Fried catfish piled high
Crisp on a white dinner plate.
Tea sweet and thick
Thick enough you can cut a hunk
Eat your tea like candy.
Crisp on a white dinner plate.
Tea sweet and thick
Thick enough you can cut a hunk
Eat your tea like candy.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Bean Pickin' Time
Cousins,
Go down any road in the hills around my hometown of Beloved right about now and look around. Walk up any holler and you'll see the same scene repeated over and over again.
Early in the morning, while it is still cool, go lookin'. Over to the side of the creek or up the holler you'll see Sister Hazel Budder or maybe Irene Collins, dressed in long pants and a long sleeved shirt come out from the farmhouse and head for the garden. Sister Hazel's head might be covered with a straw hat or Irene's with a bonnet. Here and yonder you might find an older woman in a long dress. There ain't nothin' in this world that would get her to put on a pair of pants. As she wades through the garden the hem of her dress gets wet with dew.
They each head into the neat rows of the garden. When they get to the rows of beans they stop. They look up and down the rows quietly before they begin. Each surveys the fruition of their hard work. They think back over the spring and the many days dedicated to planting, weeding, watering and tending row after row of beans.
Wherever you see the scene repeated you will see the same pause. Then each will bend and push aside the thick cover of leaves to expose beans, pole beans, bush beans, Kentucky wonder, blue lake, purple snaps, half runners, string beans, trail of tears, old homesteads, Italian flat and the favorite of hill folks, greasy beans.
Folks start early to avoid the heat. As they bend over the rows of beans their hands never stop, pulling handfuls at a time, throwin' the handfuls into a galvanized bucket till it is full.
That first bucket goes into the house quickly to be broken and put on to boil. A big piece of ham, maybe a ham hock or some jowl bacon goes in with a little bit of chopped onion. The big pot is allowed to boil before it is turned down to a simmer.
With that each kitchen door opens and each woman heads to the garden to pick bucket after bucket of beans. They are spread out on clean sheets or tablecloths as each bucket is emptied. Not one bean is missed.
The rest of the day is spent on the porch or maybe in the kitchen. An old apron becomes the workspace and quick hands break up dozens and hundreds of beans. Big washbasins fill with the broken harvest.
Soon enough everyone in the family joins in as jars are boiled and lids are scalded. The beans are washed and put into waiting jars. The kitchen is a beehive of activity as pressure cookers are filled with new jars of beans.
All day for several days they repeat the drill, filling jar after jar. Row after row gives up beans and no one stops till each and every bean is broken, every jar filled, every lid turned and tightened.
Finally the furious pace stops. The last jar comes out of the pressure cooker. Each is turned upside down to cool so a good seal is assured as the contents cool off.
Folks can sit a little longer on the porch. They listen to the familiar pop of jar lids sealing. Someone counts each one till each and every jar has called out the "all is well".
Them pots of beans simmerin' on the stove tasted right good each night. Heads bow over full plates as farm families thank the good Lord for His bounty. Weary bodies are filled and restored with the harvest.
Tired feet lift off the floor and push under ancient quilts. Worn hands pull quilts up over weary bodies. There are long moments of silence as tired families have the satisfaction of remembering hundreds of quarts of beans canned. Each Mason jar is lined in rows, standing at attention, waiting for the winter. That is prepared contentment.
As folks drift off to sleep, someone always has the thought. A voice always speaks up with the same thought...
"We start pickin' tomatoes next week."
Go down any road in the hills around my hometown of Beloved right about now and look around. Walk up any holler and you'll see the same scene repeated over and over again.
Early in the morning, while it is still cool, go lookin'. Over to the side of the creek or up the holler you'll see Sister Hazel Budder or maybe Irene Collins, dressed in long pants and a long sleeved shirt come out from the farmhouse and head for the garden. Sister Hazel's head might be covered with a straw hat or Irene's with a bonnet. Here and yonder you might find an older woman in a long dress. There ain't nothin' in this world that would get her to put on a pair of pants. As she wades through the garden the hem of her dress gets wet with dew.
They each head into the neat rows of the garden. When they get to the rows of beans they stop. They look up and down the rows quietly before they begin. Each surveys the fruition of their hard work. They think back over the spring and the many days dedicated to planting, weeding, watering and tending row after row of beans.
Wherever you see the scene repeated you will see the same pause. Then each will bend and push aside the thick cover of leaves to expose beans, pole beans, bush beans, Kentucky wonder, blue lake, purple snaps, half runners, string beans, trail of tears, old homesteads, Italian flat and the favorite of hill folks, greasy beans.
Folks start early to avoid the heat. As they bend over the rows of beans their hands never stop, pulling handfuls at a time, throwin' the handfuls into a galvanized bucket till it is full.
That first bucket goes into the house quickly to be broken and put on to boil. A big piece of ham, maybe a ham hock or some jowl bacon goes in with a little bit of chopped onion. The big pot is allowed to boil before it is turned down to a simmer.
With that each kitchen door opens and each woman heads to the garden to pick bucket after bucket of beans. They are spread out on clean sheets or tablecloths as each bucket is emptied. Not one bean is missed.
The rest of the day is spent on the porch or maybe in the kitchen. An old apron becomes the workspace and quick hands break up dozens and hundreds of beans. Big washbasins fill with the broken harvest.
Soon enough everyone in the family joins in as jars are boiled and lids are scalded. The beans are washed and put into waiting jars. The kitchen is a beehive of activity as pressure cookers are filled with new jars of beans.
All day for several days they repeat the drill, filling jar after jar. Row after row gives up beans and no one stops till each and every bean is broken, every jar filled, every lid turned and tightened.
Finally the furious pace stops. The last jar comes out of the pressure cooker. Each is turned upside down to cool so a good seal is assured as the contents cool off.
Folks can sit a little longer on the porch. They listen to the familiar pop of jar lids sealing. Someone counts each one till each and every jar has called out the "all is well".
Them pots of beans simmerin' on the stove tasted right good each night. Heads bow over full plates as farm families thank the good Lord for His bounty. Weary bodies are filled and restored with the harvest.
Tired feet lift off the floor and push under ancient quilts. Worn hands pull quilts up over weary bodies. There are long moments of silence as tired families have the satisfaction of remembering hundreds of quarts of beans canned. Each Mason jar is lined in rows, standing at attention, waiting for the winter. That is prepared contentment.
As folks drift off to sleep, someone always has the thought. A voice always speaks up with the same thought...
"We start pickin' tomatoes next week."
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Beloved, Kentucky
Imagine a little mountain community nestled between the ancient hills of Appalachia. It is a community that was settled around a good year round spring and one of the largest salt licks in eastern Kentucky. Folks reckon that's why folks came to the valley and settled the little town called Beloved.
It ain't much, as towns go. There are only eight or ten streets in the whole town. Main Street never got busy enough to have a stop light. Folks don't hardly need the stop signs on some of the side streets.
Downtown consists of about twelve buildings. The biggest building is the grocery store. Down the street is Founder's Square. That is where the springs are. They still flow year round. There is a dug well close to the springs. That well is full of the sweetest water a feller will find anywhere. In the Square is a white enclosed gazebo sort of building that contains the body of Sleepy Jean Sizemore. Some folks say she is in there sleepin' since 1911. Most say she fell into a coma and died and her body is just preserved some way. If you get to know the family, they might take you in and let you get a glimpse of her body an' y'all can judge for yourself.
There is a Carnegie Library in town right down past the Phineas Nutt Masonic Lodge. The lodge is made from beautiful Tennessee sandstone brought from the Cumberland Plateau and worked by hand by some of the Masonic brothers back in the late 1800s. Men sit on benches outside of the Carnegie Library daily and whittle. They talk softly to themselves and tell tales and lie to each other only to swear each story is the "gospel truth". When school is out a group of youngin's gather often to hear the stories and watch as the old men carefully whittle.
Annie Pankey has a small shop not much further down the street. She calls it "Pankey's Hankies" and sells antiques, quilts and old lace good.
Outside the town are a few small homes, well kept and regularly painted. In that neck of the woods 'bout everything gets painted on a regular basis if it ain't movin' or breathin'. In the heat of the day folks can be seen gatherin' on the front porches or under shade trees to cool off.
Follow the main road out of town and you'll end right back up on Route 66. The main road is merely a loop off and back onto the big road. Keep on going up along the Red Bird River and you'll come to Beverly and the Red Bird Mission Hospital.
Go off some of the side roads and you'll find yourself windin' your way up Booger Holler Road or maybe Arnett's Fork, Old Punky Creek or Gilbert's Branch. Up on Booger Holler is Booger Holler Holiness Church where Brother Woodrow Budder is preacher. Folks around them parts say that Booger is a Cherokee word for a Medicine Man and Booger Holler is where a Cherokee Medicine Man lived. Other folks say it is called Booger Holler because Big Jim Arnett and Dick Gray had a spook callin' contest up near there.
The hills are full and a thousand shades of green during the summer. Springtime is the sweetest to the eye. The hills are full of dogwood, redbud, sourwood trees filled with blooms and a favorite stoppin' point for any honeybee anywhere near. The greens are tentative and slow to start. The flowering trees are not bashful and burst out in bloom like they was shoutin', "looky. looky, look at me."
Folks live at a slower pace in and around Beloved. Its sort of like they know that God took a slice of Eden and nestled it in them hills. They never forget to stop an' enjoy what they got.
It ain't much, as towns go. There are only eight or ten streets in the whole town. Main Street never got busy enough to have a stop light. Folks don't hardly need the stop signs on some of the side streets.
Downtown consists of about twelve buildings. The biggest building is the grocery store. Down the street is Founder's Square. That is where the springs are. They still flow year round. There is a dug well close to the springs. That well is full of the sweetest water a feller will find anywhere. In the Square is a white enclosed gazebo sort of building that contains the body of Sleepy Jean Sizemore. Some folks say she is in there sleepin' since 1911. Most say she fell into a coma and died and her body is just preserved some way. If you get to know the family, they might take you in and let you get a glimpse of her body an' y'all can judge for yourself.
There is a Carnegie Library in town right down past the Phineas Nutt Masonic Lodge. The lodge is made from beautiful Tennessee sandstone brought from the Cumberland Plateau and worked by hand by some of the Masonic brothers back in the late 1800s. Men sit on benches outside of the Carnegie Library daily and whittle. They talk softly to themselves and tell tales and lie to each other only to swear each story is the "gospel truth". When school is out a group of youngin's gather often to hear the stories and watch as the old men carefully whittle.
Annie Pankey has a small shop not much further down the street. She calls it "Pankey's Hankies" and sells antiques, quilts and old lace good.
Outside the town are a few small homes, well kept and regularly painted. In that neck of the woods 'bout everything gets painted on a regular basis if it ain't movin' or breathin'. In the heat of the day folks can be seen gatherin' on the front porches or under shade trees to cool off.
Follow the main road out of town and you'll end right back up on Route 66. The main road is merely a loop off and back onto the big road. Keep on going up along the Red Bird River and you'll come to Beverly and the Red Bird Mission Hospital.
Go off some of the side roads and you'll find yourself windin' your way up Booger Holler Road or maybe Arnett's Fork, Old Punky Creek or Gilbert's Branch. Up on Booger Holler is Booger Holler Holiness Church where Brother Woodrow Budder is preacher. Folks around them parts say that Booger is a Cherokee word for a Medicine Man and Booger Holler is where a Cherokee Medicine Man lived. Other folks say it is called Booger Holler because Big Jim Arnett and Dick Gray had a spook callin' contest up near there.
The hills are full and a thousand shades of green during the summer. Springtime is the sweetest to the eye. The hills are full of dogwood, redbud, sourwood trees filled with blooms and a favorite stoppin' point for any honeybee anywhere near. The greens are tentative and slow to start. The flowering trees are not bashful and burst out in bloom like they was shoutin', "looky. looky, look at me."
Folks live at a slower pace in and around Beloved. Its sort of like they know that God took a slice of Eden and nestled it in them hills. They never forget to stop an' enjoy what they got.
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Summertime Memories
Cousins,
It is so easy for me to close my eyes and go back to those summer memories. Somehow about 40 years fall off and I am 11 and it is July in the hills of Kentucky.
Double Creek is where my Grandma moved after my Grandpa (my namesake Steve Hollen) died. I should say she moved back to Double Creek because that is where she was born. My Uncle Bert built his Mama a house right across the creek from the Arnett homestead. I was told my Great Great Grandpa built the log cabin back after the Yanks and Rebs kept coming by and taking anything that wasn't tied down.
The creek that ran through the little valley was the center of my day. My brother and I waded into the creek early each morning and wandered up and down about 2 miles of Arnett's Fork on Double Creek as we played.
Crawdads were a favorite catch for us as we bent over shallow pools filled with sand and small rock for our prey to hide under. Our hands wrapped around rocks as we cornered them or waited patiently as they would scoot backward into our waiting grasp. Our girl cousins were often chased by one or both of us. Hands full of crawdads. We didn't care that their claws dug deep into our tender palms as long as we could terrorize a sweet mountain girl.
Down where Arnett's Fork and Big Double Creek split off was out swimmin' hole. It was the deepest spot on the creek. It was also the most distant from Grandma's house at over a mile away. That wasn't much of a problem since everyone along that creek was kin. We waved as we walked the dusty road. Cousins, Aunts and Uncles waved back and sometimes called us in for a cold Coke or maybe some blackberry cobbler with sweet cream poured on top.
The family names up in the Arnett cemetery and along that creek were like a genealogy lesson...Hollen/Holland, Arnett, Gilbert. Smith, Bowling. All settlers in the early 1800s. All family on one side or the other.
The swimmin' hole was also the place where folks were baptized when the circuit ridin' preacher held services in the one room school house on Double Creek. He came once a month, preached, had dinner with folks and in the afternoon would baptize any folks that got saved in the last month or two.
My brother, my cousin J.M. and I practiced baptizin' each other many times in that swimmin' hole. Sometimes it was solemn and sometimes we would just grab someone and dunk 'em quick and hard.
As we would walk home the yellow dust from the road would cover our feet like magic shoes. We would run, fleet at the whitetail deer that would often stand on the hillsides. They would pause under the shade of a sweet gum or sourwood and watch as we raced home.
A quick stop at the creek to wash off the dust and we would run into the ol' cabin to see Aunt Bess, Aunt Mag and Uncle Bill or to Grandma's house to change and get ready for supper. Dependin' on where we landed we might put our feet under the table at Grandma's home or Aunt Sally's or Aunt Mag and Aunt Bess's table. I loved sittin' down to eat with all of them. They loved me and I always knew it and felt ...safe.
Supper might be fried chicken, mashed or fried taters, slow cooked green beans with a big ol' chunk of ham, plenty o' tomaters, green onions, fresh slaw and maybe even fried poke or maybe wilted mountain greens with chopped green onions and covered with a dressing of vinegar, bacon grease and a little sugar to cut the "whang" of the vinegar. Cathead biscuits (with real churned butter and sorghum or even home made muscadine grape jelly) would be our bread. If there was time to bake we might be surprised with butter rolls - sweet and filled with sugar, cinnamon and swimmin' in a buttery sweet sauce.
Cousin, I close my eyes and I float down that creek even now, back through 40 years to a simpler time. Jump in here , enjoy the cool creek water and let's float back down the creek together.
Aunt Mag and Aunt Bess won't mind me bringin' friends home for supper. I do it all the time. They'll be proud to see y'all.
It is so easy for me to close my eyes and go back to those summer memories. Somehow about 40 years fall off and I am 11 and it is July in the hills of Kentucky.
Double Creek is where my Grandma moved after my Grandpa (my namesake Steve Hollen) died. I should say she moved back to Double Creek because that is where she was born. My Uncle Bert built his Mama a house right across the creek from the Arnett homestead. I was told my Great Great Grandpa built the log cabin back after the Yanks and Rebs kept coming by and taking anything that wasn't tied down.
The creek that ran through the little valley was the center of my day. My brother and I waded into the creek early each morning and wandered up and down about 2 miles of Arnett's Fork on Double Creek as we played.
Crawdads were a favorite catch for us as we bent over shallow pools filled with sand and small rock for our prey to hide under. Our hands wrapped around rocks as we cornered them or waited patiently as they would scoot backward into our waiting grasp. Our girl cousins were often chased by one or both of us. Hands full of crawdads. We didn't care that their claws dug deep into our tender palms as long as we could terrorize a sweet mountain girl.
Down where Arnett's Fork and Big Double Creek split off was out swimmin' hole. It was the deepest spot on the creek. It was also the most distant from Grandma's house at over a mile away. That wasn't much of a problem since everyone along that creek was kin. We waved as we walked the dusty road. Cousins, Aunts and Uncles waved back and sometimes called us in for a cold Coke or maybe some blackberry cobbler with sweet cream poured on top.
The family names up in the Arnett cemetery and along that creek were like a genealogy lesson...Hollen/Holland, Arnett, Gilbert. Smith, Bowling. All settlers in the early 1800s. All family on one side or the other.
The swimmin' hole was also the place where folks were baptized when the circuit ridin' preacher held services in the one room school house on Double Creek. He came once a month, preached, had dinner with folks and in the afternoon would baptize any folks that got saved in the last month or two.
My brother, my cousin J.M. and I practiced baptizin' each other many times in that swimmin' hole. Sometimes it was solemn and sometimes we would just grab someone and dunk 'em quick and hard.
As we would walk home the yellow dust from the road would cover our feet like magic shoes. We would run, fleet at the whitetail deer that would often stand on the hillsides. They would pause under the shade of a sweet gum or sourwood and watch as we raced home.
A quick stop at the creek to wash off the dust and we would run into the ol' cabin to see Aunt Bess, Aunt Mag and Uncle Bill or to Grandma's house to change and get ready for supper. Dependin' on where we landed we might put our feet under the table at Grandma's home or Aunt Sally's or Aunt Mag and Aunt Bess's table. I loved sittin' down to eat with all of them. They loved me and I always knew it and felt ...safe.
Supper might be fried chicken, mashed or fried taters, slow cooked green beans with a big ol' chunk of ham, plenty o' tomaters, green onions, fresh slaw and maybe even fried poke or maybe wilted mountain greens with chopped green onions and covered with a dressing of vinegar, bacon grease and a little sugar to cut the "whang" of the vinegar. Cathead biscuits (with real churned butter and sorghum or even home made muscadine grape jelly) would be our bread. If there was time to bake we might be surprised with butter rolls - sweet and filled with sugar, cinnamon and swimmin' in a buttery sweet sauce.
Cousin, I close my eyes and I float down that creek even now, back through 40 years to a simpler time. Jump in here , enjoy the cool creek water and let's float back down the creek together.
Aunt Mag and Aunt Bess won't mind me bringin' friends home for supper. I do it all the time. They'll be proud to see y'all.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Neighbor Beater Tomatoes
Now, I just don't know how folks are where you might be from, but in Beloved, Kentucky, folks are serious about their tomatoes. Tomatoes, or tomaters or just plain ol' 'maters they may be, but raisin' them wonderful red fruits is a passion in Beloved.
Uncle Billy Gilbert always worked hard to try to be the first to have ripe tomatoes. He would start seeds inside with mason jars over the seedlin's. Them seedlin's would be transplanted out to cold frames as soon as the weather got passable and then into a garden when chance of frost passed.
Other folks had theories, secrets and special seeds saved from one year to the next. No one talked much about how they did it...if they won.
Whichever lucky citizen was the first with a ripe tomatoe would show up with the lovely fruit in downtown Beloved with a smile and the prize to be shown off to all who would stop to look.
In Beloved word would get 'round and everyone would stop to look.
Cousin Peanut tried year after year to be the first with a "mater" but his tendency to forget his garden made him an unlikely candidate for the glory that would be heaped upon the victor. Folks felt bad every year when Cousin Peanut would show up to see the winning tomatoe. He would stand and stare for the longest time. Sister Hazel Budder, the preacher's wife and Cousin Peanut's sister knew when he left he would shed a quiet tear. Cousin Peanut was almost always an "also ran" in about anything he ever tried.
'Cept that one year.
Folks started early with their seedlin's under glass as usual. Uncle Billy Gilbert actually showed Cousin Peanut how to start a little ol' "mason jar greenhouse". Cousin Peanut put out his seedlin's ahead of a lot of folks. Then promptly went back to his old ways of not tendin' the garden much. His Daddy, Vergie was bad sick and his Mama, Mz. Chappell wasn't much better.
That was why Uncle Billy called a nephew of his that worked at the agricultural school at University of Kentucky. He told that nephew, Johnny Gilbert, what he wanted to do...asked if they was tomatoes growin' in the greenhouse and if Johnny would help. Of course Johnny said yes and the famous "Mater Caper" was hatched.
A few nights later Johnny showed up in Beloved. After dark him and Uncle Billy snuck over to Booger Holler where the Chappells lived, dug up Peanut's sorry ol' scraggly tomatoe vines and replaced them with beautiful vines laden with little green fruit.
Cousin Peanut made a haphazard inspection of the garden a day or two later on his way to the little ol' shack out back an' was amazed that his vines were covered with baby tomatoes! He went everywhere braggin' about them little green marbles!
Then promptly forgot them again.
A week or so later, Johnny made another trip and took a secret ride with Uncle Billy over to Booger Holler. Tomatoe vines were traded and transplanted again. Cousin Peanut found that his vines had grown and his tomatoe crop was even better. My oh my how that boy did crow! Even though Vergie couldn't get out to the garden, Cousin Peanut told him about every little tomater! As Vergie an' Mz. Chappell sat in the house together, they would smile and beam at the sudden success of their wayward boy.
The secret gardening trips continued for weeks.
Then Vergie got the pneumonia and Peanut forgot about his tomatoe plants. Vergie didn't last long before he gave it up an' died. He was to be buried in the Chappell graveyard up on the mountain under a sycamore tree overlookin' the little farm he loved.
When Uncle Billy heard that Vergie had died he drove his truck over to the Peabody Post Office an' called Johnny. The night before the funeral Johnny an' Uncle Billy made one more night time raid on Cousin Peanut's garden.
The funeral was held at Booger Holler Holiness Church. Brother Woodrow Budder preached a funeral sermon to beat the band. Folks expected no less, seein' as how Vergie was Brother Woodrow's Daddy-in-Law.
Vergie's casket was carried up the side of the mountain by six strong mountain men. The crowd stood quiet like as final prayers were said and Vergie's boy Chester read the 23rd Psalm. It was a lovely service and the day was glorious up on that hillside. The sun warmed the bodies if not the hearts of the folks gathered to say goodbye one last time.
As folks walked together down the hill they visited and talked quietly. When they got to the bottom of the hill each an' every man jack of 'em stopped an' didn't go another step.
Finally, the Chappell family came down. Mz. Chappell was holdin' on to a couple of her youngin's an' a snifflin' an' such. She was the first to walk through the crowd. She asked what everyone was a doin'. They all pointed to Cousin Peanut's weedy ol' garden patch.
"Peanut, come here, son." Mz. Chappell called.
Peanut made his way through the crowd and looked into his garden. There in the weeds was one beautiful tomatoe vine, curled perfectly around itself an' up a wood stake.
Hangin' from that vine was not one, but two beautiful, perfectly round, red-ripe tomatoes. Peanut reverently picked each and held them in the air for all to see. The crowd sighed "aaahhh" in unison as Cousin Peanut grinned. Everyone knew what this meant. Cousin Peanut had not just the first, but the first AND second ripe tomatoe in Beloved. He had braggin' rights for a year!
Folks offered right then and there to take Peanut to town. Someone found a basket full of biscuits in their car and emptied out the biscuits so Cousin Peanut would have a proper way to display his prize.
Folks left quickly, followin' the truck that carried the champion an' his fruits to the braggin' bench in downtown Beloved. Uncle Billy helped Mz. Chappell an' some of the ladies of the church carry in the bowls of food that friends an' family would gather to eat later.
As he went out for a big ol' bowl of potatoe salad, Mz. Chappell followed him out.
"They ain't no more, Mz. Chappell. This here is the rest of it." Uncle Billy said.
"I ain't here for carryin' no food. I know what you did."
Uncle Billy looked up the mountain, "I don't reckon I know what you are talkin' about."
"We both do. I seen you an' your nephew in that garden late at night more than once. Do you think it is right, Billy? It is cheatin', after all." she said quietly.
Uncle Billy grinned a little, "Nah, ain't no more cheatin' than all the other tricks we all try. They came out of his garden an' he ain't the one that claimed they was the first. I don't believe the good Lord is gonna bar the door or pull the latch string in from Heaven's gate for this one."
Mz. Chappell smiled, snickered and slapped Uncle Billy, "I almost shot you'uns the first time I seen you out there."
"Wouldn't 'a been the first time I was shot at." he said with his orneriest grin.
Cousin Peanut sat on that bench for days showin' off them tomatoes. No one ever knew how good they tasted. He left 'em in that basket till they was right rotten.
His picture ran in the Manchester Enterprise.
Funny thing was, when Cousin Peanut talks about that year, it ain't never the year his Daddy died. It is always the year he had the first tomatoes.
Uncle Billy Gilbert always worked hard to try to be the first to have ripe tomatoes. He would start seeds inside with mason jars over the seedlin's. Them seedlin's would be transplanted out to cold frames as soon as the weather got passable and then into a garden when chance of frost passed.
Other folks had theories, secrets and special seeds saved from one year to the next. No one talked much about how they did it...if they won.
Whichever lucky citizen was the first with a ripe tomatoe would show up with the lovely fruit in downtown Beloved with a smile and the prize to be shown off to all who would stop to look.
In Beloved word would get 'round and everyone would stop to look.
Cousin Peanut tried year after year to be the first with a "mater" but his tendency to forget his garden made him an unlikely candidate for the glory that would be heaped upon the victor. Folks felt bad every year when Cousin Peanut would show up to see the winning tomatoe. He would stand and stare for the longest time. Sister Hazel Budder, the preacher's wife and Cousin Peanut's sister knew when he left he would shed a quiet tear. Cousin Peanut was almost always an "also ran" in about anything he ever tried.
'Cept that one year.
Folks started early with their seedlin's under glass as usual. Uncle Billy Gilbert actually showed Cousin Peanut how to start a little ol' "mason jar greenhouse". Cousin Peanut put out his seedlin's ahead of a lot of folks. Then promptly went back to his old ways of not tendin' the garden much. His Daddy, Vergie was bad sick and his Mama, Mz. Chappell wasn't much better.
That was why Uncle Billy called a nephew of his that worked at the agricultural school at University of Kentucky. He told that nephew, Johnny Gilbert, what he wanted to do...asked if they was tomatoes growin' in the greenhouse and if Johnny would help. Of course Johnny said yes and the famous "Mater Caper" was hatched.
A few nights later Johnny showed up in Beloved. After dark him and Uncle Billy snuck over to Booger Holler where the Chappells lived, dug up Peanut's sorry ol' scraggly tomatoe vines and replaced them with beautiful vines laden with little green fruit.
Cousin Peanut made a haphazard inspection of the garden a day or two later on his way to the little ol' shack out back an' was amazed that his vines were covered with baby tomatoes! He went everywhere braggin' about them little green marbles!
Then promptly forgot them again.
A week or so later, Johnny made another trip and took a secret ride with Uncle Billy over to Booger Holler. Tomatoe vines were traded and transplanted again. Cousin Peanut found that his vines had grown and his tomatoe crop was even better. My oh my how that boy did crow! Even though Vergie couldn't get out to the garden, Cousin Peanut told him about every little tomater! As Vergie an' Mz. Chappell sat in the house together, they would smile and beam at the sudden success of their wayward boy.
The secret gardening trips continued for weeks.
Then Vergie got the pneumonia and Peanut forgot about his tomatoe plants. Vergie didn't last long before he gave it up an' died. He was to be buried in the Chappell graveyard up on the mountain under a sycamore tree overlookin' the little farm he loved.
When Uncle Billy heard that Vergie had died he drove his truck over to the Peabody Post Office an' called Johnny. The night before the funeral Johnny an' Uncle Billy made one more night time raid on Cousin Peanut's garden.
The funeral was held at Booger Holler Holiness Church. Brother Woodrow Budder preached a funeral sermon to beat the band. Folks expected no less, seein' as how Vergie was Brother Woodrow's Daddy-in-Law.
Vergie's casket was carried up the side of the mountain by six strong mountain men. The crowd stood quiet like as final prayers were said and Vergie's boy Chester read the 23rd Psalm. It was a lovely service and the day was glorious up on that hillside. The sun warmed the bodies if not the hearts of the folks gathered to say goodbye one last time.
As folks walked together down the hill they visited and talked quietly. When they got to the bottom of the hill each an' every man jack of 'em stopped an' didn't go another step.
Finally, the Chappell family came down. Mz. Chappell was holdin' on to a couple of her youngin's an' a snifflin' an' such. She was the first to walk through the crowd. She asked what everyone was a doin'. They all pointed to Cousin Peanut's weedy ol' garden patch.
"Peanut, come here, son." Mz. Chappell called.
Peanut made his way through the crowd and looked into his garden. There in the weeds was one beautiful tomatoe vine, curled perfectly around itself an' up a wood stake.
Hangin' from that vine was not one, but two beautiful, perfectly round, red-ripe tomatoes. Peanut reverently picked each and held them in the air for all to see. The crowd sighed "aaahhh" in unison as Cousin Peanut grinned. Everyone knew what this meant. Cousin Peanut had not just the first, but the first AND second ripe tomatoe in Beloved. He had braggin' rights for a year!
Folks offered right then and there to take Peanut to town. Someone found a basket full of biscuits in their car and emptied out the biscuits so Cousin Peanut would have a proper way to display his prize.
Folks left quickly, followin' the truck that carried the champion an' his fruits to the braggin' bench in downtown Beloved. Uncle Billy helped Mz. Chappell an' some of the ladies of the church carry in the bowls of food that friends an' family would gather to eat later.
As he went out for a big ol' bowl of potatoe salad, Mz. Chappell followed him out.
"They ain't no more, Mz. Chappell. This here is the rest of it." Uncle Billy said.
"I ain't here for carryin' no food. I know what you did."
Uncle Billy looked up the mountain, "I don't reckon I know what you are talkin' about."
"We both do. I seen you an' your nephew in that garden late at night more than once. Do you think it is right, Billy? It is cheatin', after all." she said quietly.
Uncle Billy grinned a little, "Nah, ain't no more cheatin' than all the other tricks we all try. They came out of his garden an' he ain't the one that claimed they was the first. I don't believe the good Lord is gonna bar the door or pull the latch string in from Heaven's gate for this one."
Mz. Chappell smiled, snickered and slapped Uncle Billy, "I almost shot you'uns the first time I seen you out there."
"Wouldn't 'a been the first time I was shot at." he said with his orneriest grin.
Cousin Peanut sat on that bench for days showin' off them tomatoes. No one ever knew how good they tasted. He left 'em in that basket till they was right rotten.
His picture ran in the Manchester Enterprise.
Funny thing was, when Cousin Peanut talks about that year, it ain't never the year his Daddy died. It is always the year he had the first tomatoes.
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