Ode to Ollie Jones

His name was Ollie Jones. He was a native of Magoffin County. Ollie could barely hear, had very poor vision and a speech impediment that made him hard to understand. Ollie was a short man standing about five feet two inches tall and he wore a huge straw hat. He had no teeth. His lower lip overlapped the upper one and touched his nose. I met Ollie at my Granny and Paw Huff's house. Granny kept people who had nowhere to live. Ollie was one of them. When I saw him first, he was standing on the front porch beside the open well where he had just drawn a fresh bucket of cold water. He dipped his cup in the bucket and began to drink. When he set the cup on the well I saw him. It looked as if his chin was under his nose and he had no mouth. I was a little apprehensive… until he smiled …and his eyes lit up like candles.

He was a lovable little man very caring, open and honest. He had little formal education. We came to love him. Then he was gone. Until one day Mom got a phone call. I don't know who it was but they had news about Ollie. I heard Mom say his name then she got real quiet. It seems our law enforcing authorities arrested him and put him in jail for vagrancy. After all this 70+ year old man was out after curfew….Little did they know, it was the best thing they could have done for Ollie. But they had no idea of the fury about to rain down upon them.

 It upset Mom, a little woman with a big heart and a soft spot for older people. She went to town and brought Ollie home with her.

Mom was upset to say the least. What she saw burned an image in her mind that would not go away.

Ollie was in a cell that smelled of human urine and feces. It seems some young teens thought it fun to throw things at him, to stop up his commode with toilet paper, call him names and bully him through the door of the cell. A dead rat was in the floor beside the makeshift bed. Ollie cried when he saw mom. Perhaps he knew someone cared. Perhaps it was relief. Perhaps he knew he would be rescued, his prayers answered.

The story was one she could not or would not forget.

Phone call after phone call to Frankfort and threats to come sit in their offices till something was done finally got her to a person who listened. She vividly told the story about abuse of an elder from our community.

Whether anything happened because of Mom's efforts is unknown. I've always been told there was an investigation and a couple of people lost their jobs due to negligence.  Whether there was or was not an investigation, Mom felt better. She didn't give up. She stood up for what she believed was right.

Ollie lived with us for many years. He nicknamed everyone in the family and some who were not. It was his way of remembering us. When his health declined so much that Mom couldn't care for him in her home, she admitted Ollie to the Nursing Home in Salyersville where she visited him once a week throughout his life.

This is a story about Ollie Jones and a snapshot of my mom in her prime. Small in stature but a giant when she is committed to an issue. I'm not sure how many older people she kept in our home. I remember several who were members of our community and several more who were placed here by the State from the Eastern State Hospital. All of them were treated like family but Ollie Jones has a special place in our hearts. 

Mary's Sheep

They’re everywhere and they’re every color. Black ones, white ones, spotted ones….and she names them all.  And the babies….well, she gives them a hug and a kiss just like she would her own babies at nap time….but wait, aren’t they her babies? 

The expression on Mary Skaggs’ face changes from happy to sad back to happy again as she remembers her father and the tradition of sheep in her family. 2015 marks the 60^th year the sheep have been in her family.

“My favorite memory of growing up with a sheep farmer as my dad was going into the fields after the babies were born and carrying them to the barn. Mom and Dad and my brothers and sisters all helped. Dad would put the babies up with their mommies for a few days to make sure they would be ok. We still do that today” said Mary (Rose) Skaggs

            Russell (Plummer) Rose was 28 years old in 1955 when he brought home two Dorset Cross lambs, one ewe and one ram.

His daughter Doris remembers “He was working in construction in Chillicothe, Ohio and staying with Uncle Kit and Aunt Bess. Uncle Kit would bring him home almost every week-end. I remember the day he brought those two little sheep home with him. From time to time he would bring more ewes until he had built a flock of about 30 sheep”.

“Daddy named him Lamb Chop”. Mary’s sister, Loy, remembers her favorite sheep, a little ram. “His mom, Edna, had triplets and she didn’t have enough milk to feed all three so she didn’t want him. I bottled fed him until he was old enough to eat on his own”.

Plummer Rose loved sheep and the land where he raised them, a farm of about 400 acres on Mauk Ridge. He said “They are the most humble creatures God created”. Plummer named each one at birth. Although, he would not harvest the sheep and use them as food, from time to time, he did sale them. “He made it plain that the person purchasing the sheep was not to talk about its fate”, Mary remembers.

In 2005, fifty years after he brought those first two little sheep home, Plummer Rose died from complications of bone and prostate cancer. In January of that year he called his daughter Mary (Rose) Skaggs. She recalls, “It was Sunday after church”, Mary recalls. “His voice was very week. He said ‘I want you to come over and bring your cattle trailer’. When I asked why he just said, ‘Don’t ask why, just come’. John Paul”, Mary’s husband, “and I went out there. He said ‘You’re the only one that has shown the same interest as I have in my sheep. Just promise me you will carry on the tradition”.

“We brought 20-30 sheep home with us. That was ten years ago but it seems like yesterday.”

“I still have the blood line of those two sheep Dad first brought home. Following his tradition, we purchase a new ram each year and keep some of the ewes. Right now we have a flock of 50 counting all the mommies and babies. We care for the sheep, as much as I can, just the way Daddy did”.

As it was while Mary was growing up, tending the sheep is a family project. She and John Paul are joined by their son, Daniel and daughter Emily (Skaggs) Kiser. 

“If it was up to Mary, we would never sell a sheep but we can’t keep them all. We take some to market but rarely do we sell them locally”, said John Paul.

“Just like Daddy, I name each one when it’s born and watch them grow up. They have a personality all their own”, Mary said.

“It shouldn’t take over half hour to feed the sheep but it takes Mary at least two hours” John Paul says with a big smile.

“When I was younger, I wondered why Dad wanted to keep the sheep. It seemed like something was always killing them. The neighbor’s dogs, coyotes, and accidents seemed to take a lot of them away. Now I understand exactly why he kept them. I like to watch them. When I look at the sheep, I think about Daddy. He thought they were the most humble creature God created. To me, he was the most humble person who ever lived. I believe he lives on through the sheep”.

“I think Daddy would be proud of me for the way we raise the sheep with respect and love. I hope my children, Daniel and Emily, will carry on the tradition when John Paul can no longer do it.

Mary and John Paul are not the only members of Plummer Rose’s family who have sheep from his blood line. His great nephew, Donnie and Lori Rose purchased sheep from Mary and John Paul. “Last week when it was 0 degrees outside, one of mine had three babies. She got mastitis and couldn’t feed them so I’m bottle feeding all three,” Donnie said. Donnie and Lori, they too, see the need to carry on the tradition.

Magical Night

 We, as parents, want to give our children a better life than we had. So we purchase expensive gifts, computers and tablets and ipads and cars before they’re mature enough to have one and the list goes on and on and on. Sometimes I wonder why we do such things. When I think back, and when I talk with my children about growing up it isn’t the purchased things they remember. When my youngest son was just six months old, I took my two boys and  ran away from home to never go back again. That's another story too long to tell here. Josh, Kevin and I grew up together at a place we call “the End of the Road”. Many special memories were created in this house and yard and the farm that surrounds it.

Now, in the middle of a cold January my thoughts go back to a snowy night when Kev was about three years old and Josh was nine.

Late in the evening a few huge snowflakes started falling. We sat in the window and counted them, one, two three….

A bit later they were falling faster but still huge we had to count them by twos, two, four, six, eight….

But then those giant flakes really started coming down we counted them by tens…. ten, twenty, thirty, forty….then there was so many we couldn’t count them.

When dark came the driveway to our neighbor’s house was covered with about four inches of snow.

“Wanna go out and play in the snow”, I asked with excitement

“Mom, it’s dark”, Josh was a bit apprehensive.

“Oh but we can see by the night lights”. The light at the corner of our yard and the one in our closest neighbor’s yard met making the snow glisten like sun dancing on a frosty field.

I put Kev’s snow suit on him. He looked like the Michelin man with his arms stuck out and his legs almost stiff from all the padding. By the time I got dressed, Josh was ready to go.

Josh helped me dig through the bathroom closet to find a rope.

When we got outside, we wrapped the center of the rope around my tummy and tied the ends to the handles on the sled. I placed Kevin on the sled so I could pull him down the road. Josh ran from Kevin to me and then behind the sled to help push. Yonna, our dog, bounced and barked alongside Kevin and the sled.

The snow was still falling fast. Large flakes looked the size of quarters or larger. The light glistened on the white crystals that had piled up on the ground. They clung to the needles on the pine trees bowing their limbs toward the ground. Big eyes full of excitement were all I could see when I looked at Josh and Kev. Hoods and masks to keep them warm hid everything else.

We parked the sled under Verdie’s night light. Josh Helped Kev off the sled and the tree of us played in the snow. 

“Open your mouth and stick out your tongue. See if you can catch some flakes. We must have looked silly running around in circles catching snowflakes and laughing out loud. 

Josh thought his mom was crazy for sure when I stepped out of the rope and lay down in the snow. I started waving my arms and feet back and forth through the snow.

“This is how you make snow angels. Wanna make one”.

The three of us lay side by side in that field of snow and made a family of angels while Yonna pranced all around us.

After walking, running and throwing some snow we started the trek back to the house. It was a much quieter walk. I looked back at Kev in the sled, he had laid down with his hands under his head trying hard to keep his eyes open. Josh yawned and Yonna was walking instead of bouncing.

Carrying Kev into the house was a chore. He must have weighed twenty pounds more than when we left the house.

There’s nothing warmer than hickory burning in a cast iron stove when your toes and fingers are frozen. After we thawed and had our jammies on, I tucked Kevin in bed and kissed him goodnight. He was fast asleep before I could turn out the light. I sat in the floor looking out the window. Josh came sneaking down the hall.

“Mom”, he said as he put both arms around my neck then with a big kiss to the cheek he said “Thank you for this magical night”. Before I could say anything, he was off to his bedroom.

As I lay there in the floor watching the snow pile even deeper I thought about his words. I would never have imagined a walk in the snow would be seen through the eyes of a child as a “magical night” but indeed, it was. Now, more than twenty years later that night seems like yesterday, but, too, it seems like another lifetime. Sometimes I steal a few moments to lie in the floor in front of the stove with hickory wood crackling and the ceiling fan humming. I close my eyes and think about the kisses on the cheek, the hot chocolate after sledding and playing in Laurel Creek or riding the merry go round at Grayson Lake. It makes me happy to think about those simple things we did as a family, just the three of us. This little bit of time lying in the floor, it's my magical moments.

Just An Old Boker Knife               

Why, you could buy just about anything you wanted at  Wilbur Powers's store there on the banks of the Licking River in Magoffin County. He had gears for the mules, flour for baking, and for fifteen cents the kids at the one roomed school could buy bologna, oyster crackers and a coke a cola for lunch. That's where my grandfather bought his long barrel .38 special he carried in a shoulder holster under his coat. And, that’s where he purchased his Boker knife.

“I don’t know when he purchased the knife. I know he had it when he bought his gun in 1950. I figure he bought the knife sometime in the ‘30’s” my father said when I asked “How old is the knife”.

My grandfather loved his pocket knife. He carried it everywhere he went. He used it to work on practically everything and when he wasn't working he would pull  it out along with a cedar whittling stick he carried and he would whittle. Oh, he never created any wonderful work of art, never carved a fine family heirloom. He just made tiny shavings that twisted as he carved them from the larger stick. He called them whirly Q’s. Granny put the piles of whirly Q’s in tiny bags made from cheese cloth and  put them in her dresser drawers to keep the clothes  smelling fresh.

One day while Paw was disking a bottom with his mules, Barney and Tobe, getting ready to set out tobacco, he lost his knife. He knew he had it when he started work because he used it to work Ole Tobe’s collar. He looked for his knife every day, even had us looking for it when we worked the tobacco. After looking for a few hours one winter day, Paw said “Guess it’s just gone. Don’t matter much. It ain't worth nothin’. Probably couldn't sell it for $5.00 if I tried”.

The next spring as Dad was disking the bottom with Barney and Tobe, getting ready to set out the tobacco, something shiny caught his eye. He thought it was one of those pretty rocks with the flecks in it so he went on about the task at hand. On his next round it seemed the sun caught that shiny thing and cast a beam straight to his eye. He just had to check it out. He followed that beam out into the middle of the field but it seemed to be coming from nothing. He bent down to to look closer and sure enough he pulled Paw’s knife from the ground.

Dad couldn’t wait to give the knife to his father. He cleaned it up the best he could there in the field. At dinner, Dad, with the knife held tight, held his hand out toward Paw.

“Humph, what is it”, Paw asked, “I’m eatin' my dinner”.

 “Well, just hold out your hand and you’ll see”, Dad said.

When Paw held his hand out flat and Dad dropped the knife in his hand, there were no words to say. Paw, shook the knife in his hand, he rubbed the handles with his thumb, and looked from the knife to Dad and back to the knife. He shook his head up and down and from side to side, put the knife in his pocket and continued to eat his dinner.

A few months before my grandfather died in 1983, he and Dad were sitting in the glider on the front porch whittlin’. When Paw was through, he shut the old Boker closed his hand around it and held his hand out toward Dad.

“What!” Dad said.

“Well, it should be yours. You found it. ain’t worth much, probably couldn't get $5.00 out of it if you tried.

There were no words for Dad to say. He took the knife, rubbed the handles with his thumb, tossed it up and down a bit, and put it in his pocket. He carried that knife over 30 years. He used it for almost everything, even to work on Ole Tobe’s gears. Sometimes he would pull it out just to whittle. Oh, he never created any great works of art, no family heirlooms, just made whirly Q’s from a stick of cedar he carried in his pocket. Mom kept some in the dresser drawers to freshen the clothes.

About three weeks ago, I saw Dad with his little knife collection out. He picked up each knife, rubbed the handles, and held them in his hand as if to whittle.

“What are you doing”, I asked my father.

“Well, I’m looking for a good pocket knife. This old one of Paw Huff’s, well, the handles are loose and some of the blades are loose and I’m afraid I might lose it so I’m gonna put it up to keep. I don’t know  why, it ain’t worth nothing. Probably couldn't sell it for $5.00 if I tried. But  I still wanna keep it.”

Dad reached me the knife to look at. “Do you think it could be fixed”, he asked

I held the knife in my hand, it seemed to fit. It felt good. I rubbed the handles with my thumb and tossed it up and down in my hand and thought “if only you could talk oh what stories you could tell’ “Dad I know a knife maker, let me take it and see if he can work on it”. Dad agreed.

The knife maker thought it might be beyond his skills to work on such an heirloom. To no avail, I questioned everyone about getting the knife worked on. No one seemed to know. I had almost given up hope when Gene came in and handed me a neon yellow card with “Danny Ball” and a phone number on it. Underneath he had circled the word knife.

“I hear he can work on your dad’s knife. You should call him” he said

I called Danny. Told him the story of the knife. Told  him it probably wasn't worth anything, probably couldn’t get $5.00 from it I tried to sell it but it’s worth is immeasurable to my father”.

“Yes, I work on knives, bring it over. I’ll take a look at it”. My heart was filled with hope.

“Oh, My! Danny Ball said when he saw the near 100 year old knife, “That’s an old Boker. Look at those handles, why they’re wore paper thin. This knife has really been used. It’s been cared for too”. Danny opened the knife “This is one of the best knives you could ever buy. Them old fellers, they didn’t buy knifes to put in a collection, to look at, they bought knives to use. And this was one of the best”.

Danny looked at me and continued to talk “I can fix the knife but I won’t promise anything about the handles. These handles are made of bone and they get brittle with age. I’m afraid they might shatter when I start working with them. But”, he said, “if they do, I have some authentic Boker handles I can replace them with”.

A few days later Gene picked up the knife. It had new handles. It must have looked exactly like it did when Paw Huff bought it from Wilbur Powers, all shiny and new. Danny had cleaned the blades and sharpened them to a fine edge.

“He said he was afraid to mess with the old handles but he sent them back to you”, Gene said.

 I picked up those old handles and rubbed them with my thumbs. All those years of work and whittling had worn them slick. I could barely see a shadow where the Boker emblem had once told the brand. I put them in a jewelry box to bring to dad. It was almost like they were sacred. So much family history, an heirloom I would never have expected to hold in my hands. Just old knife handles….without a knife…with no value.

 I couldn’t wait to give Dad the knife. He was eating supper when I got there. I went straight to the table with the knife clasped tight in my hands. I held them close to my  father’s plate.

 “What is it? I’m eating supper”, my father said.

 “Hold out your hands. I've got something for you”.

 As I dropped the knife in my dad’s gnarled and twisted fingers, I said “It’s Paw Huff’s knife. I got it fixed for you. He couldn't put the original handles on it but those are authentic Boker handles and he gave me the old ones.”

 Dad looked at the knife. He bounced it in his hands. He rubbed the handles with his thumbs He looked at me, then the knife. He shook his head from side to side, then up and down, then he put the knife in his pocket and went on eating supper.

 The next day Dad asked “Honey, if I whittle and make a mess in the floor, will you clean it up for me?”

 “Dad, if you will make me some of them cedar whirly Q’s for my dresser drawers, I’ll clean up anything”.

 After he got through whittling he put the little black jewelry box on the coffee table.  He said “Honey, I have no reason to keep these handles, if you want ‘em, you can have ‘em”.

 Those bone handles have almost a hundred years of use by my grandfather and father. I intend to have a necklace made from them, maybe two. Neither of them will be worth much, probably can’t get $5.00 from them, even if I try.. But for me, they will be an everlasting hug from two of the most important men in my life. Just the worn out handles off an old Boker knife….not worth anything at all….

                  Love and Family and the Hills of Kentucky

They were teenagers in love. They stood before the preacher and vowed to love and honor each other “until death do us part”. Joined as one in the eyes of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, they were ready to change the world.

The young couple felt as if they needed to fly, to spread their wings beyond the ancient hills where their family planted roots many generations ago. The young married couple wanted away from the small community where everyone knew everything about everybody and family was far too close….and in their opinion, too nosey. Their dream included a new start where they would create their own place, their own future, where they could make new friends and be away from the same old things they had known all their young lives.  

He soon graduated from college with a degree in journalism. She wanted a career in education. They decided to chase their dream so they packed everything they had in garbage bags threw it in the back of their old jalopy and headed south leaving behind family and loved ones and the landscape that had shaped them.

The old car made it to the land of sunshine and white beaches. Their journey took them to Miami Florida. Night life, the endless ocean, career opportunities, new friends to be made, a whole new life awaited them.

A tiny apartment not far from the beach and in walking distance to all the major event venues seemed just perfect. They were ecstatic with life and each other.

He soon found his dream job as sports journalist with the largest newspaper in Florida, the Miami Sun. She took some time away from college and got a part time job at the public library. He attended all the major sports events, met the biggest names in the industry…she filled her spare time making their apartment uniquely theirs. Happiness radiated all around them.

Together they spent evenings at the beach, going to concerts and just being together. They saw all the big name bands, not the little local groups like back home. Weekends were spent at the beach or sports events. There was never a dull moment in their lives. They were truly living the dream.

The hills were far behind them. Conversations with family back home were few and far between.

            As time flew by it seemed the concerts were all the same and the large crowds were hard to handle. The beach didn’t create the same thrill as it did at first. They sat in the sand and looked across the endless ocean but the excitement wasn’t there anymore. It was always the same.

            He knew something was weighing on her mind because her giggle wasn’t perky and she recently had become very quiet, almost withdrawn. 

            “Something doesn’t seem right”, she said one evening. “I feel something is missing”.  Days went by then she came to him and said quietly, “I want to have a baby”.

            He felt the same. Perhaps a little one would be exactly what they needed to renew their enthusiasm toward life. Yes, a baby would make their family whole.

            A few weeks later the EPT showed positive. The same thrill they felt the day they were wed filled the tiny apartment. They couldn’t wait. Happiness radiated from their faces. They began looking for a larger apartment and buying baby clothes.

            “I don’t want to tell Mom on the phone about the baby. Let’s go for a visit” she said.

            It had been three years since they left the family and hills behind. Maybe a visit would do wonders. Maybe it would remind them of  why they left their childhood home far behind.

            They threw a few things in the back of the car and took off.

            The conversation was lively for a while.

            “What will we name her” she asked

            He called off names of great sports figures.

            She shrugged them off.

            She talked about pink paint and ballerina shoes

            He spoke highly of baseball and college sports

The car became very quiet with each watching in awe as the hills of Central Appalachia popped into the horizon.

            She spoke first “Who will watch our baby?”

            “We will find a day care place” he answered

            “But how will we know if they really watch her”?

            Both were remembering their childhood and the days spent with family, on the farm, and growing up with cousins all around.

            “Let’s not worry about it right now”, he said, “we will find someone to come to the apartment if that’s what you want”.

            She remained quiet.

            “Look there’s where we saw our first movie together”, her voice trembled

            “And there’s the Mountain Arts Center where we went to our first concert” he was excited too.

            As the car followed the twists and turns of the mountain terrain, both knew what they had been missing. It was early spring. Red buds and dogwoods lined the roadways. They were filled with awe at the beauty they once took for granted. “This is what’s missing”, he said. “The hills are never the same”.

            They pulled into the drive way of “home” and family was waiting in the yard, by the road and poured from all doors to meet them.

            Hugs and kisses and “where you been so long”, and “welcome Home” and “we’ve missed you” and more hugs and more kisses welcomed them. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye but turned away when she saw the tear on his cheek.

            A country supper with all the trimmings was a part of the gathering. With the announcement of a new baby, the house broke into cheers.

            That night they sat on the front porch, gazed at the stars in the night sky and listened to the sounds of their childhood. Crickets and whippoorwills filled the air with song while song and lightening bugs danced to the tune.

            “I don’t want a stranger to keep our baby” she said.

            He put his arm around her shoulders. He knew she was holding back tears.

            “Who do you want to be the babysitter”, he asked as gently as possible.

            “I want to come home. I want our baby to grow up with family and know where he came from and who he is. Can we come home”. Now her tears were more than she could hold back.

            “I think that’s the greatest idea yet”, he said

            He gave two weeks’ notice, she packed up the apartment. They moved back to the hills that wrapped them in love and bought a mobile home. He got a job with the Salyersville Independent as sports editor. He covered every high school game in the region. She got a job at McDonalds. They went to concerts of local bands and danced to traditional music. Happiness radiated from them.

            That little boy, named after two great sports stars, grew up with family and is now a sophomore in college.

            And they truly lived happily ever after.