Shopping [CCR]

Shopping now means regular trips to those big box stores. Even if I wanted to visit the local grocer there isn’t many left in my area, and I live in the rural area of my county. So I make my regular trips to the city to get our groceries, which is more often than I desire since I have two teenage boys in the house. My last trip to the overgrown grocery store provided a rather peculiar site. The front area of the store was cordoned off with yellow tape as if some crime were committed. I grabbed by grocery cart and continued about my business while I pondered the potential crime scene out front.

Grocery carts haven’t changed much over the years other than a transition to mostly plastic parts. It shouldn’t shock us to see the plastic as our cars have made the same transition. They still fold out and provide a fancy seat for youngsters or you can flip up a cover over the leg holes. But now the cover is drenched in advertisements.

I wheel my cart around the grocery store sporting the usual squeaky wheel or maybe the often felt “bump, bump, bump.” You push the cart around and fill it with your needs and then proceed to the front of the store while they tally your goods. I did notice the cost of that basket of groceries has increased over the years while the size of the basket hasn’t really changed.

Gone are the days when you pulled up to the Davis’s store out at Mountain Springs and were greeted by name. I don’t remember that little store having those grocery carts. You simply asked for slices of cheese and they gladly helped you find whatever you needed. You didn’t spend time hunting through the store for some person in a colored vest who may need to speak on a radio and help you wade through the aisles of goods. I really don’t remember needing all those many aisles of goods thirty years ago.

At the checkout today the clerk usually has some kind words and that may be your first exchange of friendship since you entered the store. That little machine in front of the clerk asks if the clerk greeted you. I usually ignore it as I don’t need a machine teaching me manners. Unless you filled that cart to the top the clerk is expected to handle all your needs while they sling your goods into plastic bags rather than the big grocery sacks of yesteryear. At least she has those fancy bar codes to help speed the process along. I can never remember the correct price displayed on the shelf. If you don’t have a quick eye you can never be sure what that computer is saying you owe.

Finally, after getting my cart full of groceries I realize why the yellow tape is wrapped around the front of the store. The store has an awning where they like to display flowers. This awning, with a concrete walk, provides perfect cover to load your groceries in the rain. We are forbidden from using that awning to protect us from the elements. Now I seem to remember each grocery cart once had its own “license plate,” a number with a removable tag sporting the same number. You carried the tag with you to the car. In the car you pull up to the awning and a clerk matches your tag to the cart waiting with your groceries and they helped you fill your vehicle with your groceries.

Today I sloshed past the yellow tape through the rain and loaded my minivan with the wet plastic bags praying one doesn’t spill my goods on the ground. It is interesting that we were willing to take such deep discounts just to forego that extra level of service. It is a shame I just don’t really realize those discounts when I swipe my fancy little card and the computer magically drains my bank account. I really miss that little store in Mountain Springs that simply had all I needed and nothing more.

The Evening Ritual [CCR]

The aged man sat gently in his old wooden rocking chair using both his canes to balance himself. The pillows barely cushioned his arched back as he positioned himself for an evening ritual. His grandchildren lay on the floor by the fireplace careful to distance themselves from the popping embers that intermittently project themselves to gently glow and dim on the hearth.

The elderly man reaches beside him for the book with tattered pages and a soft bind displaying its years of service. He thumbs through the pages looking for the right place that satisfies the yearnings of his soul. Alas his fingers, crumpled with age and the pain of arthritis, reach the words that express his feelings. He adjusts his bifocals carefully such that the shapes show clearly in the dim lamplight.

The children adjust themselves so they may listen in amazement as their grandfather finds the sounds of the notes before him. He sings the notes in rhythm, “Doe fa ray ray me fa doe.” The children stare closely as the old man studies the page and rubs the gray whiskers from the evening shadow that has fell on his wrinkled face. Once he has sung a verse of notes and discerned the tune he quietly adds the words. It seems he can almost close his eyes and sing the song as if he had sung them many times over, which he has. The gentle gospel melody almost lulls the children to sleep.

After a couple of songs and maybe a moment of reading from the worn Bible laying upon the mantle the elder looks to the little eyes watching in amazement. They woke from their gentle hypnosis as if anticipating something new. He thinks for a moment and then the smile upon his thin lips seems to reflect his joy in sharing. And he begins.

Most of his stories told by the glowing fire would be hard for a young mind to envision if it weren’t for the enthusiasm. He told of the time he walked all the way from Mountain Springs to Tuscumbia to take a month’s earnings and purchase something special for his family back home. Now the story may seem bland to some at first. But then he begins telling of the walk home after dark. Envision a day when there was little light and who knows who you might meet on the seldom traveled wagon path. Other stories told of his childhood adventures with names some easily recognize today, such as Denton, Hester, McCullough, and many others.

As the story is told sleepiness finds its way back to the young adventurers who lay near the fireplace. The story ends and the children wander back to their bed snuggling deep under the pile of homemade quilts to dream about the stories they heard. The old man reaches for his two canes to help pull him up. His back has stiffened slightly in the chair, but the smile on the little ones’ faces made it worth his time. He too must crawl beneath the covers. Tomorrow a house full of grandchildren will fulfill his day and rekindle his childhood memories when he too lay by the fire to hear stories from years gone by.

Of course the stories were told by my own Granddaddy Daily and those sleepyheads by the fireplace were my sister and me. People of his generation didn’t depend on electronic gadgetry to bring entertainment to their evenings. The stories told by the crackling fire nurtured vivid imaginations and brought much excitement to those who listened. Today this tradition lives only in story telling clubs or contests and is no longer celebrated by the fireplace. Such is a loss to our own children.

A Road Not Taken [CCR]

After growing up in rural Colbert County it is only reasonable to assume I would tend to locate in rural areas. With my career it is not always easy to live in a rural area and through the years I have made exceptions. Not this time. I actually live just at the edge of the Nashville Metropolitan Area on what one may consider a small farm. Each morning I make my way up US Highway 231 to work. But I usually deviate from the beaten path to wind along a back road and find the edge of what many consider civilization.

For me a country road is preferable to any wide multilane slab of pavement. A true country road has trees that extend their reach across the road forming a tunneling shady lane. My primary back road to work leads across a small one way bridge formed from a single slab of concrete. While not the luxurious memory of the wooden one lane bridges from my childhood, it does maintain the serenity of the drive. If I must wait for an oncoming vehicle taking its turn at the crossing I can quietly enjoy the view extending up and down the creek. I can only wonder at the number of fish who may be returning that stare and my mind momentarily drifts away from the upcoming day’s work.

An alternate route takes me along a path even more reminiscent of my younger days. This route sports a gravel road that beckons for some attention after years of traffic. It slowly slopes downward towards the fast flowing creek to a bed of rock where no bridge lies in my path. I slowly ford the creek as my Jeep sloshes along through the water. To the north is a rather large rock and earthen dam that may have once supplied the local grist mill, although no verifiable remnant is seen. As I climb the opposite slope I watch a flock of turkeys meander across the road and see several horses grazing beyond the trees in the nearby pasture.

As a child in rural Colbert County I remember many similar roads, some more traveled than others. In my younger days it seems we always anticipated an upgrade, when asphalt would overtake the yellow gravel and dirt combinations. Time progressed and soon the entire road to Mountain Springs sported a wide, paved right of way. Not long after that change you could no longer find a gravel path around the Riverton Rose Trail. Transportation advanced as older homes faded into history and new, modern housing took their place along these routes. I understand the advantages to advancement for our economy, but I sometimes mourn the loss as well.

Gone are the days when you traveled a little slower as to not stir the dust or sling the gravel. The gentle drive gave time to recognize the passing neighbor and you may even stop a moment for conversation, a Southern tradition. On the quite back roads to my office these golden nuggets of memory have bypassed the constructive wheels of modernization. One day they may fall victim to asphalt and urbanization, but for now they grant me solitude and a moment of peace before the rush of another workday.

Anticipation [CCR]

As we approach February we prepare ourselves for winter’s last stand and we begin our search on the horizon for the first signs of spring. Mom always said to never wish your life away, but I reckon there is nothing wrong with anticipation. I spent an entire day this past weekend honing that anticipation by working on the fence again. I am determined to have the lower pasture ready for occupation by the time spring breaks through the damp winter soil.

Some of my most pleasant memories of spring’s approach are Grandmother Smith’s tulips. Their driveway split as you approached the house. One drive entered the front yard while the other circled to the back of the house. Right past that split in the road was the habitat of one of the most memorable ensemble of tulips. The colors varied from light pastels to bright vivid colors that capture your attention. I’m not sure how much time Grandmother spent cultivating these forecasters of warmer weather, but they returned faithfully each year.

The tulips seemed to remain in bloom for us until the passage of Easter. The color variations always made a wonderful location to hide the Easter eggs. It didn’t take long for me to figure out to make my first hunting pass by the tulips where a pastel or brightly colored egg lay in the camouflage of the tulip’s blooms. It would almost seem that Easter eggs adopted their own colorful tradition from the colorful variations of the tulips. The theory might hold true if it weren’t for some of the color combinations I created by dipping the eggs in various pools of brilliant liquid.

In my picture albums I find some of the grandchildren standing near the tulips. I suppose the tulips subconsciously made a great photographic background for I never remember anyone requesting somebody stand in front of the tulips. But nonetheless they are documented in my picture collection.

Mom and Dad plan a trip to Holland to see the tulips growing in their native environment. I have seen pictures of the beautiful flower groves lying beneath the lazy turning windmills. They will have a wonderful trip seeing the annual tradition revive itself again in Nature’s cycle. Somehow I don’t believe the experience could replace the memory of Grandmother’s tulips.

Spring passed and the tulips became dormant again waiting for another year. The flowers of summer then reigned supreme. The spot where Grandmother’s tulips grew became the lawn mower’s dominion until another years passed. The smell of fresh cut grass, hydrangeas, and honeysuckle replaced the sweet smell of the tulip. But another consecutive year of the tulip has made an indelible impression in my memories of home.

A Southern Invasion [CCR]

As I sit to write a snowfall attempted to invade the South last night. The newscasters say Atlanta and the Carolinas took a hit. I stepped outside this morning expecting a disaster and found my yard damp and enough ice on the deck to make the cat shake her foot. But it was peaceful. Yet the weatherman predicts another battle this weekend. By the time my friends read my story the battle will be over and I hope we have a victory, meaning we avoided anything major.

The boys rose out of bed running to hear the news. Was school canceled? Maybe it was delayed. The routine in Ohio meant we checked the school status every morning. I informed the boys that we had returned home and their chances of good news, in their opinion, was dramatically less than it was last year. As a child we were always ready to procrastinate and take an extra school day before summer break to have a day off now. How lucky we are, for only a generation older than me had their breaks in the fall and spring so they could work in the field. Not that we didn’t work, but our schedules did not revolve around that work.

Granted our area has had its fair share of snow in years past. But while a Southern snowfall may occur, it quickly retreats and life returns to normal. And in the same respect we occasionally see ice, more often than snow. Winter does attempt to inflect its damage upon us but we always seem able to win the war. It is the lack of battle intensity that makes our way of life attractive. We do, at times, get to experience the exuberance of the white fluffy groundcover. We run into the flakes catching the larger ones on our tongues just to gather a taste of winter. Even as late as the college years I lay on a snowy hillside and made snow angels with a close friend.

Does living in our area deprive our children of a unique experience? Only if you have a strong desire to dig your way through snow. I will admit winter brings its own unique highlights to our scenic beauty. When the temperature dips below freezing I see a scene from picturesque postcards while driving to work. The little creek has trees dipping down to touch the reflective still water. The limbs dipping into water sport a frosty coating that isn’t clear ice, but rather snowy white as if sprayed on. Other sticks reach upward from the water with the same covering.

Winter does bring some relief to our area. We do want enough frost to kill at least some of the pesky bugs waiting in the winter hideaways to pester us throughout the summer. And I know that by the middle of August I’ll reflect on these scenes of winter when the hot sweltering sun is hanging midway through its daily journey across the sky. I’ll take our touch of winter to refresh my soul and provide another wonderful reason to love my home.

Dinner [CCR]

As the family sits around the dinner table we are able to once again share stories, bond, and remember all the good things about being a family. I called a truce. The television is silent and the video games take a break. This is time to remember the love bond we all share.

Today’s families seem to find a special need or require a special effort to build that bond at the dinner table. In this world of high speed commotion combining an unlimited number of activities, most everyone holding down a job to make ends meet, and everyone owning some type of transportation, making a group gathering almost impossible. But many families find that time. And for them a special tradition formed through the years of our ancestry will once again perform its magical bond upon us.

Growing up in Alabama presented almost as many obstacles as we see today. In our earlier years Mom was attending college, Dad was working shift work, and Susan and I had all the school activities. Yet each evening found us sitting down at the dinner table, sharing a thankful blessing for our meal, and enjoying both the conversation and what our joint efforts had prepared. Granted Mom did most of the cooking, but working in the garden and gathering the ingredients was a family activity.

We had some food from the grocery store which became a lifesaver as Mom’s responsibilities grew when teaching and attending school simultaneously. But we still managed to maintain a good portion of home grown meals and we still spent that time set aside most evenings for family bonding. Here we heard stories of Dad’s days at work or Mom’s challenges at school. It seems I knew more about the people at the chemical plant than most people might imagine, even if I didn’t know some of the faces. It was a time to relieve a little stress while sitting amongst those who care no matter what changes in life.

The blessing had interesting connotations. While it didn’t vary much through the years, Dad always asked a blessing on the family. If we had visitors he never failed to ask a blessing upon their family as well. And, in Southern tradition, visitors were always welcome at our dinner table. Many times visitors included extended family members that included aunts, uncles, and cousins. But Mom and Dad never excluded others who might enjoy a meal with the family.

It was especially important to share an ice cold glass of tea with people who may be helping us with special work around the house or maybe someone who had just dropped by to say hello. I can remember many times Mom wrapping up a meal for someone to take home and share with their family. Maybe it was a lesson learned from church, but more likely it was that built-in Southern obligation passed through the ages from one family to the next.

Today family meals haven’t changed much. At our house we ask the blessing upon the meal. When visiting Mom and Dad it almost seems a little awkward when Dad asks a blessing upon those visiting for once again I have come home. Other than that one phrase little has changed. A big pitcher of cold tea sits on the table along with a whole cake of corn bread and other vegetables to share. As Mom and Dad have retired and the home place requires a little more attention, there still seems to be a fair share of home vegetables around the table.

Take a moment tonight to remove all the distractions and sit with whoever may share a meal with you. At the time of that meal they are your family. Enjoy a laugh, contribute a story, and if possible, relieve a little of the days stress. Maybe your soul will join your appetite in being filled with a little Southern hospitality.

Fencing [CCR]

The cool breeze of a Southern winter blows across the lower pasture as I finish working on the fence for the day. The dogs are challenging each other for my attention and it is simply amazing how the Miniature Schnauzer holds up to the St. Bernard. As I look around the pasture I can’t help but feel I have cheated. Today I simply replaced a few posts and secured the net wire. Someone put in a lot of effort building this fence.

Dad spent many hours teaching me how to build a fence. We didn’t have the fancy augers to drill holes nor the metal posts to drive into the ground. I can still see the sweat on his forehead as he drove the posthole diggers into the ground. I only dreamed of the day when I could match his skill.

Dad would find good cedar heartwood which provided the stable support for our fencing. He held the axe firmly as he trimmed away any remaining bark. As we dropped the post into the hole Dad would eye the post to make sure it stood straight and sure. Periodically we included cross bracing in preparation for mounting the wire. We took the back side of our hoe handles and compressed the fresh dirt tightly against each post.

After all the posts stood with firm support it came time to string the fencing. We didn’t have the farm supply store with fancy fencing tools at our beckon. We simply used crowbars on barbwire fencing while Dad built a rig to compress and stretch net wire fencing along our newly placed posts.

Dad and I didn’t build many fences, but much of the fencing we put in place stands today. For many years it helped contain our cows, ponies, sheep, and goats that we raised. Dad taught me everything I know about maintaining fencing and it helped me complete my work today.

Granddaddy Daily exposed us to an earlier generation of fencing. His front yard was partially contained with split-rail fencing. Granddaddy was demonstrating earlier techniques which are rarely seen today. I can only imagine the effort into locating enough heartwood and properly placing each log in the fencing arrangement.

The sun is setting now and the dogs have tired of their play. I grab my tools and begin my trek through the pasture towards the barn. I turn to look at the work I completed today and feel satisfaction. But that satisfaction isn’t exclusive to my day’s work, but to years of work with Dad back home in those Alabama pastures. I can only hope that some day my children will look upon these pastures and share similar pleasurable memories as the sun’s orange glow dips below the horizon.

Fireplace Warmth [CCR]

Winter’s chill is upon us and has reached down to Tennessee and Alabama to give us a taste. As I stepped out the back door this morning I could see a glimmer of ice just to remind me of what could be happening. The newspaper tells me my home of last year in Ohio is plummeted in snow. I guess I should be thankful I didn’t actually invest in that mechanized snow blower.

Today many people enjoy the warmth of their fireplace as they look out the window and watch the winter wind cast its chill on anyone who dare confront it. They reach to an electronic gadget and push a few buttons. Soon the heat is blasting again. The unlucky few who do so may be missing out on more than they think. Yes, they avoid the chores of hauling the wood to the fireplace or even emptying the soot. But why do you think some of those fancy restaurants still burn wood?

When I step outside I can still catch a whiff of the lucky few who have placed a hickory log upon the fire. The fluffy smoke billows from the chimney and spreads its cheerful fragrance upon the neighborhood. Maybe you consider that smell an annoyance. For me it symbolizes warmth in a season of frost.

Dad and I spent much of the summer and most of the fall weekends gathering wood for the winter. As a boy it seemed more of a chore than a pleasure. We loaded the wood high upon the old truck and carried it home where it some would dry for the future season while the larger green logs might become the main stabilizer for an overnight flame.

Many times Mom would push a pot of beans over the blazing fire on the rack Dad had made to hold the iron pot. A few chunks of ham might give the beans some flavor which added with the wood smell to memorialize a scent of home. Mom would place an iron skillet of cornbread in the oven after the beans had simmered most of the day. It might even be after Dad and I returned with a load of wood that we sat down at the dinner table to a large plate of beans, cornbread, and Southern sweet tea.

The years bring change and today even Mom and Dad’s fireplace no longer sports the smell of hickory. The glowing embers have been replaced with the high efficiency of propane gas. I never knew I would miss those trips to the woods with Dad. But tonight Cindy prepared a large pot of beans with chunks of ham. She brought a large skillet of cornbread to the table. The doctor has forbid caffeine so water must substitute for the luxury of tea. I just can’t stand the thought of any substitute for true Southern sweet tea. But nobody can stop the memories.

So I sit to a plate of beans and cornbread, watching the cold wind blow its icy best upon our yard. The dogs have found their warm place in the barn while the cat snuggles in some unseen corner. In the distance I can see an old farmhouse where the smoke gently curls up and disappears into the evening sky. It is nice to be home.

Christmas Cheer [CCR]

The holidays are upon us and with it comes a time of giving. Most of us with children or grandchildren are almost more excited than the children themselves. Many may think the holidays have become too commercialized, and I must agree in some manner. But giving the matter some thought reminds me that while the holidays give something to everyone, the greatest gift to us are the children. Just as one small child represented the entire future of Christianity, children represent our future and in that respect we celebrate.

Every year it was almost impossible to wait to open gifts, whether at home or at one of my grandparents’ homes. We were always eager to see what might be wrapped and couldn’t wait to shred the paper and discover its secret. For most children it didn’t matter if the secret were big or small, the whole idea of receiving something sufficed.

At Grandmother Smith’s house we often drew numbers or names to exchange gifts among the grandchildren. And my grandparents often placed their own gift under the sparkling magical tree. I guess we didn’t realize the parents were watching us more than looking for their own gifts. It would be years later before I understood what they saw in those celebrations.

On one magical Christmas Grandmother and Granddaddy Smith gave us cameras. But these were not ordinary cameras. They were Micky Mouse cameras. The nose was the lens and the ear was the trigger. I haven’t seen a camera with as much charisma since then. I doubt, with today’s electronics craze, I ever will. It bore so deep into my memory that my cousin Pam and I discuss our cameras at every family gathering with the Thanksgiving gathering this year being no exception.

Each year we gathered the family grew a little more and so did the celebration. By the time I reached my teen years the grandchildren were numerous and the older grandchildren brought guests. I guess the interest in the opposite sex began the initial downfall to the childhood magic. But it brought the second celebration of Christmas, the fellowship of family.

By the time we reached adulthood we realized the need to celebrate another year together. In these times we look at the past and remember the struggles and victories together while anticipating the future. Stories are swapped while the younger children eagerly anticipate the moment to rip open the gifts.

Today we have children of our own and we now watch them fervently open their prizes while we cherish those memories being made. It reminds each of us of the three Magi in the traditional Christmas story, who bring their own gifts to celebrate their future. They looked upon a small child and saw a great future that will be celebrated for all future generations.

It is my wish that each of you have a wonderful holiday season while celebrating your gift of life by bringing light to the winter solstice. No matter how you celebrate look at the true magic of the future in your children. Give them the best gift you can, memories that will carry them through many seasons into our own future and for generations to come.

Rocking Chairs and Southern Porches

We dropped by the big box building supplies store last week to pick up provisions for some work at Dad’s house. On the way out we paused a moment to examine some rocking chairs fastened firmly to the building with a steel cable. I sat a moment and rocked in the chair while we debated their worth for our new front porch. Right now we have our porch furniture we purchased in North Carolina before moving to Ohio. As good as those chairs are, they don’t match up to a good old fashioned rocking chair on a Southern porch.

Granddaddy Daily’s porch had an assortment of rocking chairs and swings. The porch on the Southern country home was as long as the house itself. After all, the porch was the primary gathering point after the evening meal and before bedtime. At the end of the porch was a long swing suspended by chains. The grandchildren, including me, seemed to take pride in finding how high we could take the swing up in the air. But little did I know it was the rocking chairs that would mean more to me in later years. Some of those chairs were handed down through generations and carry much sentimental value today.

Granddaddy Smith’s porch was a little different, but the furniture was just as exciting for grandchildren. Granddaddy Smith had a metal glider that moved as you sat in the summer breeze watching the vehicles pass on the road across the cotton patch. In the middle of the front yard was a tree with many limbs, perfect for climbing. As young children we crawled all over that tree. In late fall, with the trees bare of leaves, you could look across Mr. Harris’s pasture from the porch and see the mighty Tennessee River.

Mom and Dad have extended their porch since I was a child. Dad went a step further and placed a swing at both ends of the porch. The chairs provide cool comfort in the hot summers and a nice place to watch the kids play in the yard. But they haven’t placed the rocking chairs on the porch. My children will build their own special memories of “Granddaddy’s porch.”

We paused a moment as I sat in the chair at the mega store. It rocked on rather smooth rockers, but the slats of the seat and back just didn’t have the same homemade feel of those at Granddaddy Daily’s house. Maybe a cushion would help. I really want to add some memory to my porch. I didn’t see a metal glider for sale anywhere and, now that I think about it, I don’t know when I’ve seen one since Granddaddy Smith’s glider sat on his porch.

A purchase was not on my agenda for today. Maybe the North Carolina green metal framed chairs on flexible steel would make a satisfactory memory for my children and grandchildren. It isn’t a good time to make such a selfish purchase so near Christmas. I must look further for the perfect match to my porch. I tried to conjure every excuse I could muster. Truth be told, the memory has become so perfected in my mind I am not sure the chairs I remember can be replicated.

Tomorrow morning I will wander out to the front porch and lace my shoes as I watch the boys catch the bus for school. The sun will be start to blaze over the tree tops and gleam in my face as the neighborhood animals will be greeting the morning. Hopefully these events will bring the same satisfaction and comfort to my family as those porch breezes of rural Alabama brought me years ago.

Turkeys In The Road [CCR]

Yesterday an entire flock of turkeys brought traffic to a halt on the road by our house. I was driving along minding my own business when we first saw the cluster of about twenty turkeys lined up beside the road. As I slowed four of the giant birds entered the road. Twenty years ago I would have had dinner on my mind, but today dinner is the last thing I think about. Today a simple fender bender can easily mean a total loss of your vehicle so I could not take any chances. If I only had that 1951 Chevrolet truck or even the 1966 Jeep we once owned. In those days it would be foolish for any turkey to spend any time in front of my bumper.

Driving home from Granddaddy Daily’s house after dark in the old truck meant keeping a watchful eye on the road. Rattlesnakes were our prime target. Our old truck meant certain death for a rattlesnake warming itself on the retentive heat of the pavement in the cool night air. I can only imagine a turkey would be an even better catch.

Rain didn’t help when watching through the windshield. The truck used a six volt battery system and did not have electric windshield wiper motors. As most of our older generation may recall, our wipers ran off the motor vacuum. The only way to speed up the wipers was to let off the gas and allow the motor vacuum to momentarily pull harder. It wasn’t always an option on hills such as the one at Mt. Mills. Of course not many rattlesnakes lay out on the road in the rain either.

Later, in my teen years, driving the Jeep was slightly different. We did have the electric windshield wipers, but the heater didn’t necessarily blow strong air to defog the windshield. The combination of summer heat and rain often meant humid air in the Jeep and many swipes of the windshield with a cloth to clear your vision. The Jeep, with its homemade iron bumpers, didn’t fear many objects along the road. It was built before we engineered the minimum amount of steel to keep the occupants safe without allowing for extra expense in building the vehicle. Yet no turkeys crossed my path. Maybe they understood.

While I didn’t see the incident with my own eyes, it has been said that my Uncle Ezell did hit a turkey with his truck. I don’t have the details, but I understand the turkey bounced over the sideboards used to haul cattle and landed on the bed of the truck. According to the legend he didn’t have to slow down to carry the turkey home.

The flock we saw yesterday didn’t budge from the highway. I debated on sounding the horn, but I sat in amazement that these birds didn’t fear my presence. It reminded me of the time I lived in Georgia and a turkey hen attacked me for stealing her blackberries. The gobbler waited at the edge of the trees and egged the hen on while she actually pecked at my hands.

Three cars lined up behind me before the flock decided to move on. I then continued along my way wondering if these turkeys comprehend the human fear of damaging our modern vehicles. Later we saw another flock gathered in a pasture. Maybe they gather and laugh at the over protective humans who dare not disturb their walk across the road. If only I could find that old Jeep or the old truck. I would restore honor to the human race and once again reclaim the road for my drive to work. But for now I wait patiently and use the time to recollect earlier times and other places.

Holiday Warmth [CCR]

Thanksgiving was a little colder this year in Alabama than in the last few years. Saturday the Smith family gathered at Tishomingo State Park. By the time we turned off the Natchez Trace the mist had thickened. The leaves squished instead of crunched and the dampness allowed the cold to penetrate to the bone. Inside the lodge Uncle Doug was sitting by a glowing warm fire. We were coming home to celebrate our family in our annual tradition.

The next day I sat with Mom and Dad to reminisce after seeing all the relatives. Dad told of a colder holiday season. Christmas 1957 Mom and Dad had returned from Chicago and were celebrating their first holidays together. Their car plowed through the snow making its way to Granddaddy Daily’s house. Having not quite reached their destination, the car could no longer overcome its icy path. Dad would have to find a way to get the car to the house. The next day Uncle Ezell and Dad removed the starter from the old car and placed it near the fireplace to thaw. It had frozen beyond use overnight. The return trip to Tuscumbia proved almost as difficult and included a tire repair.

Listening to their struggle made me think I would have been ready to give up. But in their eyes you can still see the glow of a couple in love. I’m not sure if their life had seasoned them for the experience or if time has allowed them to resolve the struggle. The story was much more than a story for me. It is a lesson that no matter what life throws our way we will continue. In their fifty years it seems they found the secret to taking the difficult wool and spinning a web of good thread.

Mom continued the story of their early holidays and one of their first Christmas trees. She had walked down to Elmore’s Five and Dime to purchase a small collection of Christmas ornaments to adorn their small tree. As Mom mentioned they used those ornaments over many years I remembered them hanging from the tree when I was a child. There is something special about older Christmas ornaments. They have an offset sparkle, dimmed but not tarnished. It gives the ornament a warm, sentimental glow. If you look in the big box discount stores many new ornaments try to copy this look. The more expensive stores attempt the look and try to sell them as future heirlooms. Nobody can duplicate the love built into a sacrifice purchased for a first holiday memory.

As a child our annual Christmas tree was topped with a bearded Santa with a light inserted to make his cheeks glow cheerfully. As each year passed Santa lost of little of his beard, but he still looked special to me. He was an emblem of Christmas magic. But alas the year came that Santa was replaced with a Christmas angel. The angel had the new fangled miniature lights. The angel heralded our way through my teen years, but that tin and plastic Santa still holds my heart from childhood.

This year we exchanged tree ornaments at the annual gathering again. Many of the family now include items that aren’t necessarily ornaments, but are desirable for Christmas decorations. Aunt Donna brought a tree ornament painted with an image of Granddaddy Smith’s house in a winter scene. I look into the ornament and can see Granddaddy waving from the porch as we all arrive for Christmas. Luckily, and probably to the envy of other family members, we were the recipients of the ornament. I’m sure anybody else would have treasured the ornament. I am not sure if it could reach nearly as deep into their soul as it does mine. That ornament will be in my treasure case as another way of keeping Granddaddy and Grandmother with me all year long. If you drop by the house, take a moment and gaze into the ball and there will be Granddaddy smiling, ready to welcome you home.

Hunting Season [CCR]

The beautiful colors of the leaves finally revealed their fashion statement this past week, revealing their most vivid colors. Mother Nature’s show was modishly late this year but the display struck deep chords within my being as always. No matter where I have lived I have a common memory of looking out the window at the trees. Trees have a way of becoming landmarks in my memory forming a common thread between each place we move. I only hope we found the end of the thread as I am not sure my grandfather clock wants to be crated again.

The twist of a falling leaf in the wind and a breeze in my face takes me back to the many years of hunting in the woods around Mountain Springs. We often gathered at my Granddaddy Daily’s house where we planned the hunt for the day or even the next day if we planned on camping. Many times each family member brought a contribution and we prepared a chicken stew the night before the hunt if we were camping. The stew was a necessity to warm your soul in the fall’s cool night air.

The next day we rose before daylight and consumed any breakfast we may want before heading out. Dad would make sure we reached our assigned post before the sun peaked. Some might think we cheated, using dogs to run the deer through the hollow. But hunting for us was more than a sport. The meat would definitely offset some grocery costs.

For some reason it seems Uncle Ezell was always elected to be in charge of the dogs and making the run. He began the trek at the upper end of the hollow while we all waited along the ridge for the opportunity that would soon come our way. After a short wait we could hear the dogs strike a scent and it wouldn’t be long before they came down the neck of the ridge, hopefully with a large buck in the lead. We didn’t have fancy radios to tell us what others saw. We didn’t carry large guns with scopes. A simple shotgun and a sure sight were our tools.

I reckon we traveled home many times without the prize we expected, but if luck were with us someone landed the trophy. We carried our catch either to Granddaddy’s house or sometimes an uncle’s house to clean and divide the spoils. Of course we took the obligatory picture like the one I have with Uncle Ezell, Uncle Buford, Dad, and Granddaddy.

The years have made me slightly citified and it seems most of my hunting days are past. Today the robots and machine constantly beg my attention so most of my hunting trips mean rambling through the freezer at the oversized grocery store. It doesn’t compare to the local market butcher helping select the best slab of beef and slicing it for you, but that is a story for another day. Today I watch the colorful leaves flutter into the yard awaiting my rake and I draw a breath of cool Southern air. Driving to work isn’t quite like driving out the ridge for our hunting trip, but the memories will comfort me during the hustle and bustle of the office.

Sun Dried Linen [CCR]

Last week I attended a conference in Minneapolis. During the introductions one of the speakers asked, as an icebreaker, how many of us attendees hung our clothes on a clothesline. I was actually embarrassed not to raise my hand. Back home in Cherokee we actually kept a load of clothes on the line from dawn till dusk most days with exception to bad weather. For the family we were saving the costs of electricity, and unknowingly being environmentally conscious.

The smell of fresh sun dried towels lingers in my senses. After a shower you held the towel to your face and took a breath before drying yourself. Newly dried bed sheets that recently flapped in the summer breeze naturally odorized the room with the quality aroma often purchased by city folks in the fragrance departments of fancy stores. Just recently I noticed you could buy a candle labeled “sun dried linen.” For a mere twenty dollars you too can fill your house with that memorable fragrance.

It was always a challenge for me to figure out how to hang the various garments and laundry items on the line. Everyone had an opinion on the proper way to hang a shirt and it seems a shirt hung differently from a blouse. Sheets were my favorite to hang since you simply lay them across two lines and applied the pins, not very difficult. On a good summer day I don’t believe it took any longer for clothes to dry on the line than it does in a modern dryer today. Maybe the memory has distorted my internal clock.

Mom would send us out to gather the clothes soon after they were deemed dry in fear of a frequent Southern summer shower. As I gathered the clothes into the basket I would spread the clothes pins out to have them ready for the next round. It wasn’t fun to try and hold a garment while reaching down the line to find a clothes pin.

Today Mom continues to use her clothes line no different than my early days in Cherokee. I am willing to bet Mom’s clothes dryer doesn’t spin a half dozen times each year. Those of you who seem appalled at exposing your clothing on a line today probably haven’t really experienced the pleasure of sun dried linen.

Back at the conference I glanced around the room to see who would raise their hand in an auditorium full of engineering professionals. Two people raised their hands to the snicker of others in the room. Later that day we discussed the benefits of solar energy and how we can implement cost savings. If only they realized we already discussed one of the best uses of solar energy that began long before we even discovered the oil that fuels most of our vehicles.

Setting Lofty Goals [CCR]

The relationship of siblings is a very unique relationship. The children share experiences, both good and bad, that can form a lifetime supportive bond. My children get this speech every time I find them in a traditional sibling squabble, especially my two boys. I remind them that, if groomed properly, sibling relationships can develop a support system that will not fail. To me it is a more powerful message than any punishment I delve out, especially getting to listen to my sermon again.

Susan and I somehow formed one of those bonds growing up in Cherokee. We had our usual disagreements, but I don’t remember ever getting angry. If nothing else, we shared enough secrets and devilment to prevent a wedge from forming. Personally I would rather think we can attribute our interactions to trust rather than fear of being ratted out, but either method must have worked.

As the younger sibling I always looked up to Susan. She kept setting lofty goals for me to reach and it took all I had to hang on. I can remember Susan sitting up at night reading books by any light she could find while I avoided reading, something that I do not recommend to any growing young mind. The work of some very good teachers and Mom didn’t let my aversion to reading stymie my ability to become educated.

It all started when Susan left for school while I remained at home. It is hard to imagine that my memories carry me back that far. Somehow I knew when the bus would bring Susan home with stories of school and all the friends she met there. I can remember one lucky day I got to travel to school with my sister and sit in her classroom. I am not sure why the teacher agreed, but I remember each of Susan’s friends wanting to be the one to watch out for the young visitor.

Her influences carried way beyond the foundations of my education. She brought a new realm of music into my life. Many people find the decision of what instrument to play in band difficult. Mine was simple. Susan decided the band needed a Sousaphone and her brother could fill the need. With her coaxing, I marched out onto the field as a sixth grader toting that oversized instrument. Dad fashioned a pad that lay on my shoulder and cushioned the weight of the instrument.

The day she left for college probably gave more excitement to me than anyone else in the entourage traveling to Birmingham. During her days at school I would often travel to visit. Sometimes she carried me down to the college where she studied and I would carry my own homework. Her college days brought me my first Krispy Kreme Doughnuts, Chick-Fil-A, and two-story malls.

Today I called Susan, as I do many mornings. She was preparing for another day at the office while I was driving to work admiring the morning sunrise. I knew she would succeed in life, it was unquestionable. I just didn’t realize she would be a doctor who would still influence the lives of many children. This particular day may bring anywhere from thirty to fifty or more patients. It would seem she still presents lofty goals. But I do know that, no matter what I need, she is only a phone call away.

The Rain [CCR]

After a long hot summer rain has finally come to our area. Before moving to Tennessee we were deluged in Ohio rainstorms and didn’t really appreciate the true need back home. Today is different. The heavy gray clouds puffed with rain droplets falling steadily are a welcome guest. So far, the rain here has been heavy at times, but without all the wind and lightning.

Alabama has always enjoyed a reputation of having lush green forests spread among our rural areas and the high humidity of the South has always insured that reputation was true. Grandmother Daily’s house sat amid the trees of Mountain Springs and held the wonderful smells of summer flora. But the best smell came with the onset of a summer rainstorm. The falling rain gently cleaned the air and gave some cool relief to the heat even if the storm added to the humidity.

The lucky folks still had tin roofs. Many people today would never imagine having a tin roof on their house. I assure you they are missing out on the pleasures of a summer rainstorm. Under a tin roof the storm begins as a gentle plopping that slowly builds to a steady roar. The continual drumming is just loud enough to lull even the most alert to a lazy summer nap. If you wander into one of those fancy gadget stores you will find fancy noise machines that emulate that very sound to encourage relaxation or sleep.

At Grandmother’s house we could sit in a chair on the porch and watch the heavy clouds empty their refreshment on the ground, trees, and Grandmother’s flowers. The children would sneak out into the rain to play and feel the wetness of the rain while splashing through the puddles. Grandmother didn’t seem to mind.

Then almost as sudden as the rain arrived the steady beat began to slow. The sun would find cracks in the clouds to peak out and once again declare its dominance. On a hot afternoon the steam would rise from the cool wet grass and the humidity rise to the famous levels known in the South. But the refreshing cleanliness of the air hung around to remind us of the blessing we and our plant friends just received.

Today I will drive home in the rain, facing some traffic until I finally break out of the metro limits and onto the country road leading to my house. I may mumble something about the roads and maybe the fogging of my windshield. But then I will remember that the rain is a blessing that brings new life to our wonderful home. Yet again I am reminded that in all things we should give thanks and enjoy the wonderful journey of life.

Outdoor Life [CCR]

My new house in Tennessee restores my enjoyment of rural life and the great Southern tradition of sitting on the front porch. Many evenings my children will be doing their homework or entertaining themselves with the various electronic contraptions located throughout our house when I sneak out to the front porch to sit and listen. From this solitude you can hear the dogs around the area barking or other nightlife. In the hours before dawn you can hear a rooster crowing in the distance. But this particular evening I hear a familiar sound.

As a small child growing up in North Alabama Dad frequently beckoned us outdoors to hear the ever famous hoot owl amidst the nighttime air. For those who wish the more accurate name, the Barred Owl or Strix varia. Either way, the familiar “hoot” is easily recognizable as it echoes through the night.

Alabama folks are lucky to have several varieties of owls populating the area, including the Barn Owl. These owls were very useful in keeping rodents away from our winter barn stash, but they didn’t carry the excitement of stepping outside to hear that familiar call of their relative.

The hoot owl frequently made its presence known on our coon hunting trips or near an evening hunting camp when sharing stories before the glowing embers of a fire. These owls are a familiar accompaniment to the evening sounds of the Alabama nights. Dad always made sure we all paused and listened to the familiar call.

Now I sit quietly on the front porch with the lights out to avoid the onslaught of the insect population. I can hear my familiar sound. Maybe the creature was rustled awake by the dogs or maybe he is calling for an evening meal. I’m not sure the reason, but the sound makes me long to hear the familiar hoot owl. My recognized sound is not that of a hoot owl, or any fowl for that matter. It is the humble call of a simple domesticated animal who has served us for thousands of years, a donkey.

I’m not sure if this donkey jostled my memory of the hoot owl or if the cool crisp air brought memories of hurrying to the front porch and listening intently for the owl. But it is pleasant to know my friend is adding his part for the harmony of the evening and is no less a part of nature. Maybe tomorrow night the hoot owl will join the melody with his rhythmatic call and once again I will be taken back to those evenings on a front porch stoup in Alabama.

Fall [CCR]

Fall is here again and along with that colorful season comes the annual gathering of the leaves that overtake our yards after displaying their multicolored grandeur. Over the years we learn that we can identify the tree by its true leaf color along with the bark. I don’t know if I have met anyone better at that identification process than Dad, but I am sure many people know the secret.

Leaf changing weather often meant rides to Granddaddy Daily’s house because traveling to his house included a trip through the less populated area in the hills we called mountains. Mountain Springs always had a highly diverse population of flora that shared an equal diverse amount of color. Even over the brief time of maximum color the trees presented a show almost unmatchable by Mother Nature’s other annual events. And it signaled a break from the long hot summer days and an avid anticipation of winter celebrations such as Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. It also meant cooler weather to gather the last remaining needs of firewood for the winter, relieving us somewhat from the summer sweat.

Family gatherings in the fall were not unusual, gathering at Granddaddy Daily’s house for a deer hunt. Yes, we cheated many times, using the dogs to drive the unsuspecting game right through our target area. Uncle Ezell often carried the duty of handling the dog drive while we waited on the hills and ridges, listening as the dogs picked up the scent of our prey. But nevertheless it was a family event that brought an already close family even closer together and giving us young folks a chance to prove ourselves.

One of the more festive events for the younger folks was handling the leaves that filled Granddaddy’s yard. I guess today’s conservationist might cringe at our antics, but the event was worth every moment of a child’s fascination. We first gathered the leaves in piles that meant a soft landing for jumping kids, but after our light scolding for redistributing the leaves, we raked again, placing the leaves in neat parallel rows. An uncle would light one end of the leaves and the children made a game out of avoiding the twist of the smoke plume in the swift fall breeze. The smell was unforgettable and introduced the soon familiar smell of the curling smoke spiral of the resident chimneys filling the air with the scent of winter.

Many family members used the excuse of helping Granddaddy Daily clear the leaves scattered across the yard. But I fully believe each of us sought the event each year as another opportunity to rekindle the family bond and regenerate the spirit that holds the Daily family together today. The grandchildren have grown older now and our parents have grandchildren of their own. Today we build fancy compost piles that slowly rot into fertilizer for those of us maintaining gardens. But few of us can deny the joy of the annual leaf burnings and pre-holiday dinners prepared by Grandmother.

This weekend Chrissie is coming up to visit us during her fall break at UNA. I am hoping the weatherman has missed his forecast of a warm winter and a light leaf season that may cause the leaves to bypass their annual light show. If we are lucky we will venture into the hills around our home and hopefully spark a memory that will carry me back home to another time, another place, a place that rings of comfort memories and simpler times. Maybe you too will get the chance to enjoy the next few weeks as the leaves present their annual show that took a whole year to develop. Take a look and enjoy what Mother Nature prepared just for you and give thanks for those things that make our area one of the greatest in the country.

Fishing at the Blue Hole [CCR]

The sun provides an orange iridescent glow along the edges of the streaked morning sky as I ride to work. To avoid the incoming Nashville traffic I drive along a winding back rode that momentarily takes me away from the hustle and bustle of an ever expanding metropolis. I pause briefly on the aged one lane concrete bridge and look up along the bubbling creek that will accompany a portion of my journey. A rock overhang just a small distance away seems to provide the perfect refuge for bass waiting on an inattentive water strider. These moments provide the morning meditation preparing me for another day of taming the robotic world.

The winding creek isn’t much different than scenes along Malone Creek back home, but the memories of the famous Blue Hole on Buzzard Roost comes to mind. I’ve made many journeys down to that infamous place both sightseeing and wetting a hook hoping to catch that bass or a mess of brim that you might know as bluegill. Sometimes I think the legend outweighed my personal results, but I have been known to catch some fish there.

Getting to the Blue Holes was most of the fun. In my younger years we could make the trip in our old truck, but it was more likely we went in Uncle Garvin’s jeep. Uncle Garvin had one of the old Army jeeps and he often took the jeep to its design task of conquering rough terrain, much to the delight of my cousin and me. I can still remember the last hill before the famous spot as being muddy and difficult for most ordinary vehicles to traverse. But Uncle Garvin’s jeep hummed along, all the wheels pulling us through the squishy mud as we ducked from the overhanging tree branches.

The fishing shows on television always amaze me. The hosts on those shows are constantly using some new fangled artificial bait with a fancy rig to lure a fish. I never understood the thrill of all that expensive gear and I don’t recollect it catching a fish any better than Nature’s perfect bait, a minnow. In fact the only bass I caught down at the blue hole came to me on a string with a cane pole on one end and a hook and minnow on the other end. Of course worms were the bait of choice for the catfish. Either way, you could easily come up with your own bait or, for a small amount of change, purchase enough natural bait for a whole day of fishing.

Dad seemed to always know where the best fishing cane grew. We would head out in the old blue truck along some back road until we found the perfect spot where a wilderness of cane grew. Dad never took more than one or two; just enough to replace any we might have broke on our last fishing trip. He would use his pocket knife to slice the pole and then trim the ends. I reckon the only man made things about our fishing gear might be the hook, line, float, and sinker. Dad had a mold for making our own sinkers. It didn’t get much simpler.

I imagine some young fellow has similar memories about this creek I cross along my path to work. The creek follows the road on one side and an old rock fence lines the other, providing a scenic trail that is only disturbed by us local commuters. It isn’t long before the rock fence is replaced by the modern fence lining the freeway. Maybe a few more years will pass before the metropolitan expansion finds that little section of road. It is the least we owe ourselves for the scenic memories under the ginger radiance of a Southern sunrise.

Signs of Yesteryear [CCR]

This weekend I drove by Southgate Mall and I noticed one remnant of the past that most people, even those working at the mall, may not notice. Yet today that little symbol of the past remains in place speaking of a different time. A time when the area was still growing and Muscle Shoals still had a small taste of rural life. In those early days Woodward Avenue was a divided highway with a strip of light poles down the median.

The mall was new to both Muscle Shoals and the entire Shoals Area. It was a new-fangled neighbor to the bustling Marbro Drive-In Theatre. The lights and sounds of urban growth were threatening an original form of entertainment. But the Marbro survived a few years after being joined by an indoor twin screen theatre before it gave way to the now long gone Kroger store.

As I drove around town I saw many signs of days gone by. The old tower of WLAY stands fearless marking a spot near the original studios that broke new grounds in sound for the Shoals Area. Through the worn paint you can almost discern the shiny modern studio for the early days of Muscle Shoals music.

Continuing northward on Woodward Avenue took me past the infamous TVA intersection. I decided to venture forward past River Oaks. The old building still speaks of grand shopping plans even though I don’t even remember the businesses there. I was now on a mission to see what I might find.

In Sheffield I turned at the city hall and headed down to the old water tank. The black letters proclaiming “Sheffield” to traffic on the river show brightly in the fresh coat of paint. I wandered along the river’s edge through the shaded neighborhood to find Alabama Avenue and make a trip down to Muscle Shoals Sound. The large building still stands with its Navy look and production studio signs adorn the building. If you sit quietly for a moment you can almost hear the hit songs while enjoying the view of the river.

Back up Alabama Avenue I turn and take a ride down Montgomery Avenue. I see the old Belk Hudson store where I bought my Boy Scout supplies. Across the street I picture Walgreens where Mom and Dad might have bought me lunch with the money we saved that week.

Driving towards Tuscumbia I find where Liberty Supermarkets once hosted our regular grocery shopping trips. It was the famous location of my doughnut tantrum. My mother was extremely patient in trying to explain that the store didn’t have doughnuts at the time. I imagine Mom wanted me to have the doughnuts more than I really wanted them. A frequent stopping shop lay across the street where once stood the Sears and Otasco stores along with Big K, where Aunt Rose worked.

From there I drove past several other memorable locations, including Colonial Bread where we bought our bread and took some to the ducks at Spring Park. I didn’t venture down to Spring Park as I needed to head back to Cherokee.

Next time you are at Southgate Mall drive behind the old Rogers store. Look up at the light poles in the parking lot. One fixture sports the shade mounted to shield light for the drive-in. One little light shade sparked an adventurous drive into childhood memories and adventures. Today many stores and businesses have replaced those I mentioned and our home is better than ever. But it is pleasant to know my childhood can still be seen if I just look a little closer.