MOONSHINING IN THE HILLS

 

I've been told that if you stood on top of the cliff you could see upwards to 30 or 40 smoke stacks coming out of the gorge. There's a mystique about making moonshine that sparks intrigue with strangers to the hills. But to the elders of the community, it stirs emotions.

             Verdie's lifelong home has been on top of Laurel Gorge in Elliott County. he is 94 years old now and doesn't get about much. It was a different story when he was a young man growing up in his beloved hills.
           
            Verdie dropped his head and his fiery brown eyes looked to the floor when I asked him to tell me about his days of moonshining.

            He slowly raised his brow, looked me straight in the eye and said with a snap in his voice. "I'm not proud of what I did. But times were hard and people had to feed their families. My daddy was a good man, a hard working honest man. He did what he had to do".

             "Nowadays when people go into that gorge, it's to see the beauty and play.  It's fun to slide and crawl down the cliffs and climb the giant rocks, wade and swim in the cool clear waters. Down there you don't hear  cars and people talking. It's almost like a different world.  But when I was young it was a different tale".

            Verdie was quiet as he pushed himself up from his worn recliner. He stood tall and squared his shoulders. His eyes grew distant as he raised his hand and pointed to the top of the hill. He went back to a different time.

            "Yeah, I helped pappy make the product. We made the best around. People came from miles, as far as Washington DC to buy from my pappy. Our little place of business was right close to the creek so we could get fresh water to use. It wasn't easy and It wasn't safe. I carried every thing we needed for the product  down over that cliff to our spot. I carried it on my back.  Corn and sugar in 50 pound bags. "I was fifteen years old", just a boy."

            Verdie's words were carefully chosen and the dashes of his stern brown eyes were from another time.

            "We knowed the revenuers were in the county. Word had spread among the workers. they were bustin up equipment all up and down the creeks and were making their way into the gorges.

            "I'll never forget that day. I had carried everything we had down there. It was sunset when I made my last trip. Everything was green and the flowers blooming. Waterfalls pouring off the cliffs. Spring is a beatiful time here. I was just planning on taking a dip in the creek. I laid down the last bag of corn when I heard something rustling the leaves up on the cliff. Thought it might be a bear, or a deer so  I got real quiet. Then I heard 'em talking. I knowed there wasn't nothing in that gorge that talked to each other like that. Then I saw them, they were really close. They were laughing and talking. the trees had me hid from them. Now, there was a grove of Hemlocks standing nearby our business with limbs all the way to the ground. I grabbed the worm from the still and I ran as fast and quiet as I could go and hid in those hemlocks. I was trembling from my toes to the top of my head. The word was that the revenuers were mean and had shot some people. I was just fifteen. I stood there in those trees as quiet as a mouse. I didn't breathe and I didn't move. Through those trees, I watched them destroy everything we had. They were laughing, it was a game to them, they had no feelings for the people.

            Verdie sat back down in his recliner, his eyes focused straight ahead, his voice softened. He came back to the present. He looked straight in my eyes and said, "My daddy didn't make any more product after that day. Said it was too dangerous".

            Verdie kicked back in his recliner and lit his pipe. I felt he had let me enter a world that almost always has locked doors.

             I told Verdie's story to my father, he leaned back in his recliner, much like Verdie did. He  grinned, looked out the window and said "Yep, your Paw Huff was pretty good at making the product too".

            My eyes got big and my mouth fell open. I had always heard my mom talk about making shine with her father but had no idea that Paw Huff was a moonshiner.

            "He had heard that the revenuers were working their way cross the county so he shut down for a few days. Hid his worm in a pile of shelled corn in the crib".

            Not being a scholar of making moonshine, I asked my father to tell me exactly what is a worm"  It was mom who spoke up and explained the purpose of the worm in a moonshine still.

            "They were made from copper and it was hard to come by. They took a long tube, filled it full of sand, then wrapped the tube around a tree. Then they cut the tree and got it out of the spiral of copper", she said.

            Sure enough, the revenuers came to my grandfathers farm. He was sitting on the front porch waiting for them. They saw the still, Paw left it for them to find so they wouldn't stay so long. then they asked

            "Mr. Huff where's the worm to this still"

 

            "Don't rightfully know", my grandfather told them

            "Mr. Huff, we will search until we find it".

            "Help yourself", Paw told them

            The whole time my grandfather was talking to the revenuers, he was glancing toward the well. When the revenuers started to the well he told them "now if you want to find that worm, 'bout as well go search the corn crib."

            Those revenuers, convinced that no one would tell the truth about where they hid a worm, proceeded to search and dig in the well. Drawing water, dropping in metal objects hoping to bump into it. One actually was lowered into the well to take a look. Thought he could get in there as far as my grandfather could. They didn't find the worm.

            My grandmother was a clever woman. See, Paw would bring the product to the house and store it in the kitchen in gallon jugs. When she heard the revenuers were coming Granny built a bench over the product. She pleated a skirt from a flowered feed sacks from the edge of the bench to the floor. She made pillows to match and put them on the bench.

            "Why don't you all come in have some lunch. I made some fried chicken. You been here most of the evenin', so I know you must be hungry. Now I'll fill your plate and you sit right there on that bench".

            Those revenuers ate the best meal of their lives while sitting on top of my grandfathers product and wondering where that worm might be.

           

 

"When you lay on a summers day,
in a bright and sunny place,
don't look up into the skies,
instead look down and squint your eyes,
Squint them both so very tight
if you look with all your might,
you'll see a land of more than small,
and in this land are bugs, that's all".

        This little poem, with words changed for the seasons, is the introduction to every Bugg Book written by Stephen Cosgrove. I read them to Josh when he was a baby until he started school. Then I read them to Kevin and every child I could possibly read them to thereafter. Each Bugg Book is about a different Bugg with unique concerns, each with a positive way to solve those problems. For short, they are my very favorite children's books.
     "They will make great stories to tell", I thought. "they have all the qualities that make a live story" So I sent the author, Stephen Cosgrove, a message simply asking for permission to tell his stories. I never expected to hear from him. But, I did. About ten minutes after sending the e-mail I got a phone call.
     "It's Stephen for you, Gwenda", Sue said.
      Stphen? Stephen? I tried to get a picture of who Stephen might be so I would know what topic I would be talking about. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect Stephen Cosgrove to call me but he did!!!
      "This is like a rock star calling a teen-ager!" I said to him.
       He laughed.
       I told him my story about his books.
      "Yes, you do have permission to tell the Bugg Books. If you ever have a live performance recording or a voice recording, for that matter, I would like a snippet for my WEB site".
      That had to be one of the greatest phone calls ever. I'm reading Bugg Books every chance I get and remembering the great times I had reading them to my boys. Thank You Stephen Cosgrove.

      My very favorite author is Garry Barker. His "Head of the Holler" essays (stories) are written with words that make you a part of the story. My favorite book is Mitchell Tolle, American Artist.  Garry gave me a copy of the book when it was released.  Recently I made another request to Garry's daughter, Beth Fearin.  I asked if I could tell some of Garry's work as stories. She said Yes! I'm now reading Garry's work again. I wrote the following story about Garry several years ago. It tells about a rocky start between two people who became very good friends. Here's hoping you enjoy it.

GARRY BARKER
November 26, 1943 - July 12, 1011  

            Garry Barker is referred to as an Appalachian Author. Perhaps the title refers to a person whose roots grow deep in a region misunderstood by the rest of our country.  Perhaps it’s because Garry has spent a life time writing essays and books about his homeland. 

            I learned from Garry that even though you have the knowledge, you don’t have to use large words to write beautiful stories drenched with feeling.

            My friendship with Garry and love for his writing grew from an awkward situation that sent chaos throughout our tight knit community. Garry says “it set off an uproar that still echoes off some of the cliffs and hillsides”.

At a 1992 conference in Lexington, I picked up a copy of Appalachian Heritage, a magazine published by Berea College. That day I read Garry Barker’s writing for the first time. My heart ached as I read his vivid description of a local funeral. The lives of three young men, who refused city water because they had a good source, were snatched away when methane gas filled the wells they were cleaning.

Garry’s depiction of faded creased jeans and cowboy boots was perfect. He didn’t miss an ironed pleat or a faded wrinkle. He told how the women looked older than their years caused by too much hard work in the sun and birthing too many babies. Disgust spread through my body.     

I brought the article home for friends to read not realizing it would be distributed throughout our community, even to the heartbroken families of the three young men. 

The librarian pulled Garry’s books from the shelf. The newspaper was filled with disturbing tirades disclaiming Garry and demanding justice.  Garry wrote apologies to the newspaper, he called people and apologized. Nothing worked. 

The newly formed tourism council was in dire need of some positive press and encouragement.  I wondered if Garry could mend a broken community using the power of beautiful words. I had to ask for his help.“Please hold” she said.

 My heart was beating in my throat. My fingers were numb from squeezing the phone too hard and my head pounded from pressing the receiver tight against my ear. My mind was ablaze with what-ifs? What if he yells at me? What if he slams the phone down without talking? What if I stutter? Then I heard “Garry Barker”. For once in my life, I was speechless.  “Hello” he said as if there was no one there.

“Hello, this is Gwenda Adkins in Elliott County” tumbled out.

Silence.

“Will you to write some positive stories about Elliott County for the media.”

 “Are you sure it’s me you want” he asked with a skeptical laugh.

 Instead of a mean hateful voice, I heard country twang with long drawn out words. After our conversation and a promise that he wouldn’t be shot or hung or tarred and feathered and that I would escort him to the county line, he agreed to help.

            The long lanky body that climbed out of the tiny red car was garnished with a

 

weathered face and topped with a black floppy hat. My tensions disappeared.  

       I was Garry’s escort that day. He interviewed artists, crafters, musicians and community activists. Then I had the chance to ask my one burning question, “Why”? Garry explained. I understood.  Garry and I talked until well past midnight. When he left I knew we would be lifelong friends.

“There is no more beautiful drive in all of Appalachia than the dramatic plunge from a ridge top road into the pristine gorge that runs through the heart of Elliott County,” were the first words Garry wrote about his native land. Original essays with brilliant images covered every aspect of our people and natural beauty. Suddenly, Elliott County was featured in regional and national magazines. Then boldly in his Lexington Herald article Garry asked the governor “Is anybody listening”. Finally positive images of Elliott Kentucky graced the front page of the Lexington Herald. Soon grant proposals were funded and we were on a path of never looking back. Garry built a bridge that reconnected him with his family and our community.

          Perhaps age and experience casts a softer light on life’s stories. Garry’s article that created havoc is quiet factual. Although I still believe the topic was in poor taste, I now appreciate the words he wrote. Many times I wished that I had never seen it, but if I had not, I would never have met Garry.

Once, many years ago, I was in a workshop with George Ella Lyon who challenged us to write a bit entitled " I Come From..." Here is what I wrote about home and how I feel about my homeland... This is a preface or prelude to the story below it. Hope you enjoy both. Tell me how you feel about your home, wherever you are.

I come from the Appalachian Hills of Eastern Kentucky.  My roots grow deep in a land where family values are as strong as the mighty oak tree.  In this place, forested mountains separate so narrow valleys can host clear streams that twist and turn through pastures and fields past barns and houses adding to the beauty of family farms, the mainstay of a treasured culture. Home.

Where I come from two lane roads meander through quaint towns. Men gather on courthouse lawns to swap knives and women trade favorite recipes and quilt patterns. I come from Appalachia, where children play and learn in Mother Nature’s endless beauty.

I come from the hills where life is simple. From singing in the front yard to dancing in the streets, from fishing in the rivers to tending the crops, traditions taught by our grandfathers are still treasured. In spring we plant seeds in fresh plowed ground, tend them as they grow, harvest the bounty, and preserve it for winter’s meals.

I come from a place where hard work is a part of life. Where making a living means knowing how to work the fields on the family farm, or how to pick coal hundreds of feet under a mountain top or how to preserve vegetables gathered from the garden just outside the back door. I come from Appalachia, where pride is about an honest job completed to the best of your ability.

I come from the land of tobacco farms and small towns where deals are made by spoken words and a hand shake, where people still trust each other. I come from a place where promises are made to keep.

I come from the Appalachian foothills where young people learn to bait fish hooks and to use a computer. They learn a tradition passed down through stories, yesterday's skills to survive and today’s skills to thrive.

I come from Appalachia where the future holds endless opportunities if you reach out your hands and open your mind, a place where a way of life handed down from yesteryear can lead the way to next year. Where life is simple and lived at a slow pace. Here, we celebrate who we are and where we come from. We reach out and touch the world through technology.

  

I come from the hills. I come from Eastern Kentucky. I come from Appalachia. 

Generations…

Dedicated to my friend Garry Barker

It’s a different world now than it was then. Life in the hills of Eastern Kentucky has changed. Eleven people sat around the table that day learning to write personal memoirs. Most of those people were a little past middle age but not old by any measure. But there were two who were much younger than the rest.

          The conversation and dialogue at this writing workshop spurred memories and feelings as Garry Barker probed into lifelong recollections about growing up during the “good ole days”.

          But the good ole days has different meaning depending on your age. There was a definite generation gap at Garry’s writing workshop.

          Joshua, a student at Morehead State University and his friend were there.

          The elders of the group remembered the Appalachia that was ours. Being woke up early in the morning by the rooster’s crow and trekking through the dark to the “toilet” or “outhouse” were shared memories. Learning life skills to help us survive through hard times was a part of growing up. Words painted pictures  of hot summers with no air conditioning and cold winters with piles of tacked patch work quilts and cracks in the walls stuffed with old newspapers.

          “I believe if our country goes into a depression, we will be better off than most because we have the essentials for survival and the skills to get through” someone said.

          Another person added “I know I can survive from the land. “I know how to plow the earth and grow seeds. I can harvest the crops and preserve them for winter’s food. When we were growing up, everyone learned these skills because they were a necessity”.

          “We had to feed the animals, the cows, chickens, horses, mules, pigs and gather the eggs, and learn to cook them. Hunting was for food not sport. There was no money to buy things, so we raised it on the farm or we did without. Our food, toys, and clothing were all there on the farm.

          Someone else said, “I would tear pictures from the Sears and Roebuck catalog and show them to my grandmother so she could make them from feed sacks. When she was done, they looked just like the picture. I remember that old treadle sewing machine and her foot going up and down so fast on the pedal it was a blur. The needle would fly.”

          “I fear we’re losing the old fashioned way of life and the younger generation doesn't really have any skills”.

          A hush filled the room for a few moments, as Josh dropped his head, static filled the air.

          “We have skills too” Joshua added to the conversation as he looked around the table.

          The discussion was so powerful it filled the room with an invisible spirit of heartfelt emotion. The air was thick with passion for a place and lifestyle that has changed but some how, stayed the same. For a while the whole world was inside that little room with just a table surrounded by conversation. Two different time periods divided by memories of youth and growing up in Eastern Kentucky. It seemed that the group came from two different worlds, but not really.

          Soon memories meshed and common threads were woven into the conversation. What could it be that made this group become ordinary connected folk? It centered around the hills and the streams that flow across the land, the blood that gives life to the world around them. These hills have a spirit. Those of us who grew up here know how the soul is captured by the giant oak tree that reaches out its limbs, those ever loving arms, and wraps them around the mind and body holding tight keeping them attached to a place that remains a mystery to the outside world.

          Joshua continued, “I learned to bait a hook on the same river bank you did. And I roamed the woods and climbed trees. Yes we had a TV and if we were lucky and the wind didn’t blow in the wrong direction, we could get four channels. And we got an Acer Computer when I was in the 6^th grade. There, at the end of the road where I spent my childhood sledding, hiking, and watching the birds, I learned to program it and make it do just about anything I wanted it to. But I learned to fish too, and I gained an appreciation of nature while playing in a stand of pine trees I called “The Dark Woods”. Yes, my generation has skills. On the same farm where my mom and her parents and grandparents before her lived, I learned to make a computer talk”.
 “My love of nature came from the same hills, the same fields, the same streams as yours. It’s an inheritance from my ancestors. I took it a bit farther when I went to college but nothing took away my roots. My love for this place is no less than yours.”          
        “I’m not sure I could plow the land and raise livestock, but I could learn how because it is so much a part of my family’s history, it’s gotta be somewhere inside me. I could do it, if I had too. I may not have the same skills as some of you sitting around the table, but I have some that will help me in this day of technology”.

          It was obvious how much we could learn from each other because of our upbringing and connections through family, friends, kin and this place we love.  

          Feelings were shared and appreciated because the sense of place was the same, Garry challenged each of us write our feelings about growing up in eastern Kentucky, this area called Appalachia.  What resulted were powerful stories about life, an admiration for different generations and the skills shared by all.

          I write this story in memory of my good friend Garry Barker, his love for his home land and the people and place called Appalachia. Garry, we miss you.         

Well, to follow that story, I must post one about my mom. As I say over and over, my roots grow deep and strong. Their strength come from my ancestors beginning with my mother, Arora Belle Burkes Huff and my father, Oakley Huff. I haven't told this story orally yet. I want to because I think it can be brought to life with words, gestures and facial expressions. Maybe I'll try it sometime soon.....Again, Please leave your thoughts for improvement or other constructive criticism said with positive words. Thanks for stopping by!

POWER OUT

The snow came fast and furious piling inches of white crystals on the ground and weighing down the limbs of great oaks and magnificent pine trees until they could no longer stand tall. As the mountains loosened their grip the giants crashed to the ground taking power lines and poles with them. An unwelcome quiet and darkness filled homes. For me, it was a chance to return to a different place and time. One I will never forget but don’t wish to relive.

            The only source of heat in my house is a Baby Fischer wood burning stove. Ceiling fans move the heated air throughout our living quarters keeping the temperature almost even. Wood heat has kept me warm all my life.

             Mom and Dad’s cast iron stove was much like mine except it was tall and round with no fire brick to protect the outside from getting red hot. It took a roaring blaze to heat the small uninsulated frame hut. Cracks under the doors and windows and holes in the floor gave room for winter’s breeze to welcome itself inside.

            The darkness that engulfed my house was brightened by candle light that allowed me to move freely and read until late. Circumstance pulled me back to that other time and place. Through the quiet stillness of the night I heard my Dad say “Alright, its time for bed”. As always, I obeyed my father, blew out the candles, laid my head on my grandfather’s feather pillow and snuggled into one of mom’s worn tacked quilts.

            The next day, I heated water atop my wood stove to wash dishes and bathe just like mom did. In my childhood home the stove sat in the corner of the “front” room. Sunday we gathered our frozen jeans from the outside clothesline and stood them behind it so they would thaw and dry for school.

            In today’s world, my clothes were in the washer when the power went down. Instead of a
clothesline, I hung them on hangers and on the backs of chairs close to the heat.

            Memories, like scenes from an old movie came pouring from the closets of my mind. The ringer washer, the clothes line, the barbed wire fence that held “the heavy clothes” tight and safe from winter’s wind, the wood stoves, were all characters in my memoir.

            As water from the faucet filled a pot, an image of a little girl “drawing” water from an open well appeared. The well was only a few feet from the house but it felt like a mile when it was “your turn” to draw water. The frosty chain that ran through a squeaky pulley and hooked to a galvanized bucket was painted with cold frost and sent stinging pains through young bare hands.

            My greatest fear during the power outage was that the food in the refrigerator and freezer would spoil. I remembered how my mom cooked most of a pig during an ice storm years ago. She gave it to the neighbors who were less fortunate than she. They didn’t have a wood stove and the power was off for several days.

            My mom and dad birthed six children, raised three nephews, and kept her parents within the confines of a four roomed home. She prepared their food on a Warm Morning wood cook stove. The aroma and sound of perking coffee, and the mouth-watering smell of her “made-from-scratch” biscuits filled the morning air. She wore her waist length brown hair braided and twirled around her head. A feed sack apron adorned with flour hand prints covered a starch-ironed oversized frayed shirt that tucked neatly into an ankle length patched skirt cinched at the waist with diaper pins, a hand-me-down from my father’s sister. She never complained.

            My thoughts and movements were surreal during the power outage. The fire in the woodstove was hot enough to make chili and cook four chicken breasts, two for chicken salad

and two for dumplings made in the broth. It’s just enough meat for someone to think “one flew over the pot while it was cooking”…. something my mom said when chicken was limited but she had to feed her family.

            There wasn’t enough space on the stove to cook the pork roast so I sealed it in bags and a bowl and buried it in a tub of snow.

            A mushy box of ice cream reminded me of a childhood treat. I heard my mom say, “Don’t get it from the top, get it from the middle. Don’t go too close to the ground; you’ll get dirt in it”. A bucket of packed snow sweetened with a bit of sugar a teaspoon of vanilla and a cup of fresh cream and we had a special treat mom called “Snow Cream”.      

             As I poured the boiling water from my pot into a double stainless steel sink, I saw my Mom dipping steaming water from the reservoir of the Warm Morning stove. She put it in two “dishpans”, one for washing the dishes and one for rinsing them. My mother’s smile and the fresh scent of line dried feed sack dish towels made white with lye soap invaded my kitchen. I squeezed the water from the terry cloth towel and put the last pan away when a puff of warm air disrupted my daydream of yesteryear.

             The power was on but it didn’t stop the images and voices from my childhood when a strong Appalachian woman taught her daughter survival skills. Stored family relics inherited from generations past proving useful most half a century later.

            I spent the power outage with my mom, a young woman with the challenge of cooking for a family of ten using very few resources. The snow storm caused the electricity to go off but if we keep the memories alive the power will always be on.

DADDY'S BARN

The first time I told a story to a general audience was at the 2011 Kentucky Storytelling confernece. My dear sweet husband and good friend threw my name in the hat during the open mic session. Mine was the last name to be drawn. The story I told was one I wrote about Daddy's Barn. I think I did pretty good. At least THEY told me I did :-). the story, as it was written, is here for you to read. Of course there were changes made to make it tellable and to fit the time frame. Let me know your thoughts in a nice constructive way. Thanks and have a grea day.          

 

 

Children growing up on small farms in the Appalachian foothills didn’t have a great deal of sanctuaries, or a place that was special, a place to keep in the mind forever where memories are stored to grow in grandeur.

            I did… My very special place was the barn. I could go there alone and be at peace away from nine brothers and sisters or I could be there with my family, all of them either working or playing or maybe just one person, someone to talk to. The grandest person to spend time with in the barn was with my father. For you see, in my mind the barn belonged to my father the way our house belonged to my mother. It’s an ingrained lifestyle about gender and responsibilities. 

            The last time I was in the barn with my dad his mind was focused on disrepair of the aging structure. “Mom’s afraid the barn will blow over in some of these windstorms we’ve been having”, he said. “She worries about it. She’s scared it will fall on your brother’s home or maybe a piece of tin will blow off the roof and crash into someone. It seems to fill her mind. I don’t have the money to get it fixed the way it should be so we may have to take it down”.

            My heart sank as I heard my father’s voice tremble. His lifelong companion, his soul mate his wife of more than 60 years and her peace of mind was the most important thing to him. And mine, the same for both my parents.

            The soft glow of evening sun danced through cracks between rough sewn oak boards weathered by years of fighting the harsh elements of the changing Appalachian seasons. Rays streaked across my father’s face, worn and wrinkled from almost a century of being in the sun working the rough terrain of his mountain farm.

            “It doesn’t matter that the doors hang a little crooked daddy, what matters are all those times you opened and closed those doors”, I said. This barn is about so much more than an old building about to fall. Inside these walls lives the spirit of a farmer whose best friend was a giant mule.

            “That stall, the one on the end, was reserved for Old Tobe. Even after working from dawn to dusk, you lead him there, and although you fought with him much of the day, you never forgot to pat him on the head to say “good night”. I swear that mule would snort as if to say “see you tomorrow, you haven’t broke me yet”.

            That forked hickory limb isn’t just something nailed to the wall. I still hear the clank of chains as you hung Tobe’s gear on it. The energetic beast that God teamed you with proved to be a lasting relationship.

            When we cleared the hill for a strawberry patch there was one stump that proved to be stubborn but not so much as you. Tobe had pulled out all the others. You hitched him to this one, patted him on the rear picked up the check lines and called out “Pull Tobe!” He lowered his head, pointed his ears, dug in his feet and pulled until every muscle in his body was bursting. He tried. But you saw his pain and stopped him. With your mattock and pick you whacked and cut around that stump. Then you hooked another chain to a root. Instead of picking up the checklines behind Tobe you bent beside him, you clasped onto that chain over your shoulder and you yelled “Pull Tobe”. Together you buried your feet in the dirt, pointed your heads, and pulled with all the strength God gave you. It seemed as if a gasp came from the heart of the earth as the roots of the stump came flying out. You patted Tobe on the head, loosened the gear and walked him to his stall. No words, no more work today.

            This barn was the day’s beginning and the day’s end.  The day Tobe died was the first time I saw you cry, and that was here Daddy, right here in this barn hall.

             “Those feed boxes aren’t simply boards nailed together. The cows ate from them while you milked them. I remember the cat sitting on that rock right there,  its mouth wide open, waiting for that first squirt of milk, you never missed. I recall the time you let a little blond haired girl milk, but only once because she couldn’t hit the bucket. Event though she couldn’t milk she was the best at holding the cow’s tail so it couldn’t sworp you through the face. That was an important job.

            “You designed the barn with a hole in the loft. Gosh, I wonder how much tobacco I pulled through that hole from the bed of that old green truck that only you could drive. And even though we had to push start it first thing every morning, it brought in the crops. Blue smoke came barreling around the side of the hill, sometimes with just two tires touching the ground. “Hang on” I remember you yelling just before you thumped a ditch….we held on tight, I don’t remember ever losing a stick of tobacco or a brother or sister.

            Those old saw horses now stacked in the corner once held boards we used as a stripping table. The picture is as clear in my mind as if it were hanging on the wall. You and Mom standing side by side pulling trash, the older ones pulling the lugs and then there was Roger and me on the tips. My hands felt as if they would fall off from the cold. And even though you told me to go home, to warm by the fire, I wouldn’t leave, I couldn’t.

            But you know Daddy, It wasn’t about my hands being cold or being tired or being little or being young, it was about hearing Pa Huff tell his stories and watching him dance a jig while making sure every hand of tobacco was tied to perfection. I still am in awe of how he made those long leaves bend and twist and stretch without breaking as he fastened a bunch of them together to form a hand. Then he would place them on the stick and ask me to help him with the press. I stood beside him and with every ounce of body and muscle and “grunt” inside me, I pushed! The press, its still here on the wall, too. I wonder how many pounds of tobacco went through it. Pressed until all the leaves were mashed flat then placed in a round until the day it went to market.

            I learned to climb in this barn, Daddy. And when our cousins would visit from Detroit or Columbus, we taught them about rural life, about living on a farm and we played chase and hide and seek…and we became friends with mutual respect while trying to outdo each other.

             It’s here in this barn, more than any where else, that I remember you and mom being together, side by side, a team, strong and committed to each other and family. You worked for your children, and those who weren’t yours, but needed a home and the love of a family. Yes you and Mom, husband and wife, co-workers and the whole time, you were teachers. Because it’s here that I learned responsibility and how to get along with others. It’s here that I gained a knowledge and appreciation of work ethics, honesty, and diligence, and family values. It’s here within these boards of oak that I was shaped as a person, a parent, and a citizen. It was here on this farm that I learned to love, to give and to take, to share and to ask forgiveness. I learned to appreciate life and all the blessings that have been given to us. This barn is much more than an old building about to fall. It’s part of our heritage, a part of our family.

            I regret not having this conversation with my father. I remember him saying “The barn needs some work. Mommy’s afraid it’s going to blow over in the wind, that it might hit the car or hurt someone” All I said was “let me know when you want to work on it Daddy and I’ll help”.

            I should have known better, I should have offered to get the barn repaired because a few weeks later I got an e-mail from my sister saying “Daddy tore the barn down”. There’s a hole now, one that can never be filled, one that might never have appeared if I had spoke my feelings instead of letting it pass by. I have a memory of the barn…a bookshelf made from weathered oak. Doug Doerrfeld planed the boards, left some nail holes and places where worms had crawled, finished it with a soft sheen. When Daddy heard I was having it made, he looked at me with his deep blue eyes and said “do you think he would have enough wood to make something for me? It doesn’t have to be much, he said, just a memento”. I had a tool box made for him, oh not one to carry, its much too heavy for that, but one he can store his father’s tools in…those precious things he wants to keep in his memento of the barn.

My hopes are that others don’t have to have mementos of a special place, that we can preserve and protect these pieces of our culture called barns.

My story begins....

   All my life I've been intrigued by storytelling. From the time I was a little girl listening to my grandfather tell tales to listening to locals talk about yesteryear, I have been mesmerized with the power of a story. As a professional, I have incorporated storytelling and other forms of art into non-formal educational programs.
   In 2000, maybe, I attended a conference in Asheville North Carolina called Arts Builds Communities. There I heard Sheila Kay Adams' story and I heard her tell stories. She made and impression on me that wouldn't go away. Later, I heard Bil Lepp tell STORIES. Wow the contrast between those two is unbelievable, both great in their original methods of storytelling. Sheila's stories about home and people she grew up with. Bil's, well maybe they're about people he grew up with, but I do believe there is a reason he wins the liars' contest every year.
    Then, through advice from Judy Sizemore, I invited Appalachian Storyteller Pam Holcomb to Elliott County to help with a workshop on interpretation. Again, I was blown away with the power of storytelling. Three years ago, thanks to a grant through the Kentucky Arts Council, I hosted a year of writing and storytelling workshops. Octavia Sexton, Pam Holcomb, Christie Cook, Garry Barker, Gurney Norman, and others came to teach these workshops. Ten people attended most of the sessions but I believe I learned the most. My love of writing and storytelling grew and grew and is still growing.
    I am now in the middle of a Storytelling Apprenticeship program with my mentor Pam Holcomb. This blog is my way of letting you know the direction this new path or trail takes me. I will be posting some stories I've written in the past and some new ones. So Welcome to Gwenda's Storytelling Trail. Hopefully, I'll be posting at least once a week, maybe more.
    Come walk with me as I find my way to the world of storytelling.