreed to take us to find a tree, usually on a Sunday afternoon, we all piled in the old post-war GMC pickup, and went back-in-the woods. The woods were criss-crossed with roads, trails, really, used by the turpentiners and cow trails, so we could drive for a very long way at five to ten miles per hour, without having to stop, or turn around. There was Papa, Mama with the new baby, up front, and Gibson, me, and Franklin, in back. Papa allowed us to point and choose, and point and choose, until he had driven past about a thousand perfect ones, before he finally stopped the truck, and we all started walking, him with the axe.

You would have thought we were choosing from a forest of Frazier Fires, or Leyland Cypresses. For we all emulated Papa; stop; look up at the top; circle around, stop, look up, circle around, until we had circled the tree at least three times, only to be disappointed by Papa, as he decided; no, not good enough. We repeated this ritual over and over, until he had worn us down, and then he selected one that looked just about like all those he had rejected.

By its very nature, the Longleaf pine is unsymmetrical in shape, and the tree is self-pruning, making for long distances between branches. To be frank, the top of a Longleaf pine just doesn't look like the magazine picture of a Christmas tree. In fact, I believe that the Charley brown Christmas tree is modeled after the Longleaf Pine. And the top, with the limbs and needles, was anywhere from 12 to 20 feet up in the air. It is called a sapling. So Papa's job was to visualize how it would look when most of the trunk was cut away. But he finally made a selection.

Then he would pull off his heavy jacket, measure to about where the top would fall, and begin to chop. I forgot to mention that Papa never learned that any tool with an edge performs much better when kept sharp. His axe was never sharp, so it took a while to fell the sapling. Sometimes it seemed that he was knocking it down, instead of cutting. Once on the ground he had to estimate where to cut it off so it would fit in the front room of the cabin.

Chopping off the top from the sapling was soon done and we marched in a line through the gall berries and saplings back to the truck, Papa with the tree top, me or Gibson with the axe, and Mama with the baby. It had been adventure of the highest order, and we were so proud of our tree.

Once back at home, Papa found some old scrap 2x4s or slats from the wood pile, and he soon had a frame nailed to the floor, holding the tree more or less upright. So many years later, when the cabin was moved for the last time, the floor board where the tree was once nailed, was placed in the same spot.

The fun started on the night before Christmas. We learned at a very young age that there were never any surprises hidden in the three room cabin. But this didn't dampen our excitement one bit. By sundown we were driving Mama crazy, and avoiding Papa, for he didn't stand for foolishness, for any reason. After supper, which came at dark/sundown, with little to read, Mama washed the supper dishes, and she finally settled us all down in the front room for what became a ritual in the David Newton home.

Papa sat in the only easy chair in our home, and we all sat on the floor near his feet, Mama always holding the newest baby in her lap. He opened his bible to the Book of Matthew, and he read the story of the birth of Jesus at Bethlehem. When he finished, he said a prayer for us, and then we all soon headed for bed.

It is hard to imagine with the houses we live in today, their thick walls, and modern conveniences, and closets, and attics, and cars with trunks, and neighbors, that a secret would be difficult to keep, but in my childhood, those were not available, so Papa was forced to hide any gifts or other Christmas surprises at Grandma's house, about a half mile away. And us boys never did figure this out.

Sometime during the night, after he was certain we were all fast asleep, he would sneak out of the cabin, and drive to Grandma's for the gifts. There were two major obstacles in his way, as he tried to keep his caper secret, and they were both named Wayne. I couldn't bear to sleep, knowing that the man in red was coming, so I got many whippings for not going to sleep like my brothers.

And the very second that Papa came back into the cabin, The unmistakable aroma of apple, or orange, or tangerine woke me up. At first I just lay and savored that smell. Only if you have never had any of these fruits, except at special occasions, can you begin to imagine the effect the aroma had on me. To this day, when I enter a home where there is fresh fruit, I am taken back to those times so long ago.

As soon as Papa had quieted down in the front room, I began to try to arouse my brothers in the room with me. We slept two to a bed, the room was small, and there was just the log wall between us and Papa and Mama's bed, so any sound I made was hard to cover up, so cover-up I did. I pulled the covers over our heads and poked my brother in the ribs, and whispered, "Santee Claus has been!!!!" I repeated this until I got a response, usually, a muffled, "Leave me alone!"

If I persisted too long, Papa heard me and after several threats, he would open the door to our room, and tell me, "Wayne, one more time and I'm gona whip you, boy!" Only problem was, when he opened the door, the full force of those aromas blasted into our little room. This was one of the few times in my life that I actually argued with Papa. "I know he's been, I smell the apples!" "But Papa, don't you smell the oranges?"

Finally, Mama, my blessed Mama, could stand it no more, and she played her part, "David, why don't you look and see if he's been here." And that was a signal to me. I was at the doorway in an instant, peering into the almost dark front room, as Papa pretended to look, first at the tree, and then to the mantel for the stockings. In the dim glow of the embers from the fireplace, I could see Papa as he lifted a big sock, that was miraculously filled with something.

There was no holding me back, then. I will forever remember that big sock so full of sweet smelling wonder. The fruit that had awakened me, the hard candy, the nuts, the kumquats; what a treasure trove! There was no sleeping after that! I don't have a clue what my brothers did or what they got, or anything else, I was in a world of wonder and joy! The things we received back then are lost in my memory, for they were not of such stuff to last for long. But the real gifts I received so long ago, will never be gone. The wonder of Christmas will be with me as long as my mind can wander back to that time, and that place in time.

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I hope you enjoyed Wayne's guest post as much as I did-I swear I can smell oranges after reading it. Check out Wayne's blog: A Bunch of Wiregrass to read more about his memories.

Leave Wayne a comment and I'll make sure he reads it!

Tipper

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The Tale Of The Two Jacks

 
For many of us, Christmas is a time for remembering. Maybe it's because during the holidays we find ourselves going home-seeing folks we haven't seen for years. Or maybe it's because our early Christmases make such an impression on us-those memories sit ready to bubble up to our consciences at a moments notice each year when December roles around.

At Christmas I think of school plays-of singing in Mrs. Sult's 2nd grade classroom-of church plays when I was chosen to play Mary or stand quietly in the ever present row of Angels. I think of friends who shared most of my childhood Christmases-like Tracy who lives far away in the big mountains of Montana now.

David C. Anderson recently shared a piece he'd written about one of his childhood friends with me. The memories David shares doesn't have anything to do with Christmas-but I'd wager Jerry crosses David's mind more than once during the Christmas season each year.

 
              David C. Anderson & Jerry Payne

The following is a true story about two friends from Brasstown, David Anderson and Jerry Payne who almost 50 years earlier had made a $50 bet, a bet that was finally paid by the looser as one of the last acts of his life.

The Tale Of The Two Jacks by David C. Anderson

Jerry Payne and I had been friends from childhood. Both of us having been born and raised in the Brasstown section of Clay county. Since our homes were not more than one-half mile apart on Greasy Creek Road, we spent a great deal of time together while we were growing up. I was a few years older than Jerry, however the age difference never seemed to get in the way or otherwise affect our friendship. As we grew up we spent many years together doing the free hearted and often foolish things that teen age boys were accustomed to doing.

In the month July 1957 having just turned the age of sixteen, I took my first job with a logging outfit that was owned by Jerry’s father. During the 1950s, any meaningful employment was almost impossible to find in the Cherokee or Clay county areas. Therefore, most teenagers who were eager to earn enough money to buy their first car or to be able to have spending money had to accept whatever work that became available. Consequently, I jumped at the opportunity to begin working and earning some badly needed money so I could later on buy my first car, some slick clothes and to have some extra cash in my pocket. There was nothing quiet as nice as the jingle of Silver in a young mans pocket.

After accepting the job I still remember how some of the old loggers ragged me about my young age and how one or two of them had made a bet that: ”I wouldn’t last until ten o’clock the first day of work”. One of the loggers who suggested I not pay any attention to the old hands that were ragging me was Ray Payne. He would say “pay no attention to them boy, just hang in there. You’ll do alright”. Old Ray was a teamster with the outfit, spending every day in the mountains logging with a team of huge draft horses, and he was tough! I remember him smoking Camel cigarettes and when he would finish smoking one he would crush the fire out between his thumb and forefinger. As it turned out, and with Rays encouragement it did work out alright and I continued working full time with the logging outfit until a few months before I enlisted in the Navy in July of 1960.

I was the first one of us to own a car, a well used 1950 Buick. So, on weekends or any other free time that we had, Jerry and I were always on the road having a grand time.

Jerry worked at the logging outfit during summer vacation from school and finally when education seemed to be of less importance, he, like I had earlier, decided that formal education wasn’t as important as earning some money, and therefore could wait. An obvious mistake at the time! Jerry then began working full time with the logging operation. During this carefree period of our lives Jerry and I were always together at every opportunity, sampling as many facets of life as we could afford or dared to do.

It was in the winter of 1958-59 during a long spell of bad weather that the logging operation was completely shut down for a period of over two months.

On one particular night while Jerry and I were in Murphy, and since it was late at night we decided to take a room at the Regal Hotel as we sometimes did. It was a decent place to stay, and for the price of $5 per night we were able to afford it without a lot of strain on our slim budget. One of the pastimes we usually engaged in was playing penny poker. On this particular night after we had tired of playing the game we made a bet between us. A bet that both of us recognized and one that was ultimately honored almost 50 years later.

The bet between us was a little unusual and in some respects was a foolish sounding thing, but at the time it seemed no less foolish than some of the other activities that we engaged in from time- to- time. The bet was this: For $50. We took two Jacks from the deck, the Jack of Diamonds and the Jack of Clubs. We then tore them both in half, each of us taking the different parts. We agreed that we were to carry the cards with us as long as we could and whoever was able to keep their cards for the longest period of time would win the bet and would then collect $50.00 from the loser. This $50 dollar bet at that time represented over one weeks pay. Fifty hours work at the rate of $1 per hour. With that we placed our particular parts of the cards in our wallets and went on to some other foolish endeavors.

At that particular time in our lives our fortunes seemed to be at a low ebb, so we began discussing what our options were. We both felt that we wanted to leave the area, so we hit on the notion of military service. We decided to enlist in the Navy. Within a week Jerry and I paid a visit to the Navy recruiter in Murphy. We then went through the standard enlistment process and were sent to the induction center in Knoxville, Tennessee for our physical examinations and later induction into the military service.

Jerry had earlier owned a fast 1958 Ford and had been involved in few minor scrapes with the law that he had neglected to tell the Navy recruiter about during the enlistment process. I had known all along that Jerry had a few months earlier become involved in a enterprise that required the services of a very fast car and was making some extra cash by transporting illegal Whiskey for some producers in Fannin county Georgia. Although I knew about his sideline, I was never involved in that part of his business. He managed to elude the law for transporting Whiskey, but a young man in a 1958 Ford, with a Police Interceptor V8 engine, is a combination designed for drag racing and other such recreation.

Because of his previous and mostly frivolous entanglement with the law, the Navy recruiter told Jerry that he would not be able to enlist in the Navy after all. After about a two week waiting period, Jerry and I were to say goodbye. Before I left for the Navy training in San Diego, California we spent our last visits together during the July 4^th 1960 Wagon Train celebration in Murphy. I left for San Diego on July 10, 1960 while Jerry remained to work in the timber business until he was drafted into the Army around 1963. After my enlistment into the Navy, Jerry and I lost contact for a number of years. After serving four years in the Navy I came back home for a visit and went by his home to ask about him. His father told me that he was in Vietnam and had recently been wounded in action. Jerry later told me he was wounded in the thigh with shrapnel and had also been wounded by sniper fire.

Sometime later when he was discharged from the army, he came back home and completed his college education at Western Carolina University. I was living in Atlanta, Georgia at the time so he spent a few weeks staying at my place while he was looking for employment. During his stay we spent a lot of time trying to catch up on events since we had last seen each other. At that time each of us still carried our part of the Jacks on which we had made the bet. Both of us were still trying to win the bet and each of us ragged the other figuring we had long since lost our part of the cards. At this point his Jacks had been carried through his Vietnam War service along with a lucky $2 bill that he later gave to my oldest son. My cards were carried through my four years of peacetime Navy service and then on into civilian life.

After both of us had married and began raising our families the memories of the bet between us lost a great part if it’s significance. Jerry went on to become an accountant. I became a General Contractor and later became involved in the real estate business. We visited as often as we could, though by this time Jerry had moved to the Bryson City area while I remained on Greasy Creek in the Brasstown area, the very location where the two of us had grown up. Circumstances later placed him in Las Vegas, Nevada, then finally in Arkansas.

As the years passed, our contacts with each other became less and less frequent. Although we called or wrote each other occasionally, time and distance seemed to work their sad job of division. The last opportunity we had to visit with each other was a short and not so happy occasion. He had to come back to this area on pressing business and we were fortunate to be able to spend a few hours together.

After he returned to his home in Arkansas I contacted him a few times. By then his fortunes had changed for the worse. His wife had died sometime earlier. He was reluctant to do so, but then told me that he had recently been diagnosed with cancer and that the doctors at the Veterans Hospital gave him only a short time to live. He had told me many years before that he had been exposed to Agent Orange while in Vietnam and he confided that he believed this was the cause of his illness.

As old friends would, we spoke of our youth and of the many great and sometimes foolish times we had spent together through the years. We spoke of shared secrets and situations that no one knew about but us. Then he said; “I was ashamed to tell you when I last saw you that I’ve lost my cards”. He said he didn’t know where they had been lost or where he had misplaced them. He then said to me; “By the way, I have something that I’m sending you”.

 

On October 14, 2005 I received a small package from Jerry. He had earlier instructed Charlotte, the lady who was his caretaker, to send the package to me promptly and without fail. When I opened this small package, enclosed in a small gold colored cloth pouch was a $50 gold piece. Jerry had never forgotten his obligation to the bet. The foolish bet that the two of us had made almost 50 years ago in a room in the Regal Hotel was now paid in full.

Jerry died October 15, 2005.

After I received the $50 gold piece that he had sent, this being the last act of his life, I removed the two faded and worn playing cards from my wallet and placed the cards and the gold piece together as a token, and as an unsolicited tribute to the dedication of a true friend.

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I hope you enjoyed David's story-leave him a comment and I'll make sure he reads it. And just for fun-what old friend do you think of at Christmas?

Tipper

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Entertainment And Fun In The 1930s

 
The Medicine Show by Charles Fletcher

A medicine show consisted of three people: a doc, a pretty young girl, and the very popular music man. The young girl was always dolled up with make-up and wearing a dress pulled up to her knees, with short sleeve bows, a low neck and no collar. Us boys got our ears pulled a lot and the men got a lot of elbows in the ribs from their wives for gawking and trying to get up close to her. The music man would play a guitar, harmonica, and drums all at the same time while singing. He would ask for requests but would just ignore them and sing what he wanted to. The main attraction of The Medicine Show was the Doc though. Doc was the fancy dressed man that owned the truck and the show. After the young girl and the music man warmed up the crowd, Doc would come out for the main act.

We didn't have any telephones back then but news of a show coming to town would spread from one person to another quickly until everyone in town would know. 

On the night of the show, Mom cooked supper and we children got the milking, feeding of the animals, and wood chopping for the cook stove done in a hurry. We rushed to finish eating then started the three mile trip to town. 

"I'll wash the dishes when we get back", Mom said. "Don't want to miss any of the show."

There was always a small platform on the back of the Doc's truck that acted like a stage where everything took place. Doc, as he was always called, strode out onto the stage. 

"Gather up close neighbors and friends. I want to tell you about the Miracle Medicine I've brought you. If you have back problems, sore feet, head aches, lack of energy, sleeping issues, or any other problems, this medicine will have you up and going in less than half an hour. (you children move to the back). It's only fifty cents a bottle and, if it doesn't do what I say, I'll give you your money back. Now step up. Who will be first?"

My Mom took a dollar from her apron pocket and handed it to the Doctor.

"Lady, to let you know how much I appreciate your trust in my medicine I will let you have three bottles for a dollar."

"I'll take it", Mom said.

Then nearly everyone began to step up with their dollar to buy three bottles.

"Better head for home", Mom said. "Got to clean up the kitchen before going to bed. Won't be long until four o'clock in the morning and it's time to cook breakfast."

Back home, Mom went into the kitchen to clean up. Me, my brother, and our two sisters went in the parlor where Dad had two oil lamps burning for light. We were getting our school homework done when Mom began to sing at the top of her lungs.

This little light of mine

I'm going to let it shine

Mom was always humming and singing, but never this loud.

"Better go see why she is singing so loud", Dad said.

She started up again.

I've got a home in Bul-

"What's wrong, Mama?" Dad asked.

"Nothing. Just felt like singing."

Dad noticed that one of the bottles of medicine was sitting on the table, about a quarter empty.

"You been taking this medicine?" he asked.

"Just a few spoons full. Was sort of tired but I feel much better now."

Then she started singing again at the top of her lungs.

In the sweet by and by

In the sweet by and-

Dad picked up the bottle and read the front label.

Cure All Miracle Medicine

He then looked on the back of the bottle.

INGREDIENTS

25% Spring Water

75% Alcohol

Oil of Peppermint added for color and flavoring

Patent Pending

Dad went to the parlor, got his hat, and headed to the door.

"Where are you going?" Mom asked.

"Got to catch that Medicine Man before he leaves town. We need a few more bottles to get us through the winter."

Out the door he went. My Dad was known to like a little drink every now and then. In fact a big drink anytime.

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Hope you enjoyed Charles's story as much as I did-leave him a comment and I'll make sure he reads it.

Tipper

p.s. Hope everyone has a great Thanksgiving and don't forget-if you're in the North GA area tomorrow or Saturday-stop by the Brasstown Valley Resort and see me!

 

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Sylvia Lee 1940 - 2010 RIP

I first published this Mountain Folk interview in August of 2008. Over the past weekend I recieved the sad news that Sylvia had passed away. I thought I'd re-post the interview and dedicate it to her memory-she was a fine lady of Appalachia.

 

Sylvia Lou Palmer Lee was born in 1940 in the Pleasant Valley area of Cherokee County NC. She weighed 1lb 4oz and her twin sister weighed 2lb 6oz. Her sister was born blue and died 4 days later. Seems little Sylvia, although the smallest, was a fighter. Her father, an electrician, fashioned a homemade incubator from a wooden radio box and a string of Christmas lights to aid in Sylvia's survival. They fed her with an eye dropper.

 
I recently had the opportunity to sit on Sylvia's peaceful porch amidst the big trees she loves and hear about her Appalachian upbringing.

When Sylvia was small her family moved to the Beech Cove area of Clay County NC. Her family ran a chicken farm-where Sylvia's responsibility was to water the chickens. She and her brother had to carry the water a far piece, and it was hard work. Although there wasn't much time for playing, Sylvia did have one doll she enjoyed playing with.

 
Sylvia still lives at the old home place in Beech Cove. She shared a memory with me of her Granny Palmer gathering flora for a spring tonic. Sylvia said the most amazing thing about Granny Palmer was her looks. She was a beautiful woman-but more than that she looked unbelievably young-no older than 18, with smooth clear skin.

Each spring Granny Palmer would go out into the mountains and gather items to make her tonic. All the kids were given a dose, and Sylvia says they were never sick as children. Sylvia wishes she had written down the ingredients of the tonic so she could have shared it with her children and grandchildren in the hopes of their good health as well.

 
Sylvia married Ralph Lee and raised 4 wonderful children. Sylvia is an accomplished seamstress, a masterful painter, and a writer of songs, poetry, and books. Sylvia is also an extremely gifted quilter. She was gracious enough to allow me to photograph a few.

 
A cactus pattern

 
A whirligig pattern

 
A teepee pattern

 
A star pattern

 
Of all the ones she showed me-this one is my favorite-it reminds me of my Mamaw.

In closing I ask Sylvia if she could sum up her thoughts about being an Appalachian. Sylvia said....

~The Blue Mountains are her favorite thing in Appalachia, they were a secret place, but now they've been discovered by everyone.

~She wishes neighbors would help one another like they use to in the old days. She's afraid a time is coming when people will knock you in the head for a piece of bread.

~She's been all over the country but likes it here the best.

Sylvia Lou Palmer Lee is a true Appalachian Mountain Woman. I hope you enjoyed reading about her life in this Mountain Folk post.

Tipper 

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