Faith, Folklore, and Friends

Last week, I wrote about settin' up with the dead. Today, the subject is settin' up with the sick, which should have come first. Fortunately, as far as I know, this blog is not being graded, so I guess that's okay. Our world of quiet, sanitary hospitals has come a long way. In my childhood, if anyone went to the hospital, we knew they were in extremely serious condition. Doctor visits were mostly limited to obviously broken bones and injuries that wouldn't stop bleeding. It seems unbelievable now, but I have known people who sewed up their own wounds with a sewing needle and quilting thread. I have known people whose limbs healed improperly because they were set at home, sometimes causing a lifelong limp or disability. Just like wakes, settin' up with the sick was a community event. The purpose was to help the sick and their family, but it was usually just an excuse for visiting. Families would help with feeding the livestock and getting meals together, and then the

And it came to pass. . . .

It is fall--time for harvest! Then saith he unto his disciples, The harvest truly is plenteous, but the labourers are few; Pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he will send forth labourers into his harvest. Matthew 9:37-38 (KJV) Now he who supplies seed to the sower and bread for food will also supply and increase your store of seed and will enlarge the harvest of your righteousness. 2 Corinthians 9:10 (NIV) Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. Galatians 6:9 (NIV)

From earliest recorded history, every society has had their rituals for burying the dead. From anointing the body with oils and herbs to mummifying it, these rituals were meant to honor and sometimes preserve the departed, and to provide a venue where the living could remember and show respect to the departed. Back in the day in West Tennessee, comfortable air-conditioned funeral parlors were for the genteel town folk. People in the country took care of their own, washing and preparing the body, then laying the deceased out for the wake. Somewhere in the fifties, laws were enacted that required embalming the dead. After that, the body would be taken to town for the embalming and dressing process, then returned home to lie in state in the same living room where they had played and rested and taken care of business. Friends and family would arrive early with fried chicken and apple pies and bowls of vegetables. They would ask if there was anything they could do, but there usually wasn

He who works his land will have abundant food, but the one who chases fantasies will have his fill of poverty. Proverbs 28:19

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil: my cup runneth over. Psalms 23:6

They are ripe now. The plump, purple berries that insure Phytolacca Americana will continue to grow as long as the Earth spins are ripe. I wrote about the young plants here: Folklife Fridays: Poke Salet. As children, we would have been excited that our paint was ready and the search for long idle brushes would be on. After a few hours of painting, our monochromatic masterpieces would emerge, the same color as our hands and whatever we were wearing. In the long gone days when cotton was 'king', we would have boldly splayed our names across the top of our pick sacks to stop any confusion about which was whose. By season's end, the names would be faded, but by that time, everyone knew their pick sacks by the way that fit around our neck and shoulders, our own being the only one that had molded to the shape of our bodies in an almost comfortable way. Local country wisdom says that anything animals eat is safe for humans, wisdom born of days when our fathers lived off the land

Napoleon Bonaparte said: "A picture is worth a thousand words."

Beautiful September! You bring us nights with raised windows, snuggling under quilts in the wee hours. You mark the time for sweet potatoes and cotton and corn harvested. You remind the hummingbirds that they will have to migrate soon, over a thousand miles to places with warm winters. They know they will have to be fat for the trip, so they fight for the feeders, flashing their ruby throats for our amusement. You sober us with the knowing--summer, the time for growing and gathering, for swimming and playing, for travel and iced tea, no matter how wonderful or fruitful it has been--summer always ends. September. So beautiful, you strengthen us during the transition; help us face the winter that will surely come. To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted. Ecclesiastes 3:1-2

She had beautiful feet. Her lot in life was simple. She embraced it, gave it all she had. A farm wife who never had a real "job", who never earned any money of her own. Her house was unadorned, basic furnishing made by her man. Her floors, always clean, were covered with the cheap linoleum that drummers brought once a year. Her house was filled with laughter, comfort. One always felt welcome entering there, gratified. Ratty-haired little children who came to her house were offered kindness and gentleness, something they rarely saw. She told them about the Lord, that He loved them, that they were important to Him. Some of the seeds she sowed fell away, were lost. Others struggled with the knowledge. Some fell in love with the Lord and served Him with all their heart, reproducing from the seed she had sown many years before. No make-up, her gray hair always in a bun, a tad overweight. She would not have been picked out of the crowd for her physical