Mamaw's Yard pt. 2

Mamaw never knew what she had bought us for Christmas. After opening gifts on Christmas morning she’d often say, “Let me see what I got you.” She’d give mom the money for us and trust that mom would get us what we needed. This particular year she’d bought me a pair of American Eagle khaki pants and I was pleased as punch.

Another of our family talents is our penchant to make Christmas last as long as possible. Growing up I always enjoyed this tradition of making the holidays last longer. First of all it gave me more opportunities to wear my new Christmas clothes over the holiday break (hello new khakis!)  But also I loved holding my relatives hostage in Pound at Mamaw’s house, once they all left I’d still be there and I appreciated the company. Therefore, Osborne Christmas dinner is not held until December 26 each year.  

No one gets to sit around waiting on dinner, everyone’s given a job. In the last years of Mamaw’s life she’d encourage me to hone my domesticity around the holidays. For example, the year I got married when she pronounced this would be the year she would let me make the chocolate pies. But in my middle school days the tasks entrusted to me were much simpler though still never anything I looked forward to.

On the third day of Christmas and no doubt thanks to the confidence I possessed in my new pants I was sent to the dairy on the hill to fetch two jars of something I couldn’t be bothered to remember the name of. Chow chow? Kraut? Whatever it was I knew it would not make its way onto my plate.

The back yard is a hillside with 5 little rinky-dink steps on the steepest part. I carefully took the steps up and opened the creepy door to the dairy, ducked my head to enter and pulled the chain so the single light bulb could illuminate the spider webs and mystery jars. I retrieved my treasure swiftly and with jars in both hands headed toward home.  

Although disgusted by their contents I knew that much like pimpin’, cannin’ ain’t easy. So when I missed one of those pathetic little skinny steps and began to fall my priority was securing the jars! Unfortunately, this made a casualty of the Christmas khakis.

The only thing injured was my pride, Christmas dinner was served (complete with the mystery canned goods from 1980) and Mamaw patched the knee of my pants with a stiff piece of fabric that never gave the way the knees of pants should. A sobering reminder of my clumsiness each time I wore them and attempted to sit down.

Even now, grown and with a garden of my own, I’m still a disappointment to her (she is a mountain mamaw after all).  I haven’t learned to use the sewing machine she left me so that I can patch my own clothes. I’ve never mastered pie-making and my canning recipes come from Pinterest. But each time I use my water-bath canner, gather eggs from the chickens or slice a cucumber I’d like to think she notices and is proud. 

Coal & Roots

My roots are defined by two things. Land. Appalachia is land first and foremost. My roots are deep in the mountains of the first frontier. They are buried in the mountain soil which has been overturned each spring and harvested each fall. Though occasionally stirred they are too deep to uproot. The second part of roots is what they twist around under the dirt. People. My roots are knotted, spun ‘round, and tied up with so many mountain people I couldn’t extract them even if I wanted to.

But you can’t untangle the two. The people would not have survived here without the land. The land breathed life into the people and sustained them. The people of Appalachia have always relied on this land. Logged it. Plowed it. Grazed it. Planted it. Overturned it only to do it all again the next year. This is how the land sustained them. But amidst all this planting and growing our people found something to change the relationship between land and people. Black gold. King coal. And upon its discovery the mutual respect ended. The land had provided for the people in exchange for a fallow year. A chance to catch it’s breath for the promise of another bounty in a couple of years. But no more. The occasional Sabbath ended.

Raped. Plundered and pillaged. Some mountains taken to within an inch of their lives only to put a golf course on top of what used to be a peak and in the words of John Prine  “they wrote it all down as the progress of man.” This threat to our roots came from outsiders, from those who didn’t understand us enough to respect us only enough to manipulate us.

Boom and bust. We lived and died with the price of coal. Layoffs and mine falls. Matewan to Upper Big Branch. And when papaw was on strike UMWA would make sure mommy got her lunch for free. And now, we’ve gone from fighting against the man to fighting tooth and nail to defend him. Arch & Alpha have fed our families so long we’ve forgotten how to do it ourselves.

I can’t extract my roots from coal any more than I can put the top back on Red Onion mountain. But I can tell you it does not define us. We are so much more than “keeping the lights on.” We are a rich people, loyal to a fault, and hard-working as the day is long if you only give us a chance. Our roots are people and land and it’s high time we remember what this land has given us and start to give back to it. It’s sustained us long enough. We must find a way to remain here and sustain ourselves. 

I am apple butter.

I am apple butter.

I take planning and dedication.

My process is lengthy. I am slow-burning and hot to the touch. And I require constant attention and affection.

I am of the mountains. I belong with the hill people, those who appreciate the process. The togetherness. The ones who have biscuits and coffee no matter the time of day. I belong with those who bring me out of the dairy house for family, not just any old person who doesn’t understand the work that has gone into me. I am formed by old timers telling stories over me, praying over me and dedicating days to me

I started so humble-grown on a tree with so many just like me. Then I was taken from all I’ve ever known and while my neighbors got to stay, I’ve been mixed up with other kinds.  

Cooked down until I’m unrecognizable to those I spent my formative years with, taking on flavors of my new neighbors and those I’ll grow old with. I become something they’ll see as unnatural-away from my roots & limbs.

I keep well, for the long-haul: loyal and steady. But I must be canned quickly-I’ve required a lot of sugar to sweeten me up. But that’s apple butter and that’s me. I’m not quite sweet though it seems I should be.

The churning is constant. The turning over and movement from one spot to the other but always in the kettle, What do I want? Who will I be? Where do I want to live? What will my life turn out to be?

I like to be surrounded by people, in theory, but when it comes down to it one at a time is all I can handle. I am heritage, roots and Appalachia. I am fall foliage, sweaters and family gatherings, long and tedious. Fun at first but I quickly turn into a lot of work. More work than I’ll be worth later.

I’m messy and I don’t go easily from the fire. The work never stops until you’ve put me under pressure and shut me up, finally.  Enclosed with thick, black cauldron walls to the cool home of a jar-glass walled and exposed.

I am meant for breakfast with biscuits. Scratch made. More work. And isn’t that just like me? The work never ends. I can’t stand alone, I have to go along with something else.

Cans. Jars. Lids. Rims. Labels. Time. Shelf-space. I wait impatiently surrounded by jars that look like the new me. Looking for our turn: to show the unique flavors I have to offer.

Although I may look like it, I’m not like the others. I want you to like me just a bit more. To brag on me to your relatives and friends, “Now that’s a good jar of apple butter,” you’ll say and they’ll know what you mean, as compared to the others. And I’ll be secretly thrilled.

Maybe I’ll be that batch. The one. The batch they’ll remember each year as they count the hours-stirring when they say “I hope this years is as good as 1989s, now that was good apple butter.”

You’ll run out of me before next year. There’s never enough of me and I won’t make it till next October. So you’ll be left wanting more. But that’s the appeal, if I was around all the time, you’d take me for granted-I wouldn’t be special anymore. I’m not just any old jelly that’s easy to come by-I’m rare. 

Mountain Mamaws

Mountain mamaws do a lot of things but one thing they won't do is dote on you. You've gotta have tough skin around mamaw. She is liable to tell you "you're gettin' kinda wide" or  "your hair looks like some of them people down at Bingo."


Mamaw doesn't know the meaning of (nor allow the use of) the word "bored" and her hands never idle between the cannin', crochetin', quiltin', picklin', plantin', and porch sweepin'. She has no time for foolishness and your book-readin' doesn't count as being busy. What busy means is your hands are a-movin'. At the very least you could be playin' puzzle but better still you'd be knittin a pot-holder or making that chocolate pie.


Her religious beliefs are more akin to old wives tales than anything she heard from some preacher while sittin in a hard-backed pew. It's simply bout what's practical. You know like the danger of canning kraut during your time of the month. That's something you can live by, you have to can that shit every year. And she is washed in the blood but Jesus ain't gonna dig the potatoes or string beans so she stays home on Sundays to do what Jesus won't.


Mountain Mamaws have gotten the short end of the stick from the word go. They are the loyal wives of drunk husbands who have spent their marriage washing coal dust out with the Wringer washing machine on the front porch. She don't have time to think about arthritis or whether her knobby, gnarled fingers are afflicted with it. Mamaw doesn't make the money but she sure as hell hid it when it came in the door else it would've been squandered, drank, gambled and pissed away by Papaw.


Mamaw is a martyr. It's all she knows and she's earned it. She's raised eleven children and a husband who was still a boy when they drove to the preacher's house in Coeburn and he called them "man and wife."


And when the black lung settlement finally comes, she'll move out of the holler and into town. She'll quit keepin' a garden (save for a few cucumbers) because for the first time in her life she don't have to. But don't for one second think she doesn't expect you to raise one.


You know Mamaw will slice you up one of them cucumbers anytime you ask and she'll run you outta the house stokin' up the wood stove in April to make sure ain't nobody never cold. But Mamaw is still a hard woman. The words "I love you" don't come naturally to her. She shows her love through her works.


There aren't many mountain mamaws left. But they live on in our mamas and the way they struggle to show affection or know when to take a rest. Being raised by a mountain mamaw leaves you with  grit and gumption but what it won't leave you with is a tender heart.








These are broad descriptions of several different mamaws I've known. Mostly of Beulah and Marie but also of Shelby, Peggy, Pearlie, Gracie, Georgie, Sally, Eunice, Minnie Sue and countless others.

Let's Talk About Heritage

My hometown has a (hmm... what's the word festival, street fair, gathering... any of those will work) every year on Memorial Weekend and it's called Heritage Days. At some point though I think my brother called it "hergtige" (like hedge but with a r and only 2 syllables) so when I think of this word and go to say it, it usually comes out wrong.

I digress. I've been thinking a lot about heritage lately for some reason. And in pondering on it I recently connected the dots to realize how deep my roots are here in Virginia. From at least 3 generations back (all of my great grandparents) were from Virginia. Those are deep roots folks. No wonder it's hard to imagine leaving sweet Virginia.

The balance between hanging on and letting go is difficult in any situation but in my case it has been hardest in maintaining my roots. Clearly my accent has not left me and many have told me it's gotten worse. And I take much pride in my home but what I don't understand is the shame some people feel. I am so proud of where I come from and the self-made people there.

In researching Appalachia it's been so nice to read positive views of the Appalachian people rather than the stereotypes. In my experience, it's the Appalachian people themselves that tend to speak more frequently of the locals regarding the typical stereotypes like welfare abuse, hillbilliness (new word alert) and ignorance. And while there's no shortage of those things in the world, certainly none of them are exclusive to Appalachia. And why would any of us want to encourage those stereotypes (anybody been watching Buckwild?? shame on you!)

I'm not someone to embrace the stereotypes and I will direct you to a post from forever ago about mountain intellectuals. I know plenty of them, people without formal education who know a lot more than most professors I've had. My mother is the youngest of 11 and was raised in a household where her mother made their clothes and her daddy worked in the mines. My daddy was raised by the hardest working woman I know and a man who preferred working for himself rather than for the man. Thank God for those roots. I carry them with me everyday.

In thinking of all this over the past weeks my mom's sister posted some old pictures of their family through the years and I wanted to share. After going "home" this weekend I will try to post some of my dad's family if I can get my hands on some. Hope you enjoy them and that some of them speak to you:

 

Christmas

My sweet papaw, I miss him so

My mamaw

The swoop bangs belong to my naked little mommy



This could potentially be my favorite picture of all time.

3 of my mom's sisters

 

 



Would love to hear about your heritage fellow bloggers. Take pride in it, it's made you who you are.