To know
In your heart of hearts
To feel
Deep within your spirit
To rest
In the blessed assurance
That there is a place
Called Home.
Saturday, November 06, 2004
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Beattyville
Greetings from Beattyville, Kentucky. Beattyville is world famous for the annual Wooly Worm Festival. I am storytelling tomorrow and sit in a little bitty motel on the hill above the town.
As I came through the Natural Bridge area I slowed down and rolled my window down so I could hear the many voices of the rills and falls coming off the mountainsides. It has rained a good bit recently, so the creeks were up in each holler I passed.
Dark thunderheads herded up over the mountains and every now and again a cloud calved and made the sky even deeper in color. I listened close for the sound of thunder rumbling over the hills and in the valleys near Slade. I didn't want it to rain yet, but I yearned for the slow grumblin' of a storm just waitin' to start.
The trees have turned and already lost most of the leaves that make Natural Bridge a destination for Yankees wantin' to get a bite of Appalachia. Instead folks can look into the hills and see the rough slate and rock stickin' through the skin thin layer of topsoil. As I drove I heard magnolias holler out, "hey, hi Uncle". The hills whisper, "howdy cousin, how's mom-n-them?" Deep in the trees deer and turkeys pause and wonder how long I'll be stayin' this time. The fog swirls around me, teasin', tryin' to push me through to another time.if only I'd say "yes".
Now, cousins, if you come to Beattyville, don't get uppity about where to eat. I asked and was told 'bout the best place was the Purple Cow and so I sat me down and ordered supper. (Dinner here is what folks have on Sunday afternoon. Lunch is the noon meal and supper you have in the evening.) I had a green salad, turnip greens with a little dash of vinegar, home fries and a big ol' piece of country ham that hung over the plate 'bout like my Uncle Taft's belly hung over his belt. You won't believe this, but they brought me a corn cake AND a biscuit with real butter and home grown apple butter - made in a copper kettle.
Menfolks came in and sat at the counter and ordered various meals.country fried steak, meatloaf, ¼ of chicken fried in a cast iron skillet. (I asked and was sorry I didn't know that. Tomorrow before I leave I'll go back for supper and order that up.) They spoke of many things, tobacco prices, the Wooly Worm Festival and the woman that got "Citizen of the Year" but ain't done nothin' for Lee County OR Beattyville. I bought a paper so's I could read all the news and see these folks who race caterpillars at this festival.
Tonight I rode back up the hill and parked. As I got out I looked back down the hill and saw the mist had wrapped the trees and hillside so it almost seemed like a magic. I stood and wondered what might come walking out of the mist to greet a curious storyteller.
Oh My Darlin' an' y'all might walk in my steps here and maybe not see the glory of the hills, the beauty of a waitress, grown hard an' old from the wearin' down mountains do to folks. My meal, served on ol' melmac dishes might not taste of manna to you'uns. It is real, it is earthy and hit is home.
I will sleep well tonight, dear cousins. Not because the bed is soft. My dreams will be full and humble. I will fly like a red tail hawk over this place and look out upon a thousand miracles. I will rush up above the thunderheads and race the lightenin' down to the deepest holler. I'll throw on dungarees an' well used brogans, passed down through generations to me an' run the hills like a wild man. I will not see enough. I will look left an' right as I run, chasin' the deer an' scarin' the coon to the trees.
I will eat the feast of Appalachia and never be full, drink deep of the sweet waters flowin' from the mountains and never quench my thirst for this place. These hills are a passionate and jealous lover. They will hold me and thrill me throughout the night and turn me loose only when mornin' comes.
I wish you were here with me, dear ones. I would take you to the hoedown in the hills an' help you meet an' greet this place with me.
As I came through the Natural Bridge area I slowed down and rolled my window down so I could hear the many voices of the rills and falls coming off the mountainsides. It has rained a good bit recently, so the creeks were up in each holler I passed.
Dark thunderheads herded up over the mountains and every now and again a cloud calved and made the sky even deeper in color. I listened close for the sound of thunder rumbling over the hills and in the valleys near Slade. I didn't want it to rain yet, but I yearned for the slow grumblin' of a storm just waitin' to start.
The trees have turned and already lost most of the leaves that make Natural Bridge a destination for Yankees wantin' to get a bite of Appalachia. Instead folks can look into the hills and see the rough slate and rock stickin' through the skin thin layer of topsoil. As I drove I heard magnolias holler out, "hey, hi Uncle". The hills whisper, "howdy cousin, how's mom-n-them?" Deep in the trees deer and turkeys pause and wonder how long I'll be stayin' this time. The fog swirls around me, teasin', tryin' to push me through to another time.if only I'd say "yes".
Now, cousins, if you come to Beattyville, don't get uppity about where to eat. I asked and was told 'bout the best place was the Purple Cow and so I sat me down and ordered supper. (Dinner here is what folks have on Sunday afternoon. Lunch is the noon meal and supper you have in the evening.) I had a green salad, turnip greens with a little dash of vinegar, home fries and a big ol' piece of country ham that hung over the plate 'bout like my Uncle Taft's belly hung over his belt. You won't believe this, but they brought me a corn cake AND a biscuit with real butter and home grown apple butter - made in a copper kettle.
Menfolks came in and sat at the counter and ordered various meals.country fried steak, meatloaf, ¼ of chicken fried in a cast iron skillet. (I asked and was sorry I didn't know that. Tomorrow before I leave I'll go back for supper and order that up.) They spoke of many things, tobacco prices, the Wooly Worm Festival and the woman that got "Citizen of the Year" but ain't done nothin' for Lee County OR Beattyville. I bought a paper so's I could read all the news and see these folks who race caterpillars at this festival.
Tonight I rode back up the hill and parked. As I got out I looked back down the hill and saw the mist had wrapped the trees and hillside so it almost seemed like a magic. I stood and wondered what might come walking out of the mist to greet a curious storyteller.
Oh My Darlin' an' y'all might walk in my steps here and maybe not see the glory of the hills, the beauty of a waitress, grown hard an' old from the wearin' down mountains do to folks. My meal, served on ol' melmac dishes might not taste of manna to you'uns. It is real, it is earthy and hit is home.
I will sleep well tonight, dear cousins. Not because the bed is soft. My dreams will be full and humble. I will fly like a red tail hawk over this place and look out upon a thousand miracles. I will rush up above the thunderheads and race the lightenin' down to the deepest holler. I'll throw on dungarees an' well used brogans, passed down through generations to me an' run the hills like a wild man. I will not see enough. I will look left an' right as I run, chasin' the deer an' scarin' the coon to the trees.
I will eat the feast of Appalachia and never be full, drink deep of the sweet waters flowin' from the mountains and never quench my thirst for this place. These hills are a passionate and jealous lover. They will hold me and thrill me throughout the night and turn me loose only when mornin' comes.
I wish you were here with me, dear ones. I would take you to the hoedown in the hills an' help you meet an' greet this place with me.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
The Love of a Woman
The love of a woman
Is best expressed
Not by passion
But by soft snores
Next to you
Night after night.
The passion of a woman
Can't be shown
In makin' love.
Instead it is manifest
Sittin' in church
By a wink and raised eyebrows.
The loyalty of a wife
Will not be measured
By how she wears a golden band
It is shown best
When in deepest sleep
She whispers your name.
Is best expressed
Not by passion
But by soft snores
Next to you
Night after night.
The passion of a woman
Can't be shown
In makin' love.
Instead it is manifest
Sittin' in church
By a wink and raised eyebrows.
The loyalty of a wife
Will not be measured
By how she wears a golden band
It is shown best
When in deepest sleep
She whispers your name.
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Pruneshine
I was thinkin' about my Cousin Peanut the other day and remembered the time he decided to be a moonshiner. Now Peanut wasn't the brightest star in the Chappell family, as I have told y'all before. When he told me he was buildin' a still...well, I shuddered to say the least. I could just see ol' Peanut layin' on some hillside all blowed up an' all from some sorry ol' still.
When I went over off Booger Holler to see his handiwork I was plumb shocked. Not only did he make a still, it was some kind o' fancy still. He had gone over the Fort Knox and bought a surplus jet fuel tank and had put all sorts of copper tubin' on it along with pressure gages an' works that made one first class still.
He had taken some of his Daddy's field corn an' sprouted it to run a small batch. He also had got into his Mama's sugar to run the test batch. He told me he planned on sellin' the batch, replacin' the corn an' sugar an' buyin' his own supplies.
The first batch had run off an' he was skimmin' the foam an' all off the top. That is what we call "headpop" an' you don't want to even get near that stuff. It tastes bad an' will get a feller sicker than a dog. The shine beaded up real nice an' told him it was a pure batch.
Cousin Peanut gave me a little ol' mason jar half full to take home. He know I don't drink the stuff, but my Daddy put rock candy an' lemon juice in shine to make some awful good cough syrup. Daddy seemed to get the cough right often when he had his homemade cough syrup.
I did let it set for a week or two before Daddy mixed up the cough syrup. When he tried a sip of the shine he declared it the best he ever had tasted. We thought Cousin Peanut had found his callin'.
Heck, he even washed his hands as he was makin' the shine.
Peanut sold that whole batch an' went to town to get supplies. He replaced his daddy Vergie's field corn an' his Mama didn't even miss the sugar. His next batch was just as good an' word spread about Peanut's shine. Folks came from as far as Kingdom Come an' Hell for Certain, Bullskin an' over to Teges Creek to buy a mason jar full of pure, clear moonshine from Cousin Peanut.
Then Dobson's had a run on sugar at the end of summer when all the womenfolk started puttin' up muscadine jelly. The muscadine grapes had been plentiful an' there is no better jelly than muscadine grape jelly (muscadine wine ain't bad, either). Them womenfolk knew they better make all they could. The Farmer's Almanac said it was going to be a bad winter an' folks might not see as many grapes next year.
So, when Peanut went to town to buy supplies for the next batch, they was very little sugar. An' to beat it all, Knuckles Feed Store was out of corn.
Cousin Peanut was resourceful. He went to every little store around my hometown of Beloved an' bought sugar in little bags till he had enough.
Corn was a different matter. There was no corn to be had. Then Peanut had an idea. He heard they were givin' out commodity cheese an so on. Sometimes they gave out other commodities, so Peanut went over.
They had no corn, but Lizzie Bishop, the woman that ran the commodity program told Peanut she had over 500 pounds of dried prunes no one wanted.
Peanut took 'em an' made his way over to Booger Holler where he started soakin' them prunes in pure branch water till they swelled up right nice. He then put them in his jet fuel tank boiler with a little yeast to let them ferment.
Cousins, I have to tell you that the shine he made was some of the prettiest stuff ever to come out of a still. It was deep purple, almost black an' clear as a moonlit night with not a bit of floatin' stuff in the bottom.
It tasted pretty good too.
Folks came around all day Saturday to buy some of Peanut's new shine. Ol' Hap Collins laughed an' said it weren't moonshine, it were "Pruneshine" an' the name stuck.
Cousin Peanut had 147 quarts of the stuff an' sold it all that very day. It tasted so good that folks sat on porches an' in barns drinkin' it all day an into the night.
Then the s#$t hit the fan, so to speak.
What Cousin Peanut did not realize was that as he cooked down them prunes, their medicinal qualities were concentrated. Peanut had made the strongest, most potent laxative liquor ever known to mankind.
The next day was Sunday an' churches showed the effect of Cousin Peanut's Pruneshine. Dozens of men, hundreds even failed to show up to take their traditional place at the Baptist Church, the Methodist Church, the Presbyterian Church, shucks, even Brother Woodrow Budder over to the Booger Holler holiness Church noticed a dip in men folks comin' to church.
All over my hometown of Beloved the same scene happened; folks would go to bed with a pleasant buzz in their head. A few hours later, eyelids would fly open as would back doors as men...an' quite a few women made a run for the little shack out back.
'Bout the time they would finally start back the path to go in an' back to bed...the prune shine would grab their guts again. Most folks finally jus' got comfortable an stayed in the outhouse readin' the magazines left there. If your drove up any creek in the county you could tell who bought Pruneshine from the moanin' comin' from the outhouses.
That ended Cousin Peanut's moonshinin' venture, but I heard that Procter and Gamble bought the recipe from Cousin Peanut an' sell it even today for relief of constipation.
When I went over off Booger Holler to see his handiwork I was plumb shocked. Not only did he make a still, it was some kind o' fancy still. He had gone over the Fort Knox and bought a surplus jet fuel tank and had put all sorts of copper tubin' on it along with pressure gages an' works that made one first class still.
He had taken some of his Daddy's field corn an' sprouted it to run a small batch. He also had got into his Mama's sugar to run the test batch. He told me he planned on sellin' the batch, replacin' the corn an' sugar an' buyin' his own supplies.
The first batch had run off an' he was skimmin' the foam an' all off the top. That is what we call "headpop" an' you don't want to even get near that stuff. It tastes bad an' will get a feller sicker than a dog. The shine beaded up real nice an' told him it was a pure batch.
Cousin Peanut gave me a little ol' mason jar half full to take home. He know I don't drink the stuff, but my Daddy put rock candy an' lemon juice in shine to make some awful good cough syrup. Daddy seemed to get the cough right often when he had his homemade cough syrup.
I did let it set for a week or two before Daddy mixed up the cough syrup. When he tried a sip of the shine he declared it the best he ever had tasted. We thought Cousin Peanut had found his callin'.
Heck, he even washed his hands as he was makin' the shine.
Peanut sold that whole batch an' went to town to get supplies. He replaced his daddy Vergie's field corn an' his Mama didn't even miss the sugar. His next batch was just as good an' word spread about Peanut's shine. Folks came from as far as Kingdom Come an' Hell for Certain, Bullskin an' over to Teges Creek to buy a mason jar full of pure, clear moonshine from Cousin Peanut.
Then Dobson's had a run on sugar at the end of summer when all the womenfolk started puttin' up muscadine jelly. The muscadine grapes had been plentiful an' there is no better jelly than muscadine grape jelly (muscadine wine ain't bad, either). Them womenfolk knew they better make all they could. The Farmer's Almanac said it was going to be a bad winter an' folks might not see as many grapes next year.
So, when Peanut went to town to buy supplies for the next batch, they was very little sugar. An' to beat it all, Knuckles Feed Store was out of corn.
Cousin Peanut was resourceful. He went to every little store around my hometown of Beloved an' bought sugar in little bags till he had enough.
Corn was a different matter. There was no corn to be had. Then Peanut had an idea. He heard they were givin' out commodity cheese an so on. Sometimes they gave out other commodities, so Peanut went over.
They had no corn, but Lizzie Bishop, the woman that ran the commodity program told Peanut she had over 500 pounds of dried prunes no one wanted.
Peanut took 'em an' made his way over to Booger Holler where he started soakin' them prunes in pure branch water till they swelled up right nice. He then put them in his jet fuel tank boiler with a little yeast to let them ferment.
Cousins, I have to tell you that the shine he made was some of the prettiest stuff ever to come out of a still. It was deep purple, almost black an' clear as a moonlit night with not a bit of floatin' stuff in the bottom.
It tasted pretty good too.
Folks came around all day Saturday to buy some of Peanut's new shine. Ol' Hap Collins laughed an' said it weren't moonshine, it were "Pruneshine" an' the name stuck.
Cousin Peanut had 147 quarts of the stuff an' sold it all that very day. It tasted so good that folks sat on porches an' in barns drinkin' it all day an into the night.
Then the s#$t hit the fan, so to speak.
What Cousin Peanut did not realize was that as he cooked down them prunes, their medicinal qualities were concentrated. Peanut had made the strongest, most potent laxative liquor ever known to mankind.
The next day was Sunday an' churches showed the effect of Cousin Peanut's Pruneshine. Dozens of men, hundreds even failed to show up to take their traditional place at the Baptist Church, the Methodist Church, the Presbyterian Church, shucks, even Brother Woodrow Budder over to the Booger Holler holiness Church noticed a dip in men folks comin' to church.
All over my hometown of Beloved the same scene happened; folks would go to bed with a pleasant buzz in their head. A few hours later, eyelids would fly open as would back doors as men...an' quite a few women made a run for the little shack out back.
'Bout the time they would finally start back the path to go in an' back to bed...the prune shine would grab their guts again. Most folks finally jus' got comfortable an stayed in the outhouse readin' the magazines left there. If your drove up any creek in the county you could tell who bought Pruneshine from the moanin' comin' from the outhouses.
That ended Cousin Peanut's moonshinin' venture, but I heard that Procter and Gamble bought the recipe from Cousin Peanut an' sell it even today for relief of constipation.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
October Frost
First frost this mornin'
Glazin' the windows.
Makin' every blade of grass
Sugar coated.
Old maple tree gets notice
Winter's comin'.
Already he is paintin' his leaves
See them fall.
Ol' dog runs in the sweet grasses
Feelin' the frost as he rolls.
Comes home wet
Time to hunt.
Glazin' the windows.
Makin' every blade of grass
Sugar coated.
Old maple tree gets notice
Winter's comin'.
Already he is paintin' his leaves
See them fall.
Ol' dog runs in the sweet grasses
Feelin' the frost as he rolls.
Comes home wet
Time to hunt.
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