August

August is upon us! You know, I’ve always liked the month of August, though I can’t exactly say why. I suppose it’s because August is the month where everything is ripening and “the earth is full of the goodness of the Lord” as Psalm 33:5 tells us. That has always been one of my favorite passages. It is so true, too. It is never more apparent than in August.

My brother, Jason, showing off the big sunflower.

I heard many people say they don’t much care for the month of August because of the oppressive heat and dog days and the like. For me though, I’ve always found perverse joy in the heat, there’s just something about it that makes me feel a closeness to the land.

Maw in her garden patch.

August is also the month when my favorite wildflower is in bloom. I know many will think I’m a might touched, but my favorite is Joe-Pye Weed. There’s just something about it that appeals to me. It is very hardy and will grow in a variety of habitats. As Dolly Parton says in a song she wrote years ago named “Wildflowers”…wildflowers don’t care where they grow. I guess I have a soft spot for the oft-neglected segments of our life. I wonder how such a regal looking plant, which is an object of desire for most nectar-loving insects, got the bland name of Joe-Pye Weed? Who was Joe Pye and why is there a plant named for him?

Joe Pye Weed, my favorite wildflower.

August is also the time of year when school children all across the land start to see that most dreaded of end signs popping up in stores...the back-to-school sale! Oh, how I hated to see those. I don’t know about you but I know just how a condemned man must feel as he watches his gallows be built, because I used to feel the same way! You know it’s coming so you try to cram every little bit of excitement into every moment you have left. It won’t be long before we see the bright yellow prison car snaking its way through our hills and hollers. No matter what your age, August should be a wake up call for you to make the most of what is left of summer.

August in Burns Holler.

So my challenge to all of the readers of this blog, take a moment to reflect on the bounties of the month of August and take a moment to count your blessings. Soon, summertime will be but a faded memory and the cold winter months will be meeting us face-to-face.

In the meantime, I will appreciatively swelter in the oppressive heat and live off the fat of the land. I sure do love August.

The Devil's Apron Strings

There never was a shortage on rocks on the Burns property, and in that we were truly “blessed”.

On the Burns Property...my Mom & Dad's house.

Grandmaw Mary used to always tell us that the devil broke his apron strings when he walked over Burns property. She’d tell about a great fight between God and the devil. In the days when the world was young, God & the devil each lived in separate caves high up on the North Mountain Rocks, and as in every telling of the epic battle between good and evil, they got into a great rock fight. The devil would throw rocks at God and God would in turn throw rocks at the devil. According to the legend, when gathering more rocks for an impending battle, the devil broke his apron strings while carrying a giant load of rocks over the Burns property. Just as the devil broke his apron strings and lost his rocks, God attacked and defeated the devil, forever driving him from Germany Valley. I’ve often wondered if this story has deeper meaning, perhaps it has its roots in the early settlement of Germany Valley, back when the Native Americans who knew of the valley referred to it as “the valley of the demons”.

The North Mountain Rocks that tower over the Burns property.

The rocks probably came from the North Mountain rock cliffs that tower over Burns property. Over the eons of time, rocks flaked off and rolled down the mountain onto the property. As soil formed, it just covered the rocks and so on. Regardless of how they got there, I know we’d pick rocks for hours, and no matter how many were picked, there'd always be more.

In our futile attempts to pick all the rocks from our garden, we quickly realized that we’d just have to settle for having the larger rocks being picked out of the garden if we ever hoped to get anything planted. There were huge rock piles all around the garden, proving that past generations had struggled with this very thing.

A view of the North Fork rocks from Germany Valley.

The most notable rock pile in the garden was the one with a huge lilac bush growing out of it. Family lore maintained that during Civil War days, the Yankee army had camped in our garden. When hearing about the approaching Confederate homeguard, a strongbox full of gold that was to be used to pay the soldiers was buried under that rock pile. I remember during the late 1980’s when dozer work was being done on one end of that rock pile, many family members gathered around and cast an ever-watchful eye on the activities. To date, this strongbox has never been found and the family legend lives on.

What's in a Name?

Today I will keep my blog post very brief, I have a funeral to attend..well, tonight is the wake and tomorrow is the funeral. My wife's uncle Ray passed away on this past Sunday. He was a good man and lived a good life. Uncle Ray was a quintessential business man, in fact, when my wife Shirley and I were married, he congratulated us on our "new venture". He will be missed by everyone he leaves behind. Tonight we will travel down to Wyoming County to attend the services.

A hectic next couple of days is expected. So, what about the title of this post. What do I mean by "What's in a Name?" Well, this morning I received a comment by none other than that maven of Appalachian Living, Granny Sue, who suggested I post about my name. You see, Granny Sue treated me to lunch last Friday, it was good to see the good Granny and to catch up a might (and she gave me two pints of jam!!!). We talked of chickens, coffee mugs and stray dogs...you know, the makings of a typical Appalachian conversation. Anyway, Granny Sue introduced me to a friend as "Matt", I corrected her and said "Matthew...please don't let my mother hear you call me Matt". Granny Sue's inquisitive nature kicked into overdrive and I saw that sparkle in her eye, so I had to fill her in on the details.

Now I know, "Matt" is short for Matthew, but all my life (so far) I have been called Matthew, so much so that Matt sounds foreign to me. I remember when I was a kid in school, teachers would call me Matt. I was instructed not to answer them if they called me that name and of course, that earned them a visit from my fightin' mad mother who "sooner" informed them that "my son has a name, a good Bible name, not something that you wipe your feet on". (I'm sure some teachers wanted to say to Mom "Yeah lady, he has a name alright..little SOB", but you don't give lip to an irate mother wielding a ballbat). You have no idea how many times I have been present to hear that tirade over my name. Mom's tirade used to embarrass me, but I've grown to like my name, Matthew does sound unique in a world full of "Matt's", so I'm glad mom stood up for my Matthew-ness. Of course, I've also grown to like my middle name, "Henry" but that is a whole post in and of itself.

So, more about that in future posts. I really like hearing from readers of this blog, so drop me a line sometime, either by leaving a comment on a post or by emailing me privately at kwahaddi@gmail.com

If you like certain stories, let me know, chances are I have a whole sack full just like them. Remember, this blog is still in its infancy, so let me know what works and what doesn't, right now I just post whatever comes to mind on any given day. Hope you all enjoy it.

Grandmaw's Lilac Bush

My great-grandmaw Mary was always a special person to me, and besides my parents, was probably the person who most influenced my life.

Yes, Grandmaw Mary was a remarkable woman. I remember stopping by her house when I was a little boy, she seemed to always have something good to eat and just the right amount of encouragement for a young boy. I remember she made the best sausage links in the whole world, I don't know what she did to them but I do believe I’d give my eyeteeth just to have a taste of one of them now. My grandmaw Mary would often tell me stories of her childhood and the things she did when she was my age.

My great-grandmaw Mary (Kile) Burns

My grandmaw Mary was also a healer of sorts, if you came to her with an illness or “war wound” as she called them, she could usually patch you up in no time flat. If you had poison ivy, she’d tell you to go hunt her up a big piece of milkweed, which she would administer with the best of care. If you had a burn that hurt, she would say a Bible verse over it to take the fire out of it. Also, if you had a really bad cut, she could stop the blood by saying a Bible verse over it too. She knew all the plants on the mountain and what cured what. Like I said, she was an amazing person.

I remember when grandmaw got up in years, she went to spend the winter with her daughter in Baltimore. Grandmaw never did like Baltimore but knew it was probably for the best, winters on the mountain were hard. But first thing every spring, everyone would gather at the old homeplace when grandmaw came back to the mountain. Grandmaw’s only stipulation to her children when they talked her into leaving for the winter was that she had to be back in time to see her lilacs bloom. You see, Grandmaw Mary loved her lilacs, she had a large lilac bush that had grown on the property ever since her and granddaddy Don built the house in the mid 1940’s.

Grandmaw Mary's Lilac Bush

She once told me that she was a lot like that lilac bush, she might not be in the best spot in the world, but every year she saw the spring of the year as a fresh new start…a time for new beginnings. She said the lilac was a special thing and its smell was the sweetest of any blossom, and that it thrived even in the harshest of conditions. I do believe Grandmaw Mary was the happiest when her lilac bush was blooming, she made frequent trips every day to the bush to smell the fragrant blossoms and to taste them. I remember how grandmaw showed me how to taste the sweet nectar of a lilac blossom, it was ever so subtle…even the essence of the lilac was better than honey.

Can you taste the nectar of Grandmaw's lilac bush?

In the early Spring of 1988, the family decided to have some dozer work done in order to put in a bathroom. However, to do this, Grandmaw’s lilac bush would have to go. Since there were other lilac bushes on the property, nobody thought to get a slip of it to start it somewhere else, so the bulldozer shoved the bush over the hill and covered it with rocks and dirt. Everyone was sad to see it go, but we needed a bathroom. A few weeks after the dozer work, word came from Baltimore that grandmaw had fallen on an icy sidewalk and had broken her hip, she would not be returning to the mountain that year. As with many elderly people, a broken hip was essentially a death sentence for grandmaw, she lingered for nearly another year before she passed away, but she never got to return to her home on the mountain. I remember at her funeral, as we went to the graveyard where grandmaw was laid to rest, out from her grave a lilac bush was blooming.

Two years after the dozer work and a year after grandmaw’s passing, I noticed a green sprout of something growing up out of the rocks and debris that was shoved out of the way in order to put in the septic system…it was a lilac bush…Grandmaw’s lilac bush! I was overjoyed to see that it was still alive. I told mom and dad what I had found and they too were happy and said I could move it to the center of our front yard if I could get a sprout of it. I did and transplanted Grandmaw’s lilac bush to a spot in our front yard, where it remains to this day.

Even today in the springtime, I love to visit mom and dad when the lilacs are blooming so I can smell the fragrant blossoms of grandmaw’s lilac bush and taste the lilac nectar. I swear sometimes I can feel Grandmaw standing right there beside me.

Man cannot live on bread alone

With all the kids to feed, Mom made homemade bread every other day when we were growing up on the farm. She baked in the morning so she wouldn't have to be in the hot kitchen during the heat of the day. We didn't have air conditioning in those days (of course, mom and dad still don't).


Above: Some of John's first loaves of bread. Mom showed him how to make it.

I remember one time she made five of the prettiest loaves of bread that you’d ever hope to see, and set them on the table to cool. Well, let’s suffice it to say that I loved the insides of the bread and I just had to get some of it. Being the mischievous child that I was, snuck around when nobody was looking and discreetly tore the heel off of one of the loaves, hollowed out the loaf with my hand and ate the deliciously warm bread inside. I was like a junkie, I couldn’t help myself and before long I had hollowed out every one of the five loaves.

Of course then, just to compound my mischief, I replaced the torn-out crust ends of the bread to where you couldn’t tell what I had done and went about my business for the rest of the day.

Later, when suppertime rolled around, and everyone was gettin' ready to put on the feedbag, someone started to cut the bread. Well, the hollow hardened crusts just crumbled under the knife, loaf after loaf. Mom immediately knew who the culprit was and yelled “Matthew!!” I just grinned and said “Y’all woulda liked that bread, it was soo good.”


Above: Hot Rolls that John made from Mom's bread recipe. Not bad for a 1st try.

I didn’t get in trouble because like I have mentioned in earlier posts, I was the pet pig, and it was after all, just bread. But for some reason, I do remember being watched more closely after that on bread baking day.

A Malodorous Memory

Having grown up in Pendleton County, WV, in the 1980’s, I am perhaps among the last generation of Appalachians’ ever to remember the outhouse of yore in something other than a vision of times past. My family arrived on the mountain where I grew up in the early 1700’s and most of them are still there. In many ways, the world has passed us by several times over and in other ways we are very thankful that it has.

The Burns family outhouse, originally obtained from the old Hopewell School this outhouse served my family for many years until we got an indoor toilet. We then moved the outhouse to its current location at my great-grandmaw's house.

During a recent discussion with a group of Appalachian enthusiasts, nostalgia for the outhouse ran rampant. Speaking for hours on the noble privy and needed efforts to preserve the humble structure, it was obvious that most of these folks had never thought of the outhouse on any terms other than aesthetics. I felt otherwise. My family lacked running water until the spring of 1988, and I was perhaps the only person in this discussion who truly remembers the outhouse for its practical purpose. As such, I hold an entirely different perspective on the topic.

I vividly recall as a child answering the call of nature in the middle of many blistery nights and returning back indoors with both sets of my cheeks rosy red. I don’t ever remember anyone "relaxing" in the family privy during the winter months. There certainly wasn’t anyone who took time to read the local classified ads during his or her morning constitutional. I’m sure these wintry trips to the privy were the basis for the old adage “blue-ass cold”. The summer months were not much better due to the inevitable swarms of biting insects and flies that inhabited the privy. An occasional snake was not unusual. This was the everyday reality of life with a privy. I believe with every fiber of my being that this was the rule, not the exception.

I’ve been in outhouses of all sizes (one-holers, two-holers and even a three-holer at one point), and they were all pretty much the same regardless of the care given to them. Some were in worse condition than others to be sure, especially the ones that weren’t kept clean and the older ones that brought more fear than relief. My grandparents’ outhouse was so old that the floor gave under my weight when I was still quite young. It would have probably been safer for an adult to slip out into the nearby bushes. My parents outhouse was kept immaculately clean and hydrated lime was put in the hole on a weekly basis to keep down the stench and to prevent it from filling up. Even with the constant cleaning it was still far from pleasant by today’s standards.

The old grainhouse sits beside the current home of the family outhouse. You can kind of make out the outhouse in the middle right hand side of this photo.

This brings me to another recollection sure to spark the memories of anyone who has ever used an outhouse…splinters!! How many times have I imposed upon family members to pull a splinter out of my backside? I can just imagine today’s youth asking a loved one to do that.

Perhaps the one thing that I do miss is all the newspaper and magazine articles that lined the walls of the outhouse, some new and some that were beacons of times long past. It is remarkable the things I still retain today that I learned from reading the outhouse walls.

Lucky for me, by the time I was born my family had already discovered the miracle of toilet paper so I never had to deal with the uncomfortable cob or the obligatory Sears catalog. I guess I “missed out" on any memories dealing with that aspect, although I don’t believe such memories would be fond for anyone who honestly remembers them.

A photo of me, my brother and my Aunt Patsy, taken about 1979.

My wife is always telling people that I am the “oldest” young person that she knows, and my childhood in the 1980’s is more akin to her mother’s childhood from the 1940’s. She finds it odd that a person my age in this day and time can still remember when they first got electricity, a telephone, running water and an indoor toilet. While I miss many things about growing up on the mountain, such as the farm itself, the livestock and all the family close-by, I certainly don’t miss the old outhouse. It is but a dim, malodorous memory in the faded recesses of my mind.

Tales of the Panther

On the farm there were always tales of the panther. You’d hear its screams in the late evening and night, but we learned to live with it.




The above photo appears courtesy of: www.qnet.com/~saddleup/mountainlion.htm

One time Mom and Granddad said they seen the panther leaping through one of the meadows, and they said it was coal black. They said they were in the truck when they saw it, and when they stopped the truck it would stop, and when they would move a little bit, it would move a little. Other people who had seen it said the panther was brown like a paper poke. I’m thinking there was probably more than one of them.

Below is a photo of the farm, where they saw the panther leaping through the field.




The panther could make itself sound like any animal in the woods, it could also scream like a woman in pain, whimper like a baby or slap its tail and make a sound like somebody stacking lumber.

It seemed that panther sightings and the frequency of hearing its mournful screams seemed to increase when a baby was around. My Great-Granny always said that a panther was drawn to a baby’s crying. She told of how when she was little and her family lived at Fiddlers Green, one time when her brother Vern was a baby they saw the big paw of a cat reaching through the logs towards the baby’s crib and it was trying to snatch uncle Vern out of his crib. Granny said that her daddy took off after it with a garden hoe and would no doubt have killed it too if he got ahold of it, but that the panther got away. Granny’s daddy was a very strong man, people still tell stories of my great-great-granddaddy Alfred and how he stopped a charging bull by hitting it in the head with his fist and knocking it out.

Below is a photo of Fiddlers Green, the house my great granny grew up in.




Now that I think of the panther, I remember another story that involved Rob Bennett. This happened when Rob was walking down the lane one night at about 10 O'clock, he was returning home from visiting neighbors. He said that right about where the old cemetery is, he started hearing the loose rocks in the road scuffling around and a light growling noise a few yards behind him. He said he turned around but didn’t see anything because it was a pitch-black night. He said he then started walking again and heard the sound again, and again when he turned back to look, he seen nothing. He said he knew then and there that he was being followed by the panther. He said he just started walking toward home and started singing and waving his arms to make himself look bigger than he really was, he knew better than to run because even as a child, you are taught not to run when being followed by a panther. The old saying went, “When you walk, he walks; when you run, he runs”. Rob said when he got near his house he hollered out to his brother who lived with him to come out with the lantern. He did and Rob walked on into the house but the panther stayed at the edge of the ring of light put off by the lantern. Rob then said that when they looked out at the side window into the yard, there sat the panther a-lookin’ in at them through the window. Rob didn’t have nothing but an old smooth-bore shotgun that would probably have pissed off the old panther more than anything if they tried to shoot it, so they went upstairs and locked the stairs door in case the panther was to break in on them by coming through the window. Such tales as this were pretty common on the mountain.

Every so often on the farm we’d find the carcass of a cow or a sheep that had been an obvious victim of the panther. We all just made sure we didn’t go out of a night unless we had to, although we now know that what is out there in the night is also out there in the daytime.



Above: The Burns Brood

Of course, looking back now I’d pity the panther who tried to take on a Burns kid, we were all twice as mean, three times as wiry and had ten times the grit of any ole panther. It would have been a sorry day for the old panther.