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Whether we were walking along a country road or following a mountain trail, a fresh little spring was a joy to find and it quenched our thirst as well. Water would be bubbling up from an underground stream. A good strong spring was a must for mountain farms and home-

steads. Fresh water sustained life for both people and livestock. Before the days of electricity and refrigeration, spring boxes and spring houses were very important. That was where dairy products and other perishable foods were kept fresh and safe.

Spring boxes were rectangular shaped boxes. Some of them were built using cement and stone. Ours was made of wide oak boards nailed together. There was a lid for the top. Holes in each end of the box allowed water from the spring to flow through. The box remained half full of water at all times. Stoneware crocks and pitchers containing food, milk and buttermilk were placed into the cold water. Each one had a lid, saucer, or plate on top to cover it. In time, most people built a spring house – a small building made of logs, stone or boards. It covered and protected the spring and the food in the spring box. In the winter time, if the water flow was slow, ice would freeze in the spring box. On hot summer days, it was so nice and cool in the spring house you just wanted to stay there.

We had a jersey cow named Bessie. She was dark brown in color with tan markings on her face. She had small horns, but never used them. She was very gentle. Bessie gave lots of good rich milk which enabled us to keep our spring box full of fresh dairy products. Old Bessie furnished the milk, but Mom worked hard, too. She milked the cow twice a day, strained the milk, poured it into crocks and carried them to the spring box to cool. There was whole milk for drinking and for making the best gravy in the world. There was milk for making butter and buttermilk, which Mom used to make the fluffiest biscuits you ever saw. There was milk for making cottage cheese that tasted like mozzarella does today. And the hogs enjoyed the whey. There was cream for whipping to put on warm gingerbread just out of the oven. Oh! I can almost taste that! Old Bessie and Mom did a good job of keeping our family fed and we had some milk to sell.

As a child, I could not figure out how Old Bessie grew so big and gave so much milk. She was a strict vegetarian – eating only salad greens (grass), with a sprinkling of bugs and worms for garnish every day. She also ate some chop and hay – nothing substantial. Bessie chewed her food at least a hundred times before swallowing. Maybe that was her secret.

You talk about a lesson in patience, when I was seven years old I wanted to learn how to make butter. Mom sat me in a chair by our big wooden churn that was filled with whole milk. It seemed like FOREVER that I lifted the wooden handle of the dasher up in the churn and let it fall. As the milk thickened my arms grew very tired. Finally, it was butter, ready to be taken out of the churn. Then it was rinsed, drained and salted. I loved pressing the butter into the wooden butter molds. When we turned it out on a saucer it was so pretty. There was a little design on top. But we were not done yet. The buttermilk was then poured into pitchers and carried to the spring box. The churn had to be cleaned and dried. For that, we had to carry buckets full of water from the spring to heat on the wood stove.

In this story, I have mentioned only a few of the daily blessings my family and I enjoyed while living in our little house on our little farm in the Appalachian Mountains.

My little bedroom was my retreat when I was sick or feeling bad. But most of the time it was my happy place and just the right size for me at five years old. All of my favorite things were there, including my grown up doll and my storybooks. A chair and a small table sat by my

bed. The table was covered with one of Mom’s crocheted doilies. An oil lamp and my bedtime storybook set on top. The lamp was always left burning until I went to sleep. If Mom or my sister Pearl did not have time to read a story to me, I looked at the pictures in my book

until I got sleepy. Or I played a game of matching pieces on the quilt that covered me to clothes my family had worn. Most of our clothing was homemade and every extra scrap of cloth was used to make quilts. Snuggled down in the feather tick mattress on my little bed and propped up with pillows, I searched for special quilt pieces by the soft light of the oil lamp. The tan material with small blue squares was from my Grandma Sturgill’s aprons. The pink was from my sister Orba’s dress. There were yellow, blue, green, pink and red scraps sewn into the quilt. Some of them had checks or stripes, and others had flowers. The matching game was fun to play and soon I was fast asleep, surrounded by my family in my dreams.

When I awoke the next morning, the first thing I did was look out my bedroom window. Summer, Fall, Winter and Spring – there was always an interesting view. A little stream came down from the steep hill and flowed through the deep hollow past our house. It was a wonderful place to play when the weather was warm enough. I loved walking along the stream looking for tiny white rocks, frogs or salamanders. Some of those little lizards were bright orange. Dad’s mallard ducks liked the brook, too. They always seemed to be smiling and quacking softly as they puddled along, poking their bills into the mud and grass along the water’s edge looking for food. Mom’s flower garden was also in the deep hollow. There were yellow and blue iris, rose bushes, forsythia and other plants and shrubs. In the spring time, Dad’s mallard ducks laid their eggs among the green foliage.

My sister Pearl woke me early one morning. It was just getting daylight. She said, “Put your coat and boots on. Let’s go gather the duck eggs for Dad.” A man who lived up in Virginia worked for the Wildlife Services and he bought every mallard duck egg Dad found. We kept the eggs warm and turned them every day. A heavy dew had fallen and it was very chilly out there in the deep hollow. My sister and I carried little baskets with soft warm cloths in them to gather the eggs. Things were going good. I had two large green duck eggs in my basket. Then I pulled back the tall spikes of a clump of yellow iris and leaned forward to look inside. Mamma duck, sitting there on her nest, was very startled. She flew straight up over my head, quacking loudly as she went. I was surprised, too. My feet took two steps backward and then I heard a big splash. That was me! There I sat in the cold water of the little stream I loved. The duck eggs in my basket were broken and I was a wet mess.

My sister, Pearl, helped me up and into the house. Mom had a hot fire in the kitchen wood stove where she was making breakfast. When she saw me she said, “My Goodness, What has happened?” They helped me get into dry clothes. Wrapped in a warm blanket, with my teeth still chattering, I went to my little room and climbed into my little bed. I pulled the covers up over my head and thought I might just stay there forever, but I didn’t. Soon breakfast was ready and there were more adventures to be had. Thinking back on that morning, at first it was fun, like finding Easter eggs that nobody hid. Well, maybe Mamma Duck tried.

“Everyone needs a place to retreat. A spot where the world grows quiet enough for the soul to speak.” – A Weiland-Crosby

Mom and Dad were married for twenty three years before I was born. At first, they lived in a little one room cabin made of wide oak boards. Over the years, as their family grew, Dad added four rooms onto their house. A walkway made of large flat field stones led to the small

porch and our front door. Having sheltered and kept nine children before me, the outside of our house looked weathered and worn. But on the inside the walls were covered with

wallpaper. Linoleum covered the floors. Lace curtains covered the windows and welcome covered the doors. It was good and warm in the winter time from two wood burning stoves and nice and cool in the summertime from screens in the windows and doors. There was

always good food for the table and always comfortable beds. Folks were always asked to stay just as long as they could. And most of them always returned, like we knew they would. However humble, I loved my Home Sweet Home and my big family.

Then things began to change at my house. At three years old, I was too young to remember when my four oldest brothers left home. But I missed them. My sister Pearl said I asked for them every day and wondered where they could be. My brothers had been drafted into the United States Military during World War II. Each of them served in different parts of the world. We, the family at home, could not have imagined where they were or the things they saw.

My oldest brother, Fred, was in France. He served in the 79^th Division under the command of General Patton. A bullet grazed Fred’s head. He made little of it, but was awarded a Purple Heart for bravery. In Italy, my brother Roy was a forward radar man. He was in Pompeii when Mount Vesuvius erupted in 1945. My brother Joe was stationed in the Philippines, which had been attacked only hours after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Clarence, the youngest of the four, was in the Navy. He said it was a pretty scary time in the North Atlantic watching ships around you explode when they were hit with enemy fire. I know they were homesick – young men from the Appalachian mountains, far from home.

My youngest brother Carl and my three older sisters were still at home. With the four oldest boys gone, they worked very hard helping Dad on the farm and Mom with all the work she had to do. Many half gallon jars were filled with fruits, vegetables and meats preparing for

the day my brothers came home. Every evening the family gathered around the battery powered radio to listen to news of the war. And every night, Mom, looking very thin and worried, wrote letters to her boys by the light of the oil lamp and prayed. Thankfully all of my brothers returned safely. They served well and made our family proud.

I do remember when they came home. It was such a happy time. And 78 years later I still have most of the things they sent to me while they were away. A green glass paperweight with a tiny white rabbit inside, a pink linen dress from Italy, a woven basket with my name and the date “1945” from the Philippines and pink pajamas from Japan. One day the mailman brought a big box addressed to me. It was from my brother Fred. Inside was a grown up doll – an Army nurse dressed in Red, White and Blue. I thought she was the prettiest doll I had ever seen.

My older brothers and sisters soon married and moved away. Some went North and some went South to find better jobs. Only Dad, Mom, my youngest brother Carl, my youngest sister Pearl, and I were left at home. Although I was young, I realized there had been some kind of threat to our country and to our family. But with the faith of a child, I felt safe and secure in our little house in the deep hollow with Dad, Mom, my brother and my sister watching over me. God surely blessed our family.

During World War II sugar, coffee, any food in tin cans, and many other products were rationed. We missed the sugar, but Dad had honeybees, so we had plenty of honey – and always molasses. Instead of coffee Mom and Dad drank Postum. It was a mixture of wheat germ and molasses. We canned our own food and were unaffected by gas rations, as we did not have a vehicle.

In the 1991 my husband, his uncle and I were in Johnson City, TN at the VA Hospital. As we walked down a long corridor a large poster on the wall stated “FREEDOM IS NOT FREE.” They both agreed that was true. My husband’s uncle and four of my older brothers were drafted into the military during World War II along with thousands of others. They were stationed in different parts of the world. My youngest brother, my future husband and his brother served in Korea during the 1950’s. Also, I had three uncles in World War I. Over the years, when the call came to defend our homeland, the Great United States of America, young men and women answered the call bravely. They left these beautiful Appalachian Mountains to serve. For some, it was a great adventure, while others went out of duty and many were terribly homesick. My husband had appointments at the VA hospital that day. He suffered from hearing loss and also nervous problems that caused him to have terrible nightmares about his experiences in Korea. His injuries were small compared to many others, but for him they were a constant reminder of the war.

KOREA 1950 – My husband’s unit was constantly firing and receiving fire from heavy field artillery guns. Joe was a gunner. His company camped out in all kinds of weather, hot or cold.

Moving forward then falling back. At times they were short on rations. In letters he wrote home to his parents Joe ask his Mom to send tin cans of food, any food and he would eat it. The soldiers in his outfit had been told not to eat any fruit they found growing, but the large mulberries on the tree looked so good Joe ate one and then he ate MORE. He said later that night he left a blue streak from his tent to the latrine. After several days in the infirmary he recovered. A lesson learned the hard way.

One very cold winter night in Korea there was a deep snow on the ground. The heavy artillery company was out in the fields and they had no sleep for 36 hours. Joe was so worn out he just crawled into his bedroll and went to sleep. The next morning when he awoke there was an arm and hand sticking up out of the snow beside him. That woke him up pretty quick. A poor dead soldier was lying there covered with snow. Joe never talked about the worst of his experiences in Korea. His unit served at Heartbreak Ridge. The area reminded him of his mountain home in Fig, Ashe County, NC. He said, “It was very sad. We were just killing and being killed. Every day we hoped they would sign a peace treaty.”

My husband’s uncle was a pastor and a chaplain. That afternoon, before leaving the VA hospital, we walked through the wards where the patients were allowed visitors. Talking with those who wanted to talk, listening to their stories and having prayer with all those who wanted it. One of the veterans asked my husband’s uncle where God came from. After a moment he said, “Nobody knows. He just is. He always has been and He always will be our great and almighty GOD.”

One old veteran told us that during WWII when he and his buddies were on leave they often came into Johnson City, usually on Mondays. That was wash day for most folks. He said they walked around the neighborhoods on the outskirts of town and they could tell where the young women lived by the laundry hanging on the clothesline to dry. Then they attended socials in the areas – dances, box suppers, music and cake walks hoping to meet the young ladies. Then the women took to wearing them blamed shadders (shadows) and a man couldn’t tell by the laundry on the line if they were age 19 or 90. It took us a while to figure out he was talking about panty hose. He seems amused by his own story and laughed with us.

Then I noticed an old soldier on a bed in the corner. He reminded me of one of my uncles who spent the last years of his life in this very hospital due to head trauma from being in World War I. Every hour of every night and day he relived frightening scenes from battles in which he had fought. He became very agitated at times and then he was quiet, staring into space with hollow deep set eyes. How terrible that was for him.

My sincere thanks to every soldier who has ever served in our military and to those who have cared for the wounded when they returned home.

“FREEDOM IS NOT FREE”

It’s springtime in the Appalachian Mountains. The deep snows of winter have melted. Budding trees show their splendor by displaying a thousand shades of the color green, with splashes of red from the oaks and maples. Walk underneath these trees and around into the holler and you may find a small brook. Or stand still and listen and you may hear the soft sound of water tumbling over rocks, falling gently down the mountainside. Along these cool mountain streams there grows a delicacy called branch lettuce. It can be used in salads when young and tender or wilted with warm bacon grease and garnished with onions and crispy bacon bits.

My Aunt June lived alone at the foot of Mount Rogers in Grayson County, VA. It was a beautiful morning in 1950 when she and a neighbor walked around into the holler from her house. They both carried small metal pans and paring knives for cutting the lettuce. The birds were singing in the trees and Lamb’s Tounge, one of the first wildflowers of spring, was blooming in the woods. Before long they reached the stream and found the wild greens growing.

My Aunt almost had her pan full and had just raised up from cutting some lettuce when she saw a flash of red. The fox lunged at her face! Instinctively, she lifted her left hand and that is where it bit her. She stabbed the fox with the sharp paring knife she held in her right hand. The attack was over in seconds. My aunt was injured and the fox was dead. The neighbor quickly took off her apron and wrapped it around June’s bleeding hand. Then she helped her back out the path to the house. Unfortunately, that beautiful animal had rabies. My Aunt June had to endure a series of painful rabies shots. She recovered, but her left hand remained stiff and of little use.

My aunt continued her life as usual, living alone and riding the bus to Johnson City, TN as often as she could. Her husband was a long term patient there at the VA Hospital, suffering from head trauma he received during World War 1. She remained ever faithful and always brave. Though my Aunt June lived to be old, traces of her strength and beauty remained. She saw many a frosty morning at the foot of that mountain.

Born December 17, 1895 and passed away May 30, 1993.

The year was 1987. It was just three days until Christmas and we didn’t have a tree. The forecast was calling for bad weather during the holidays. My husband and I lived with my elderly Mother at the old homeplace. All of the big family would be coming home for Christmas if the roads didn’t get too bad. Our son, who was in the Air Force, was coming from Texas. Our daughter along with my brothers and sisters and their children were coming to Grandma’s house, too. Christmas trees, family, feasting and remembering the reason for the season were traditions in our family.

My husband had been working late hours, so if we were going to have a tree, I was going to have to get it. On Tuesday afternoon, despite my Mom’s protests of the late hour and the chill in the air, I bundled up and headed out the door. I stopped by the woodshed to get a hatchet and up the hill I went. Trees that looked perfect from a distance were either too tall or too big for our living room. First, it began to rain. Then a mixture of sleet and snow fell, but I was determined to cut a Christmas tree before I returned to the house.

So I chose the only tree I thought would do. The sheep, who had been grazing on the hillside, were gathered around me. It took some Paul Bunyan style chopping and I finally brought the tree down! TIMBER! When it fell the sheep scattered. But they came right back as if to see what I was going to do next. By that time the ground was white and getting slick. I pulled on the bottom of the tree with all my might. It would only move a little bit. One time I pulled so hard that I lost my grip and slid down the hill myself. Amid much “Bah! Bah! Bah! I crawled back up the hill. Then slowly we made our way down – the big Christmas tree, the sheep and me.

We had just reached our back yard fence when my husband came home from work. He was not very happy to see the job I had for him. Well, we couldn’t get the big tree into the house from the back door, so we went around to the front. Those steps were very steep and by that time they were slick as grease from the falling sleet. Finally, we made it up on the front porch. My husband cut a foot or more away from the bottom of the tree and we got it through the front door. But the tree was too tall, it would not stand up. We have 9 foot high ceilings, so we took some more off the bottom and got the tree into its stand. Still, it was about a foot and a half too tall. My Mom watched in amazement and I was beginning to despair and feel quite whipped by the big Christmas tree. Finally, after taking more from the top, it stood up. Glory Bee! We had it!

The tree was still frozen stiff with its branches close to its body. When the heat from the woodstove reached it, the beautiful white pine limbs relaxed and filled up one whole corner of our living room. The next morning I went upstairs and brought down every box marked Christmas that I could find. I put all the ornaments I had on the tree. Still, it could have held more. Our tree lights fitted into silver star reflectors, which were very pretty. That evening when the tree was lit, the sheep who helped me get the tree off the hill were standing at the backyard fence. I wondered if they were looking at the stars that lit up our Christmas tree. For me, sheep and Christmas kinda go together. After all, sheep were resting in the fields around Bethlehem when the beautiful Christmas Star appeared over the stable where Jesus was born.

On Christmas Day our big family had a delicious holiday dinner, exchanged gifts, gathered around the old pump organ to sing carols and remembered Christmases past. Everyone agreed that our big tree was the prettiest one we ever had. Many of my favorite memories were made that year.

The brooks, branches, creeks and rivers are a sight to behold as they wind their way through these beautiful Appalachian Mountains. One such place is Helton Creek in Ashe County, NC, not far from my house. As I stood there watching the gentle flow of water passing near grand old rock cliffs images of the past came to mind.

I could imagine a small band or hunting party of Cherokee Indians as they camped there by the creek. Sitting around the fire telling stories of long journeys and great hunts. Maybe chipping away at stones, making new arrowheads or preparing spears for fishing in Helton Creek, as they rested their horses before traveling on. In 1940, while fishing along Helton Creek my Dad found an Indian tool – an axe made of green toned rock. It was laying among the regular brown creek rocks beside the water.

I like to think that early pioneer settlers who came into these mountains may have traveled up the dirt trail along Helton Creek. Their covered wagons, loaded with family and all of their worldly goods, were pulled by a yoke of oxen or mules. Maybe they too camped by the water’s edge and had a much needed rest while deciding which direction to take. And perhaps they were fishing for some fresh trout in Helton Creek.

In the 1970’s I did not have a covered wagon or a yoke of oxen, only an old blue Chevy Impala with a V8 horsepower engine under the hood. Sometimes on warm summer evenings, I loaded my car with youngins, mine and others. (I could have taken more in a covered wagon.) After stopping at the country store for canned corn to fish with, Mountain Dews, Mallow Cups and Baby Ruth Candy Bars we were on our way. Down Helton Creek we went to my favorite spot, a cool place beside the water in the shadow of the rock cliffs. Usually there were six children – ages seven to twelve – fishing, swimming, throwing rocks and wading all at the same time in the same place. It was a circus! No fish were harmed or caught during these excursions.

Those were perfect moments in time. They are fleeting and hard to capture. If you experience them, cherish them always. That has now been 50 years ago and unlike me and my car full of youngins, Helton Creek remains unchanged. It flows past rock cliffs that are as old as time. The creek is a tributary of the New River which is dated to being around 65 million years old and I imagine Helton Creek is just as old.

Written In Memory of My Son, Norman.

The Virginia Creeper Train was a real iron workhorse. It came into Ashe County in 1915 hauling lumber, tan bark, coal, mail, passengers and other cargo. With all of its noise and huffing and puffing black smoke, it held a fascination for some folks, especially children. Often they stood by the train tracks hoping the engineer would toss candy to them.

There is a place on the Virginia Creeper track line that has a history of its own. Located near Warrensville, NC, it is called the Devil’s Stairs Crossing. When workmen were preparing to lay the railroad tracks, a section of unstable slate rock was blasted. When the dust settled a jagged rock formation that looked like stair steps was etched into the cliffside and one worker had lost his life. People said the devil walked up and down those stairs at night.

In that same area, a toddler was playing on the tracks one day. Despite the efforts of the engineer, the train could not stop in time and sadly the child died. Some folks have claimed that at certain times, when the moon is full there at the Devil’s Stairs Crossing, you can still hear the train coming in the distance with its whistle blaring and nearby, the sound of a child crying in the night.

Many times while I waited in my car for the train to go by, I thought of old stories I had heard of travelers passing through the Devil’s Stairs Crossing at night. Years ago at the crossing, the devil supposedly got onto the back of a horse and went home with the rider. Or, he got into the back of a car or truck and went home with the driver. So, I wondered if the devil ever hoboed the Virginia Creeper Train here at the crossing. If he did, where did he go? I don’t know.

But, I do know one night in the 1960’s I was coming home after working second shift in West Jefferson. As I drove across the bridge at the Devil’s Stairs I heard the flop flop of a flat tire. I pulled over to the right shoulder of the road and set there for about twenty minutes praying someone would come along to help. Nobody did. There were no cell phones back then. Trying to concentrate on the task at hand, I got out of my car. Then I realized it was very dark – as black as pitch. Working by the light of my headlights and a flashlight, I jacked my car up and exchanged the flat tire for my spare. OH! Was that an eerie laugh I heard or just an owl screeching in the trees overhead? FinaIly, I got the job done and the devil did not help me. Nor did he get into the back seat of my car and come home with me. That was a scary night. Sometimes our imaginations can almost frighten us to death.

I was aboard the Virginia Creeper Train only once before it retired in 1977. My three year old daughter and I rode the train from Lansing, across the New River, past the Devil’s Stairs Crossing and on to the depot in West Jefferson. That was quite an experience. The train is gone from our mountains now, but it lives on through pictures, paintings, stories and dreams. Memories of a bygone era.

The summer I was 16 years old a man in our community was asking for folks to work picking bunch beans for market. My friend JoAnne and I went on two trips. We got onto the back of his panel truck with a bunch of other people. Up over the Whitetop Mountain Road we went, through Konnarock and down the Iron Mountain to Sinkler’s Bottom over near Chilhowee, Virginia. The fields of beans were big and the rows were long. It was much hotter over there than it was at home.

We made lots of new friends while picking beans. One older lady named Doshie, who lived up in the Whitetop Community, was especially nice. Neither JoAnne or I had packed any lunch and our new friend shared her sandwiches with us. It wasn’t very long until my back was tired and hurting from bending over to pick beans, so I crawled on my knees for a while. When we got our bushel baskets full a young boy would bring an empty hamper to us and take the full one to the scales. Then he brought a ticket back to us showing how much the beans weighed so we could get paid. The afternoons were long and I don’t ever remember picking over four bushels of beans in a day.

At home, I had already turned down pages in the Sears & Roebuck catalog where I planned to order clothes for school with the money I earned. But after we had finished picking beans for the day and rode back across the mountain I was tired, sunburned, and starved to death. Usually, we stopped at the little Sturgill’s Store on Helton Creek and I spent most of the money I had made on Moon Pies, Orange Crush Drinks and sometimes ice cream.

Our new friend Doshie invited me and JoAnne to come to her church on Sunday. They were having all day preaching and dinner on the grounds. She said, “I am going to make a big pot of chicken and dumplings now, and you girls come.” Both JoAnne and I had chicken and dumplings at home from time to time. What possessed us to walk two miles to get there, I don’t know. No vehicles passed while we were walking. As we got near the church we could see people outside the building. The men had set up sawhorses in the churchyard with boards on top for makeshift tables. The ladies were putting out the dinner on pretty homemade tablecloths and there was a big crowd there.

We wondered what three or four men were doing standing in the road looking at something on the steep upper bank. We soon found out. One of them reached out his hand and grabbed a huge black snake. Towards us he came holding the big snake up in the air and laughing the whole time. He chased us so far back down the road that we just came on home where we arrived tired and hungry. My Mom said we went to church for the wrong reason and the devil met us before we got there. In our defense, we were planning on staying for the afternoon service. We never did know what our new friend Doshie thought of all that, or if she ever saw it.

The snake handler was not a member of that church, but he had probably been invited to preaching and dinner just as we had. Things got out of hand, but we forgave him. Through the years JoAnne and I have shared some good laughs remembering that day.

My great uncle Jim was a jovial man, a pleasure to be around. He lived in a small house, set on a low hill, just across the North Carolina line up in Virginia a ways. The first time I was at his place I was ten years old. My Dad and I were walking to our pasture land on the mountain. The wide dirt path we took went right by his house. On our way up we stopped by my great uncle’s spring to get a drink. Fresh water gushed out of a pipe in the hill right beside his back porch. On our way back down we stopped to rest and set a spell with him. We hadn’t been there very long when he got up and went inside the house. He soon returned with a brown paper bag. Chuckling, he held it out for me to get some candy. That was a real treat, I only got candy at Christmastime.

Later I was visiting my best friend, Kay. She also lived in Virginia, just down the road from my great uncle. I told her I knew where we could get some candy. So up the hill we went and knocked on his door. He seemed “glad” to see us. He said “Come in and set down,” and “How are your folks?” He talked on while we sat there and squirmed. Then we said we had to go but did not leave. Chuckling softly my Great Uncle got up and left the room. Soon he returned with a brown paper bag full of candy. After we got our grubby little hands full we really did have to go, giggling all the way down the hill. We continued to visit the Candy Man and get chocolate drops until we were too old to beg.

My Great Uncle Jim remained jovial and happy for the rest of his life. He died when I was 17 years old. A lady from the community and I set up all night at his wake. We were awake. He was not. In the wee hours of the morning, I thought about what the candy man had meant to me. He was my friend. He brought me joy. And he never told my Dad about us begging for candy. Then I remembered the time my great uncle Jim came to our house for supper. I was about six years old. My Mom had fixed candied sweet potatoes with lots of butter and sugar, my favorite food. They were baked in an old iron skillet in a wood burning cook stove. At the table my great uncle kept getting more and more of the sweet potatoes on his plate. Finally I said, “Pass me some more potatoes before he gets them all.” That remark got me a swift kick under the table from my older sister – so I just set there quietly and watched him finish them off. I thought about all that as I sat there looking at him. I said, “Candy Man, I am so sorry I was stingy with the sweet potatoes when you came to my house for supper.” I halfway expected him to laugh, but he remained quiet – thank goodness.

When is a brown paper bag a poke? When you poke your hand into it to get some candy out!