In 1916, when my Mom and Dad were married, her father gave her twenty acres of land. A small house made of wide oak boards set on the property. There they began their lives together in the Sturgills area of Ashe County, NC, near the Virginia line, in the beautiful Appalachian Mountains. Over time they were blessed with nine healthy children. Five boys and four girls – all born at home. Two to four years apart in age, they were a close knit, happy family.
Then in May of 1936 Little Lula Belle, the tenth child, arrived. She was named after her grandmother Lula. Tears came to Mom’s eyes as she told me about that morning. She said, “It had been a long hard night and just before daybreak the baby was born.” The room was softly lit by an oil lamp setting on the dresser. Mom and her new daughter were resting when she saw a light at the foot of her bed. Mom said, “It looked like the flame of a candle. Slowly it floated back and forth in the air for a short time. Then it was gone and a feeling of peace came over the room. But the baby would not nurse and she never cried at all. Her face and skin had a bluish look. That evening Little Lula Belle died.” Mom said, “An Angel came and took the baby to Heaven.”
My Dad made a small wooden casket all padded and lined with soft material. A neighbor lady sewed a tiny pink gown and bonnet. They dressed Lula Belle and placed her in the little chest. It sat on the dresser in the warm glow of the oil lamp. Mom said, “She looked like a doll.” I can imagine the children, 4 year old Pearl, 8 year old twins – Carl and Carrie, 10 year old Clarence and the older ones gathered around looking at their baby sister and not understanding death. So many questions; so few answers.
The next day Dad took the little coffin upon his shoulder. He and two of the older boys went up the steep hill behind our house. The children watched them from the dining room window as they crossed over the top, out of sight. On the other side of the hill, they buried Lula Belle in our old family graveyard where my great grandparents were laid to rest. That evening when the sun set there was a new grave in the old cemetery, a tiny mound of fresh dirt in a carpet of blue violets. They always bloom there in the month of May. Little Lula Belle’s grave is marked by a stone lamb.
Three years later I was born, the eleventh child – the last child.
