We owe much to those who came a long way back yonder. To the American soldier for sure-fearless in their fight for freedom-my, my we take a lot for granted these days. Thousands upon thousands of men and women gave their all for America-for you and me….But my thoughts were on another group of Americans-our own Fathers and Mothers, our Grandfathers and grandmothers, uncles and aunts and family. Mountain folk knew how to live off the land. They had survival instincts and still do in some places. These same skills have been lost in most places. Most of our people knew that if you wanted to eat in the winter you had to farm. Food had to be planted in the spring and summer and preserved. These old men or young men invariably wore overalls and some kind of old hat-and as the old song said. calloused hands to the plow, they worked steers, or horses, and mules. They tilled the ground relentlessly just to survive. And there wasn’t a shower waiting, just a wash pan on the porch and a rag and towel. A bite in the stove warmer and prayer and bed-Up before day with chickens to feed and a cow to milk. Some kind of hunting dog usually to feed scraps to. And a pig-always a hog or two to kill in the fall after frost and col weather came. They had no cash money-or very little. Seeds had to be saved, potatoes protected in a dirt and leaf bed, cut and planted about the last of February. The fields and gardens were planted by hand. Each hill, each corn seed, each bean seed, all handled one at a time. Then the bugs and weeds to battle. Apple and pear trees to be looked after.. I tell you, it was a chore all the time…
I am a green beaner. I love green beans-half runners and greasy cuttshorts. I made pickle beans in a crock a few times. My uncle Bud told me how. Water was the key to pickling beans and corn. Too many minerals and iron would mess up some good beans. Well, the beans had to be picked, broken and strung and washed. Then my grandmother carefully filled quart jars and half gallons and pints and placed the beans in a iron pot over a fire, and usually boiled them for awhile, or whenever her instincts said it was enough. They were too valuable to not be preserved right. Well, my mom had a pressure cooker and that took a fraction of the time to seal the beans or corn or tomatoes or peaches or pears or beets or okra-and so on….The potatoes were dug carefully so as not to cut one-a little leaven, leaveneth the whole batch-one bad apple would rot the whole mess. Those fruits and potatoes, Irish and sweet potatoes were either in a ‘basement under the house or in some form of root cellar. cool and dark was ideal for preserving….
I remember picking beans and sitting on the porch for hours breaking and stringing them suckers. Now I had a bike and hominy creek had a swimming hole or two, and there were these girls, and baseball was going on in some pasture somewhere. But winter was coming and we did beans. Mom would break beans in her apron for awhile then go get a run off and put another on. I cant remember for sure was it about 14 or 15 jars per bushel?? That’s a lot of beans for a growing charged up boy to have to do. And lots of time dad was working at Enka, so I had to do ‘his part’. I don’t know where my lazy sisters were. We were okay cause dad had a job at enka, but you still needed homegrown food and a lot of it..
But a lot of our grandfathers and grannies farmed on shares-sharecroppers. The landowners got half usually. So these folk had to really get with it. But listen, there was satisfaction looking at 6-foot tall corn, or bright red tomatoes hanging on plants you grew from seed, satisfaction in looking back and seeing a straight row of fresh plowed mountain dirt, with that smell of leaves and earth. A deep satisfaction to see jar upon jar of beans, beets, apples, blackberries, peaches, sausage, cherries and pickles and okra and tomatoes and soup. A job well done by the whole family. Work ethics passed down from generation to generation. A handshake was binding. Your word was a covenant. They could borrow money on a handshake. They traded everything. Sold eggs and produce for a little money for coffee and sugar. They helped thresh wheat and such for shares. And Sunday was a rest day. Always Church. Now if your ox was in a ditch , you get him out-they said, but if he got in a ditch two Sundays in a row, sell him.
And even always with work needing to be done, if someone fell on hard times they would stop and go do whatever was needed. A funeral? They gathered around and would sit up ‘with the dead’ to show support. A barn needed?
Everyone showed up to work. It was a special time in the history of our mountains. A way of life that only some of us appreciate or realize what a heritage we have.
Now I know about the moonshine making , and I know there were black sheep in most families. The old-time mountain folk didn’t look at moonshine as a big sin, they needed cash money to ‘make it, especially when there was a bad year for farmers. And for a lot it was a game of getting something over on the ‘feds’…
I went over to laurel one time and I stopped at an old store with three men sitting on the porch. I had a pistol that needed work and I had heard this Riddle fellow worked on guns. I got out of my car and went up to the porch and said howdy. No response to speak of . I said can you all tell me where this Riddle fellow lives that works on guns?? They never even looked at me. one spat tobacco juice and continued whittling. I said does anybody know him?? Not a word or look. I started to leave and turned around and said ‘ my Momma was raised right up the road here, she belonged to Lonnie Chandley and Hannah Shelton and they lived just up the road from Whiterock school. There was a bunch of them Chandley boys and girls here. I just need to get my gun fixed is all. One said, why didn’t you say so, shoot we don’t tell nothing to strangers, but I guess maybe you be alright. What’de you say yore name is?? Then they gave me mountain directions–Go past the big sycamore with the lightning mark and look for a big flat rock on the hillside, then you’ll see the barn what burned last year, look for dirt road off to the left, heck, son you can’t miss it.
Best blow your horn starting up the holler.
I love the mountains and especially the old-timers–Lock Johnson (Name changed) had a big railroad watch on a chain in the bib of his overalls. He couldn’t tell time, and you could say hay Lock, what time is it?? He would jerk that big old watch out and flip it open in one quick move and turn the face to you and declare, every time, By grab sonny, there she is.”
We have lost something good boys and girls…A way of life gone by the wayside. Glimpses here and there are still around. Make no mistake, the things we were taught by the ‘old people’ helped keep us free.
So I’ve written this little ramble with the thought ‘by grab, I’ll give you a little glimpse of another time and way” You be blessed this day, and every day—you hear me???