Faith, Folklore, and Friends

It was a different world. The people living in North Alabama in the late thirties lived simply. Working without ceasing, they had little time or opportunity to keep up with world affairs. When they began hearing talk, sometimes weeks old, about fighting in Europe, about a crazed Nazi killing innocent people, they agreed it was awful, terrible, but it had little to do with them. When the news came that the Japanese had bombed the naval fleet at Pearl Harbor in the Pacific, a place as far removed as the moon to them, they wondered what they would hear next, wondered if this evil could reach their sleepy little river town. Roy Robertson, 28 years old, was content with his life on the small farm. He and Mary Elizabeth Sharp were married in 1939, and he and his young wife were building their future, starting their journey together. He had just finished his spring planting when he was drafted in June 1942. He reported to Fort McClellan, Alabama, for his basic training. A strong man w

I found the following in an old book about home remedies, Tommy Scotts Medicine Show . The author is not listed. They are amusing, and who knows, maybe they even work! A Few Little Rules to Keep the Body in Good Shape Fix deeply in mind the grand truth that life power rules the body, and that it alone can cure disease. Life power lives upon air, water and food only; all else is hurtful. Make cleanliness your motto, and watch against filth in both house and grounds. Few starve for food, but many for air. Breathe deeply a hundred times daily. Wear no tight clothing. Above all, ventilate your sleeping room. Beware of gluttony. If the appetite is dull, eat fruit only or eat nothing. Use no fiery condiments, but live chiefly on natural grains, vegetables and fruits. Never ask your stomach to chew your food--employ your teeth. Adorn your table not only with viands (food?), but with flowers and smiles and kindly words. Deformity is not awkwardness only, but danger. A high chest will give fre

On April 17, Hub and I went to Montgomery to the Alabama Book Festival. It was as close to perfect as one can get in this life. Even the weather cooperated; a sweet breeze that blew away the humidity, leaving us with an ideal spring day. There were several stages, and since we can't be in more than one place at once, we had to choose which speakers we wanted to hear. First was Carolyn Haines. A southern writer who can make you feel like you are sitting on the porch of an antebellum mansion in Mississippi, sipping iced tea and talking to ghosts of the past. She has been on my "favorites" list for many years. She's a friend on Facebook, but it was wonderful getting to meet her face to face at last! Ms. Haines was the 2010 recipient of the Harper Lee award. Look for her Bones series. Rick Bragg, who wrote my life, was the next speaker. Even with his 2009 Harper Lee award and his Pulitzer, he has not forgotten his roots, and takes time to tell stories and talk UNA footba

It was the seventies. We lived near Savannah, Tennessee, a small town full of factories. They made uniforms, women's clothing, and shoes. All of the factories are long gone now, moved with NAFTA to places far removed from that sleepy little river town. But in the seventies, the factories hummed with women (and a few men) who didn't need a career, but money to buy groceries. Scraps of fabric left after cutting out the garments were thrown away, or given to employees if they wanted them. Friends and relatives collected them, sometimes filling the trunks of their cars when they finished the day, bone-weary but glad they had made another day, another punch of the time clock that meant more money on Friday. Some didn't sew at all, but having been raised by depression-era parents who threw nothing away, they collected the scraps to share. Sometimes, they gave them to me! It was thought that I wouldn't ever amount to much, because I 'kept my nose in a book'

The moon is not just for romantic evenings. For centuries, people have used the moon phases to determine when to plant their gardens and fields. Our generation is forgetting this; we have planting guides, whole books on gardening, and the weather channel. When I was a child, not so long ago, my parents and their peers always had a Farmer's Almanac that showed the planting dates for different kinds of vegetation. Drug stores and feed stores gave away complimentary calendars at the beginning of the year, showing the proper planting dates at a glance, knowing their name would be prominently displayed all year long. My mother would try to explain it to us; the 'sign' in the legs meant one thing, in the arms meant something else. I never understood it, but she knew it as well as we know our birthdays or Social Security numbers. She planted according to the Moon signs, unless a flood or some other catastrophe prevented it. My daddy, on the other hand, believed in planting when

Violet gathered the things she would need for the day, and with eighteen-month-old baby on one hip and her bundle on the other, she set out walking to her mother’s house half a mile away. The morning was cold but clear, and the fresh air cleansed her lungs of the soot and smoke of the fireplace. She and the baby shared a quilt that had been used just enough to attain that softness that felt like skin. She walked quickly for a woman heavy with a child on her hip and another one growing inside her, watching the feather clouds expanding against the faded blue of January’s sky. These weekly quilting bees were her rescue, her one chance for social interaction and communication. At least ten women would be there, willing to battle the elements for a chance to share joy and pain with a group of peers. Everyone in her group were struggling, each from a farm family that had depleted last year’s crop money by Christmas, with months of winter, planting, and working the fields before there would b

There is nothing like quilting. Creating beauty from scraps is very satisfying. Scraps of fabric that seem insignificant by themselves can be joined with others to make something useful, beautiful, and lasting. Recently, I finished a class where students were taught hand-quilting for a twelve week period. We literally quilted the winter away. The world is now better because there are three more quilts in it. Funding for this class was provided by a grant from the Alabama State Council on the Arts. Thank you!!! Charlotte McDaniel (left) and Nancy Ledgewood work on Tulip Quilt, quilting around each piece. Wanda Robertson works on the Tulip quilt. An antique quilting frame was used to keep the layers together while they were being quilted. Left to right: Wanda Robertson, JoAnn Haeger, Charlotte McDaniel, Nancy Ledgewood works on the Tulip Quilt. An excellent way to spend a cold winter's evening! Left to right: Nancy Ledgewood, Jo Ann Haeger, Wanda Robertson Tools needed for han

Have you ever seen one? Most Southerners born before air-conditioning shut off the world fell asleep to their plaintive cries. They nest on the ground, sleeping during the day. From dusk to dawn, they use their superior vision to find and devour flying insects, repeating their name between bites. They are the stuff of folklore. American Indian legend says their song was a death omen. Their habit of flying near cows and goats in search of insects caused them to be called "milk suckers". My daddy would sit on the porch in the early spring and listen for the first whippoorwill's call. He said that it was safe to plant cotton without fear of frost killing the seedlings after the whippoorwills started singing. Because their breeding habits correspond with certain phases of the moon, he was most likely correct. Somehow, the call makes us lonely, and has become a symbol for melancholy. Hank Williams mentioned the whippoorwill in his song, "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry.&

Never Let You Go is a suspenseful story about a single mother trying to cope while surrounded by problems, both natural and spiritual. Before I read this book, I read a review that compared it to Frank Peretti’s books about spiritual warfare. While there were some similarities, it didn’t really remind me of Peretti’s books. A book this good can certainly stand on its own. The main character, Lexi, has been abandoned by her husband and family. Her daughter is the anchor of her life, and she is determined to make a “normal” home for them, even if it means working two jobs and having very little material comforts. Lexi is an example of how a person can depend on God, even when it seems things are hopeless. I don’t want to spoil the ending for new readers, but be assured her faith in God was her strength when it appeared Lexi would surely fail. I finished this book in one night; there was not a place where I wanted to lay it down. Unfortunately, Lexi’s life parallels many women I k