Mornin' in the Mountains

Though dawn is still far away
Old eyes blink once, twice, open.
Nothing stirs in the early darkness
Big Ben alarm clock steadily ticks
Counting time, keepin' the beat
Keepin' a steady pace, onward till morn.
The yellowed newspapers pasted tight
Against the walls are still unseen
Old news, oxymoron long forgotten
Now keeps out the wind an' cold.
Deep feather bed is a sleepy nest
Quilts are hand stitched security
Pulled chin high an' held tight
Against the day, the morn, the dawn.
Then high on the hill, just there
A lone robin wakes, shakes an' sings
Inside a blink, a yawn an' ol' leg creaks.
Ol' dog's long vigil held on the floor
Curled nose to tail on a braided rag rug.
Them creakin' bones made ol' dog stir
Tail thumpin' 'gainst ancient chestnut
Hand hewn, sandstone smoothed puncheon floor.
Deep in a holler, down the creek
An ol' ramblin' cabin sits quiet like
Coiled tight like a spring, waitin'
For the ol' Big Ben to ringle jangle
Mornin'! Good mornin', Get up an' go.
Soon lights will lighten, brighten windows
Push through the humid darkness
Coffee, boiled long, strong, aroma thick
Will seep through every door,
Curl in every corner, warmin' hearth an' heart
It is mornin' in the mountains.

Come with me to a place down home

There is a place, in my dreams and daytime imaginings, down yonder in the hills of home where the whippoorwill's forlorn cries sing counterpoint to the hum and buzz of cicadas. A place not so very far from my hometown of Beloved, just up the road from OZ and not so very far from Brigadoon. Way up a holler you'll find this place after you cross through two shallow creeks and over a low water bridge. You'll know you are goin' down the right road when you see an ol' swingin' bridge crossin' the river and an ol' red barn proudly remindin' you to "Chew Mail Pouch".

Down at the end of the road is a holler wrapped round the place in my dreams. The hills on either side rise up with the worn look of all mountains in Appalachia. Full of red an' white oaks, tall pines an' here an' yonder are sourwood trees aburden with blooms. Bees are a workin' the sourwood as you pull up an you can hear the constant buzz as they carry away the sweet sourwood nectar. Spring has filled the mountains with promise.

An ol' dog rises up in the yard to see who it is an' drops right back down, too worn out to make a fuss. On the edge of the hill chickens scratch an' whisper "cuck a cluck" as they seek out bugs an worms in the dirt.

There is a short white fence with gate wide open, more for looks than keepin' anyone out or in. Ramblin' roses follow along the fence, new red blossoms are layin' agin the white fence.

The ol' log cabin don't look so big from the front, but it fools folks when they see it. It is deep inside and wide open so those within can sit an' talk an' visit. Though it is still daylight you see lights in each window that welcome and wait for those who might be tryin' to get home.

Inside the front is open with plenty of chairs, love seats an' couches for folks to find a place an' rest their bones. A fire is already goin' in the stone fireplace an' you smell soup as soon as you walk in. Books rest on 'bout every table, a fiddle, banjo an' a couple guitars sit in stands. A couple dulcimers stand in a corner as if a band just walked away. You know somehow that they are there for you to pick up an' strum if you can.

Though the front room is warm and welcoming, you make your way to the big eat in kitchen where  Oh My Darlin' is busy with buttery rosemary yeast rolls in cast iron skillets. Mismatched soup bowls are stacked high on the counters an' soup spoons rest in mason jars. I am at the stove with a huge pot of soup foggin' my readin' glasses. I turn an' see you an' both of us stop to come over an' hug your neck. Others stand to greet you with hugs an' introductions an' the kitchen fills with joyful laughter as new friends become old friends, friendships are renewed as you find that one person you know an' love that was waitin' for you to arrive.

You just know it is goin' to be a wonderful weekend, filled with music an' stories, good food, laughter, maybe some bittersweet tears shared over a memory or remembrance of those gone home to glory. The basket full of goodies an' meal fixin's you brought are fetched out of your car and put away as a cup of coffee is put into your hands.

You warm your hands on the coffee and are invited to look around. As you look around you see that there are fewer bedrooms than folks an' wonder about where everyone will sleep... especially you as you seem to be one of the last to arrive. Yes, each room is laid out with huge featherbeds loaded down with beautiful old quilts. There are a few couches that could be recruited as a bed, but you suspect folks will have to sleep on the floor. It is a wonderful day, however an' you decide you will take whatever piece of floor offered to you.

Warm soup an' them rosemary rolls fill every belly an' folks settle down as guitars an' fiddle are taken up. Dulcimers find laps an' that ol' banjo is tuned up. An old feller pulls out a harmonica an' plays a mournful mountain tune. Others join in an' those that know the song join in. Oh My Darlin' opens an ottoman an' pulls out well worn songbooks, turns to the right page an' hands you a book.

Oh, we all wish that night would never end as stories are told, songs played an' sung, faces about to crack from laughin' an' smilin' so much. It is finally time to turn in. I accuse folks of bein' sorry ahead of time, knowin' sunrise come early in the mountains an' I plan on all of us hikin' to the ridge to see the sunrise. I hand out lanterns an' flashlights in preparation for the hike an' you ask where you can unroll a sleepin' bag you always keep in your car.

Folks chuckle at your question an' I take you by the arm an' tell you I'll take you to your sleepin' place. As we go to an' through the back door you get a worried look, wonderin' if I intended for you to sleep in the barn or on the back porch.

Others follow an' stand around, waitin' as I point into the holler an' up the hill. All around are lights strung in the trees that are filled with buds an' new leaves. The strings of lights are illuminatin' several elevated walkways and miniature swingin' bridges leadin' up high into the trees. Forty an' fifty feet an' more you see five small tree houses wrapped around ancient oaks an' hickory trees. Lights are on in each one an' folks are already walkin' toward them with bags an' suitcases. Each tree house is between 15 and 30 feet in the canopy of trees. The lights strung throughout the trees make the scene look like an Appalachian Fairy Land. You look around, expectin' to see elves peekin' from the trees.

Some of the tree houses have bunk beds, one bigger tree house has three sets of bunk beds, another has two ol' iron beds. All have featherbeds fluffed high an' covered with quilts, just invitin' folks to rest. Right in the center is a tree house with no beds but with a sink an' even runnin' water! Yep, there is even a compostin' toilet in there so you don't have to wander all the way to the cabin in the middle of the night.

You find a place to lay your head an' find that the day has left you and your roommates wide awake. You tell stories as each lay in bed too excited to sleep. Sleep finally sneaks in but all to soon I knock at the door, telling everyone that coffee is on, bathrooms are available an' "dawn won't wait for y'all!".

With travel mugs in hand we all make our way to the top of the ridge in the dark. Our lanterns an' flashlights bob along to illuminate our path but all are extinguished at the top. There are planks elevated on rocks so folks can sit an' sip their coffee as we wait real quiet like, as if a show is about to begin. Whispered comments are met with smiles an' muffled laughter.

Then it begins. You know then and appreciate why we chose that spot to live our lives together, Oh My Darlin' and me. Not jealous, but wishin' you too could stay there for the rest of your days, knowin' we were blessed. The wind is gentle as it pushes through the trees. Birds begin to wake, a couple squirrels bounce an' dance through last fall's leaves. Down the hill a deer walks cautiously along a path, stoppin' to nibble at new blades of greenery.

The sunrise is glorious with bright yellow, oranges and reds. The sky is so dark along the ridges but graduates to the purest silver blue high in the heavens. No one speaks for ever so long as we watch the glory of the mountains. Oh, what a grand day we have been given.

Together we walk back down an' begin preparin' a breakfast of cat head biscuits, dozens of fresh eggs gathered from our hens, ham, sausage an' bacon, country gravy peppered just right, fresh fruit in bowls, a deep dish of pears an peaches comes out of the oven, each one sprinkled with cinnamon and dabbed with butter. An ancient bowl is filled with fried apples that make your mouth water. Large pitchers of milk from our neighbor's dairy sit in bowls of ice. Over to one side a feller shows off his muscles as he squeezes fresh orange juice for all. There are grits, of course an' maple syrup an' fresh churned butter. Two coffee pots simmer on the stove, Tea cozys cover tea pots for those that choose tea. Of course there is sourwood honey, robbed back last fall from my four hives just out back by the sourwood trees.

We eat and sit forever at the long table. No one wants to get up, each enjoys the magic of good company. We laugh, remember, tell tales on each other an' finally smile as someone says, "That reminds me of a story...".

Rise Up You Will

The comfort of a mornin' rain
Drummin' a constant beat
On a worn out tin roof.
Birds callin' in the trees
Yonder, up on the hillside.
The warmth of this ancient quilt
The texture of cloth and stitching.
Just smell the strong smell of coffee
Inhale the promise of bacon crisp.
Apples fried in a cast iron skillet
Cat head biscuits still risin' in the oven.
Eggs just gathered from under a fussy hen
Broke into a skillet and fried careful like
Just the way y'all like them.
It ain't fittin' to rise up to such a feast
But rise up you will, ready to go.
Its mornin' down here in the holler
Y'all wash up an' take a seat.

Morning at the Gilbert place

Del Gilbert woke easily, well before the sun was up.  Her husband, Billy would be up soon.  He patted her shoulder as she rolled to the edge of their bed and sat up.  Most mornings he would lay in bed and spend a few moments in quiet prayer as he prepared for his day.  His day would start fast and go steady till their noon meal.  He would be back in the fields soon after and would finally stumble in, dog tired just before dark to eat a bite, sip on some iced tea on the porch and listen to the radio till bed time.  Most folks called him "Uncle Billy" and he was what folks call "a good ol' boy".

There was a pretty good chance that one or more neighbor would wander by and stop for some sweet tea and conversation in the early evenin' hours.  Though their home was off the beaten path and at the end of a road that wandered deep into a holler, it sometimes seemed like Grand Central Station to Del.

 Del quickly made biscuits and pushed the pan into the oven.  Bacon and ham soon fell into a fryin' pan and the little cabin tucked into the holler was smellin' wonderful.  Grits bubbled and steamed on the back burner right beside a little pan filled with warm water in which she put a quart jar of maple syrup to warm.  Billy liked maple syrup in his grits and his own sourwood honey on his biscuits.

Five bee gums (hives for the Yankee folks) sat a little further back in the holler and were just about ready to be robbed of the season's bounty of sourwood honey.  The sourwood trees had been just beautiful this year with all the rain.  Their limbs had hung low, laden with white, fragrant flowers that they could smell from their front porch... or anywhere else in their humble cabin when the windows were open.

The bees worked those trees steady for weeks.  Their buzzin' created a hum around the trees that was magical.  It seemed like the whole hillside was alive an' singin' glory an' hallelujahs to the Good Lord above when the Sourwoods were bloomin'.  Del often took a chair out close to the trees on a nice day and sat in the shade, listenin' to that hum as she pieced quilts or peeled taters for dinner.

The biscuits came out of the oven and Del cracked eggs into a little pan shined up with just a dab of bacon grease... made the eggs taste good an made her cleanin' the pan easier with a slick of grease in the bottom.  Billy ate two and she had one, all over easy.  Since her layin' hens were goin' great guns, she fried up a few more.  Maybe Billy would want another for breakfast.  Maybe he would put a cold fried egg on his plate for dinner.  Maybe one of the neighbors would stop for coffee and have a biscuit stuffed with a fried egg to gossip over.

"Better come on, ol' man.  This breakfast is coolin' quick an' I am 'bout ready to toss it out for the dogs" she called.

"I hear ye. I hear ye.  A feller cain't even get his boots laced 'round here.  You threaten me every day with throwin' my breakfast to the dogs.  It ain't happened in 48 years and I don't reckon you'll start now." Billy chuckled.

Del grinned and sat the plate of eggs on the table.  She wiped her hands on the dish towel that hung on her shoulder, folded it and laid it by the sink.  Billy and Del sat, joined hands and bowed their heads.

"Now Lord, we ain't got much to brag about.  What we got is from You and we are humbled by the bounty of this little patch of ground you have given us here in this holler.  We don't rightly know what we have done to deserve all we have been blessed with, don't reckon our blessin's come from what we deserve, but what You grace us with.  For that and for this table we give You thanks, Lord.  Watch over us and them we love this day.  Bless our country, our President, them that govern and us that live free.  Be with the boys that guard and protect in the Armed Forces.  Bless the Governor of Kentucky and those folks we have elected to guide our state, the local folks.  Lord, give 'em some wisdom... give them government folks a lot of wisdom, Lord.  I just don't know about them folks sometimes.  Get 'em off their high horses an' back down to earth." Billy prays.

Del squeezes Billy's hand and he chuckles; "Sorry I went on so, Lord.  Help us as we go about our work today.  Help us to be humble and to know You are God.  Thanks for your son, Jesus.  I'm prayin' all this in His Mighty name.  Amen."

They squeeze each others hand, Billy leans over, as he does every day and kisses Del.  This is a custom he started their first day of marriage as Del sat cryin' over burned biscuits an' crispy eggs.  He leaned over that mornin', kissed her, told her every thing looked wonderful and ate every bite.  From that day till this he would kiss her before his first bite.

Breakfast is soon over.  Billy grabs the bowl of scraps Del has prepared and crumbles a biscuit into the bowl. He is out the back door and into the barn to begin his day.  Del sits back down an' pours a cup of coffee.  Them dishes ain't goin' nowhere.  She listens as Billy calls his ol' Sooner dog.  Sooner has been sleepin' under the front porch but soon is up, has a good shake and trots - side aways over to eat his breakfast as Billy throws cracked corn to the chickens.

Sooner will follow Billy from chore to chore all day long.  When Billy begins to work, Sooner will go round and round a few time and drop like he was dead to the ground... one eye openin' occasionally to make sure Billy is there.  At noon, man and dog will head back to the house.

That's the way it happens most days.  It is a simple life, a good life.  It is, as they know, a blessed life.

Early Morning in Beloved

Cousins,
It is not quite 5:00 a.m. here in my hometown of Beloved, Kentucky. Unlike many cities up north, there is much activity going on already. As I look out over the town that is just a short distance from my front drive, I see the lights of several businesses on and commerce already underway.

It is not the commerce of a city or even a big town. We don't have no all night drug stores - only the Goins Rexall downtown. They still have a soda fountain, believe it or not and their blue plate special is the same as it always has been - BLT with chips and a pickle. You can also get a tuna melt or a tuna salad plate. I get a cravin' flung on me ever' now and agin for Sadie Goins' tuna fish. She adds things that make it more than a can of fish, I'll tell ya that much.

No sir, our commerce is related to the farmin' and coal minin' that keeps little ol' mountain towns alive. The Atta Boy gas station is already open. Coal truckers are there fillin' tanks with diesel for their constant runs up and down the hollers to the few mines left in Clay County. Farmers stop for a fill up and a few fellers who don't take time for a full breakfast will swaller down a ham and biscuit with a cup of coffee inside as they pay for their gas.

The Farm & Hardware is open and already busy. Farmers stop early for feed, fertilizer and supplies. They still have charges done by hand on paper receipts. The receipts are all entered into a computer, but the folks that run the place prefer to work on paper still.

You want to see a wonderful sight, come when chicks is bein' picked up. Boxes and boxes of chicks, all hollerin' for mama at the same time. Farmers and 4Hers pullin' up , one after another pickin' up their load of pullets. It is plumb crazy them days. They keep a couple big ol' water troughs in the back - sawdust in the bottom and full of chicks for the small farmer what needs just a couple dozen to raise. Chicks are separated into fryer chicks and layers. 'Course, unsexed mixed costs way less than sexed chicks. They are all separated too.

Over yonder at the Henny Penny there is a full house. Breakfast there is a busy time for the farmers all meet to talk about their tobaccer crop, how it has been so wet that they still have 27 rows to get out. Fred Collins said he wasn't able to get his corn out with all the rain so he had to go to soybeans. Several fellers are sayin' the same type of thing about not gettin' the corn crop out and switchin' to soybeans. Folks are hopin' the bottom don't drop out of soy.

Bessie Bowling is busy as anythin', waitin' on all the tables. She is workin' alone this mornin' cause it is the last day up at the high school and all the girls what usually serve wanted to be at school early to get their yearbooks signed and to take pictures an' all.

Bessie is like one of them whirlwinds this mornin', droppin' a basket of big ol' cat head biscuits at one table, fillin' coffee cups at another and callin' orders over the counter like a general commandin' the troops.

The special is the Beloved Breakfast. It is 2 eggs, any style, choice of sausage or bacon, fried potatoes, grits if ya want 'em, a cup of sausage gravy and 2 of the big ol' biscuits that make Henny Penny famous in them parts. Coffee is still a quarter at the Henny Penny and your ol' cup is always bottomless. The Beloved Breakfast is $4.50 and is more than most folks can eat. For a dollar more y'all can substitute a slice of Precious Meats fried Country Ham. I'd recommend the fried Country Ham. Sophie Precious has a way with smokin' meats.

Some of the fellers kinda complained when the Henny Penny went "no smokin'". Too many of the old fellers are home and unable to do nothin' these days 'cause of the emphysema. Bessie went to the owners and carried on till they did it for the good health of ever' one concerned. Tobaccer is the blessin' and the curse of hill folks. They work it all their lives and smoke from the time they are young, only to find their very breath stolen by their very livlihood.

Now they is a smokin' circle out by the big ol' ash bucket. Fellers get up every now and again to go out for a smoke. It ain't so bad most of 'em say...and the food does taste better these days without the smoke in the Henny Penny.

Come daylight, the dozens of trucks in the parkin' lot will start up like it was a race or somethin'. Headlamps will come on and they will be a mad dash outta town to the fields and farms all over and around Beloved.

Men with farmer tans, workboots and well worn workshirts will step into barns to work, will mount tractors and move into fertile fields. The morning stillness will be broken with the sound of bush hogs, mowers, plows and planters as the men of Beloved do what they love.

This is the lifeblood of Beloved. It is the muscle and sinew and the good earth is the bone on which it builds. These are the children of our forefathers, honest, good and simple.