Wordless Wednesday

Generations of Spring

My world abounds with life anew.
An anxiously awaited spring welcomes
A new beginning.

And the fat robins strut about with their red breasts shining,
They remind me of home and childhood,
“Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree…”

The cool earth has changed its scent,
The now pungent aroma permeates my senses,
And it beckons me to scoop it up to partake of the gifts.

The warm light shines upon my shoulders
Lifting my spirits. My mind turns to retrospection,
And to the generations that walked this land before me.

The present becomes the past
And the future becomes the present.
Promises are made, promises are kept.

Life continues. The Earth is full of the goodness of the Lord.

A Sticky Situation

It’s about that time of year again, time to make maple syrup. Have any of you readers out there tried making maple syrup before? I have. I guess I always was sort of a food purist, perhaps it is more like I’ve always been curious to see whether I could follow some of the old-timey traditional methods of making stuff at home, so it was only a matter of time before I tried my hand at making maple syrup. I remember I was about 15 years old or so, and I had talked to a few of the older folks in the neighborhood about making syrup and they told me how it was done, though I didn’t let on that I was actually going to try my hand at it for fear of getting to much advice that would take the fun out of it.

I remember that I needed a spout to insert into the tree to drain the sugar water out, and I didn’t want to use metal or plastic pipe for a spout (which undoubtedly would have been the most convenient). No way, I was doing this the old fashioned way and I wanted a wooden spout. I hunted the woods for hours looking for a straight stick about an inch wide, then using my pocket knife I split it open. I cleaned out the doty center of the stick and I had two little troughs with which to siphon away the sugar water from the tree. I did try my hand at hollowing out a whole stick but it was just too time consuming, so my idea worked well enough.

I then took Dad’s wood bore and after scouting out the biggest sugar maple trees behind our house on the hillside, I took boring holes into the trees. I then inserted my little wooden “pipe troughs” into the holes, and had then dripping down into my catchment containers. After waiting a few minutes, I saw the first few droplets of sugar water trying to run down into my waiting mason jar. (Yes, mason jar…this was a small time operation!). I soon learned through trial and error that if I slanted my bored hole slightly upward, the sap flowed out a little better. Also, I found that a little spot of chewing gum dammed up the excess sugar water and made the sap flow out my troughs a little better, as well as securing my troughs in the hole. I know I must have drilled 20 or so trees, and I had jars, cans, cups, buckets and pretty much anything else that would catch sugar water placed under nearly every maple tree on the hillside. This was about mid-morning, and as the day progressed and it got a little warmer, the sap started running faster. Some of them ran like a slow running faucet. Since my catchment containers were rather small, I nearly ran myself to death emptying them into my larger 5 gallon bucket which sat at the bottom of the hill. Eventually, I focused on the larger and more productive trees and abandoned operations at the small trees. After a few hours, my 5 gallon bucket was full of sweet tasting maple sap. It looked like water, had the consistency of water, but it had a slightly sweet taste. After getting what I believed would be aplenty maple sugar water, I gathered up my jars, cans, cups, etc. and placed a piece of clay mud into the bored holes of the tree to keep out moisture so as to prevent rot.

An old drawing of a maple sugar camp.

So with my 5-gallon bucket of maple sugar water in hand, I talked Mom into allowing me the use of her kitchen to boil down my syrup. She told me I could but that if I made a mess, I’d have to clean it up. So, using her big stockpot, I filled it about ¾ full with sugar water and started heating it. Soon it was at a boil, and I kept adding more sugar water to the pot as it evaporated away. It took several hours of this, but eventually the boiling liquid started turning the lightest shade of brown, and I just knew that soon I’d have syrup. I couldn’t help but sample my work frequently and it was starting to get slightly sweeter, but still nowhere near syrup. So my pot kept boiling and boiling, and it was clear that I’d get no more than a quart of syrup out of this, but that was still fine. Well, about the time my pot had about a quart of liquid in it, I tasted it again…nope, still very watery…so I had no choice but to keep boiling. Everyone had told me that it took a lot of sugar water to make syrup but I figured I had enough. I had thought about going back out to the trees to get more sap, but Mom told me that I’d better wait and see if my experiment worked before I went and made more work for myself. I’m sure it was more like she wanted me out of the kitchen since I’d been there for hours and hours. So I acquiesced and kept on a-boilin’!

It soon became apparent that I wasn’t going to have much maple syrup at all when I got it boiled down. As it was now, I had less than a cup full in the pot and it was still rather watery. I became resolved right then to continue and get whatever syrup I could out of this…no matter how little… since I had spent all day at it. When the liquid had nearly all boiled away, I tasted my treasured substance, and lo and behold, it was just right! I had made maple syrup! However, when I measured it out, I had just over 3 Tablespoons of it (out of 5 gallon of maple sugar water). Everyone got a good laugh over that, but let me tell you, that was good maple syrup. I shared it with everyone there, and we all got a taste, and everyone agreed that it was really good.

And that's when the real fun started. Mom came out to the kitchen and told me to clean up my mess. I’d been really careful not to make too much of one since I knew I’d be the one to have to clean it. I washed the stockpot, and wiped off the stove and table, took my bucket outside, and thought I had it all done, then Mom discovered something. She looked around and had noticed that there was a sticky film all over the walls and ceiling, over the cabinets and refrigerator, over the countertops and the ceiling fan, even on the window panes! It seems that while my maple sugar water was evaporating, the steam had miniscule amounts of sugar in it, and it had coated everything in the kitchen. Hot, soapy water was the only thing that would cut the stickiness, and Mom said we had to clean the whole kitchen (yes, she helped!). She really didn’t say too much to me, probably because if she started she wouldn’t have been able to stop! It was way up into the night before we got the remnants of my first and only ill-fated attempt at making my own maple syrup. So for the love of God and all that is Holy, if you decide to make your own homemade maple syrup, take my advice and do it someplace other than your mother’s kitchen. I old guess the old timers had a reason for making sugar camps after all!

Thinking Outside of Box

Below is the news from back home, only it is from 1918. The community where I am from has went through several different names. The first name of the area was Buffalo Bottom, due to the abundance of woods bison in the area. Now the name would only apply to some of my Aunts (That was bad, I know). After the buffalo were extirpated it ddin't seem like Buffalo Bottom was such a good name so the area became known as North Fork Hills. Since that name was confusing because there were hills all over the North Fork Valley, the name progressed into the community of Box. People didn't like living in a Box so the area started being referred to as Bland Hills, but as Bland Hills became more populated, our end of Bland Hills became the community of Hopewell. A few years later, Hopewell was given the name of Monkeytown by my great-grandfather, Don Burns due to all of the children hanging out of the windows of the houses. It seems that the name Monkeytown stuck, at least for the past 80 years or so, and most people still know and refer it by that name. However, to add to the confusion we do get our mail in Riverton (7 miles away), vote in Circleville (8 miles away), and are listed in the county newspaper as Hopewell (though nobody calls our area Hopewell anymore). So, who knows exactly where I'm from, the only thing I am sure of is I didn't come here and I ain't leaving. My granddaddy used to say that.

The Pendleton Times
Friday, December 20, 1918

Box News

The health of this section is very good now.

The Hopewell school has begun with an enrollment of about thirty-five scholars. Mr. Biby is the teacher.

A.C. Thompson has moved to Osceola, a cold country.

C.J. Landis, the photo man, has quit farming and gone into the picture business again.

Miss. Mucie Burns has gone to the wild western country to teach school. We wish her a successful term.

Charlie Burns was hauling hay from W.D. Simmons’ one day last week.

Don Burns has purchased a horse of Erving Hinkle & Bros. He says he can go see his girl now.

News reached us that Virgil Hinkle while in Franklin Thursday was arrested because of failing to register on Sept. 12, and will be court-martialed at Parkersburg.

Don Bland has gone to the lumber camp to work for awhile.

Fred Lambert was a recent visitor at the home of Harness Teter at Osceola.

God hath made of one blood all nations of men, and we are his children, brothers and sisters all. We are citizens of the United States and we believe our flag stands for self-sacrifice for the good of all the people. We want therefore to be true citizens of our great country and will show our love for her by our works. Our country does not ask us to die for her welfare, she asks us to live for her, and so to live and so to act that her government may be pure her officers of her territory shall be a place fit to grow the best men and women who shall rule over her.—A Bland Hills wife

Report on Christmas

Hello all. I hope you all enjoyed a wonderful Christmas surrounded by those whom you love. I thought I'd devote today's post to catching up since my last post.

On Friday evening, Dec. 19, Shirley and I left Charleston and headed to her homeplace in Matheny, Wyoming County, WV. On the way, we had supper with two of our good friends, Christina and her husband Jeff, at an italian restaurant in Beckley. It was really good. Shirley and I had to do a little last minute Christmas shoplifting (just kidding...shopping). At 10 pm, we were just getting to Walmart in Crab Orchard. As soon as we parked, I heard someone singing southern gospel. I know it isn't unusual to hear someone singing southern gospel in southern West Virginia, but it was after 10 pm in a Walmart parking lot. I found that a little unusual, even for Beckley. After hearing the singing a little bit, it dawned on me that I knew the voice, and I commented, "That sounds like Jack Stewart!". Sure enough, it was Shirley's Uncle Jack, just sitting in his vehicle with the windows rolled down singing at the top of his lungs. I went up and talked a little with him, and he told me that they just got done singing up at the old folks home, and Aunt Diane needed to do some shopping, so he stayed in the car while she went shopping.

We got to Matheny around 11:30 that night.

The next day found us back in Beckley with Mawmaw (Shirley's mother) and her brother Rick. Mawmaw needed to do some shopping, and Rick needed to get out of the house. We had a really nice time out on the town. We made a day of it.

When we got back we received word that Shirley's Aunt Brookie had passed away. She was a month shy of being 93. Shirley and I went an saw her at the hospital in August, and Brookie was a sharp as a tack. They say Brookie was sharp minded right up until the end, her heart gave out. We attended the wake that was held Monday Evening at Brookie's church in Skin Fork, WV. The wake was one of the old timey ones where they sat up with the dead all night. It was cold that night, down in the low teens, but there were several hundred people who showed up to pay their respects and remember Aunt Brookie.

On Sunday, we got together with a few friends, Christina and Jeff stopped by and we exchanged gifts with them. They got me and Shirley a Nintendo Wii!! Wow, we were both shocked and amazed at what good friends we have.

On Christmas Eve, we ate Christmas dinner at Mawmaw's. I made the ham, the rolls, and Mawmaw's favorite, Ambrosia Salad. It all turned out really good. We ate so much it was nigh onto sinful. Then we opened gifts with the family. About 4pm, Shirley and I hit the road for Monkeytown, home of my people. It was 61 degree's when we left Matheny, but it kept getting a little colder as we travelled. By the time we got to Monkeytown, it was down to 50 degree's, still good travelling weather even if it was raining.

Christmas Day we were greeted with many many presents. I got a calendar of Pendleton County Churches, which I had been wanting. I also got a great flag of Germany. Those were probably my two favorite gifts of the year, although I must say everything that I got was appreciated. Oh, and I also got a huge jar of hot sausages!!! More about those later....

All the cousins and Aunts and family stopped by to see us on Christmas Day. My Aunt Aim and my Cousin Ditme visited for about 4 hours. We had a good time talking and joking around. Later that night, another aunt, Big Six, and her children, The Sixlets, stopped by and we played cards. We had a good time way up into the night.

Also, of note, while at home I split some more wood for Dad, I like to split wood. Also, I'm pretty sure that the mice who ran out of the woodpile all congregated in the ceiling over my bed and were having their own Christmas Party that night. They were so loud I ended up beating on the ceiling at 4 am, to no avail. Those mice just wouldn't stop! Oh, and the best part is when they started playing soccer with a hickory nut. I was just a hair shy of cranking some buckshot into the ceiling. Oh, and the best part, Mom's great mouser, Buttercup, lay snoring through the whole ordeal!! Ahhh, the joys of country living.

We returned home on December 28th, but not before I packed my huge jar of hot sausages (half-eaten by this time), which got upset as the car was being packed, so I got a back floor full of hot sausage "juice"! Whew, that is a real treat to smell. I sopped up all of the "juice" that I could get with an old towel, and then sprayed it down with odor neutralizer...still no help...so in Buckhannon on the way home I stopped at got a box of 20 Mule Team Borax and a box of Baking soda, I scattered it about 2 inches deep on the floor board, but the smell is still there. Today I vacuumed the car out, and I've come to the conclusion that the hot sausage smell is gonna be with us for a long time.

Oh, and to top it all off, our digital camera died on the way home (unrelated to the hot sausage incident), so we are in the market for one of those. The photo's that we took will be okay though, we have them on a memory card, we just can't access them without another camera.

All in all, it was an enjoyable Christmas, and one that I will remember (and hopefully not just because of the stench in the car!)

How was your Christmas?

Winter Memories

Today I'm going to post an old photo from Pendleton County. The photo comes courtesy of my cousin Darlene Wilton (we're cousins several different ways), and this photo is one of my absolute favorites. I think the photo just says so much on so many levels. It says "Welcome Home", it says "Remember", it says "Refuge", it says "Family", it says "Winter".

The two men in the photo are relatives of mine. As I understand it, the man leaning on the fence is Clint Thompson, the other fellow with the squirrel on his chest is Clinton Bennett. Clinton Bennett was Darlene's (who shared the photo with me) grandfather. The photo was taken near Spruce Knob, the highest point in West Virginia.

What does this photo say to you?

Photo courtesy of Darlene Wilton

A Home By Any Other Name

I'm a Monkeytown native. You may ask what I mean by that and to this I would answer, that is the name of the place where I grew up and that I call home. Monkeytown is a quiet little community on the west side of North Fork Mountain in Pendleton County. It is not incorporated and you probably won’t find it on any map, but everyone within a 5-county radius will know where Monkeytown is.

Monkeytown has several anomalies associated with it, such as the current mailing address is actually in Riverton, which is 7 miles away. In addition, residents of Monkeytown vote in Circleville District (not in Riverton), and the local news section in the county paper is found in the Hopewell section! In the past, the area has also been referred to as the Bland Hills and the community of Box.

An artists rendering of Monkeytown, drawn by my brother, Jason.

Monkeytown was given its colorful name by my great-granddaddy Don Burns. He was standing at Virge Hinkle’s store one day and looked up the holler at all of the houses. At each house there were kids hanging out of every window. Granddad Don reportedly commented to the folks at the store, “This looks like a damn Monkeytown”. The name stuck.

My Dad (the little boy in front) and his siblings in front of Virge Hinkle's store, about 1963.

Everyone in Monkeytown is related in at least one way. The land used to all be part of the old Burns property but over the years had been split up into smaller parcels. There were two main “streets” in Monkeytown, both were really just farm roads that double as drive-ways, and they are locally known as called “Frogbone Alley” and “Monkeytown Street”. At the lower end of Monkeytown, my great-aunt Jan and her husband Kennie lived with their family. Jan was a really sweet and loving person who was always trying to feed the neighborhood children, she always had a kind word for every child who entered her home, and she was genuinely happy to see you. Even though she didn’t have much, she was always willing to share everything that she did have. Years ago, the neighborhood children made up a rhyme that went:

“Frogbone Alley, Monkeytown Street
Kennie Bennett Hotel and nothing to Eat
But gravy, mashed potatoes and Coco-wheat!”

Growing up in such a community has both advantages and disadvantages. The advantage being everyone knows who you are and what you have been doing, and the disadvantage is everyone knows who you are and what you have been doing.


An old insurance policy belonging to my great-grandmaw Mary. Note the address.

At one time, there was even a stop of the county bus line that stopped in Monkeytown, but it was discontinued when residents would ride on to the next stop at Judy Gap and walk the 3 miles back up the mountain rather than have folks know they lived in Monkeytown! You see, Monkeytown used to have a reputation for being a rough and wild place to live, with the residents being very uncouth and regular mountain "hoosiers" in every sense of the word. This is still true in many cases, but certainly it is now the exception and not the rule.

It does seem, though, that many residents of Monkeytown are still very clannish in that they only talk to, and are friends with, members of their own family. This makes it very difficult for new people to fit in to this community. For example, my mother is from Hardy County and even though she has been married to my Dad for over 30 years and has lived in Monkeytown most of that time, she still is considered to be “not from around here” by many. These are my people and this is my home, so I love them the way family should...warts and all!

The Monkeytown of the past is certainly not the Monkeytown of today. There are very few people that live there now, day passes into night without event and the once busy streets (such as they were) are quiet.