Judy Bussey's Appalachian Memoirs: Digging into my Roots to Discover my Truths

Frank X Walker: The Magic of Words That Speak Reality

2011-02-27T17:59:00.009-05:00

Yesterday, I was privileged to hear a keynote address by Frank X Walker, who also treated us to readings of his own poetry during a KCTCS statewide faculty conference.The University of Kentucky Professor of English and Creative Writing is what I've deemed a "holistic historian". He's an inviting prism for viewing social injustice in all the hues and tones of reality. He's a mentor for those of us who write and those of us who teach and sincerely want to move our students to a higher place of thinking, understanding, and respect.

Walker's poetry is life in motion and he brings an historical moment alive in his reading. His use of the metaphor is pure genius. His vocal performance, as he speaks truth to reality, is on target and we know what he intends us to know, and feel what he intends us to feel. Walker takes a real slice of life and creates a universal significance.

Walker has a great sense of humour that shines through to make even the most cynical or jaded want to hear what he has to say. His smile must be such a joy to his students. He's so in tune to his listener and they know he likes them and wants them to see the joy in his message. This comic, super-hero avatar seemed appropriate to place in this essay.

Nikki Giovanni, a favorite of mine for 35 years, and whom I had the privilege to hear in person a few years ago, says of Walker's book, Buffalo Dance: The Journey of York, "And now, York finally has a voice". She's referring to the Kentucky slave who, once commanded to travel with the Lewis and Clark expedition in 1803, was pivotal to its persistence and its tremendous historical impact. York has remained primarily unknown and, perhaps never really honored by we students of Kentucky and American History. Who better than a smiling super-hero to keep our attention and make us want to know more. Frank X Walker doesn't want the glory, he wants us to know and honor York, a man not yet written into our history books.

Lewis and Clark kept meticulous journals of the venture and others wrote statements about the historical expedition. Walker uses the quotes as a lens for interpreting the silenced voice of York, who, as a slave wasn't allowed to learn to write. Walker delves into the heart of the man, York, who was torn from his family. York faces new adventure and spectacular majesty in the natural environment they explore while searching for a water passage to the Pacific. In his words, Walker captures York's, yearning for the fulfillment of sharing his own wondrous discoveries. Walker presents York's wondrous experience in words we understand and gives York's story the reality it deserves--the reality of human rights to pursue personal joy and freedom.

I first heard Frank X Walker when he was a young University of Kentucky Student in the late 1980s. He has grown into a master of the written word and of a lost, but true side of Kentucky and national history--a history he spins into a yarn of universal importance.

Today, he is teaching students at the University of Kentucky, but leaves for an assignment in Africa soon. Look Frank X up and see when his KET special will air. I'm very proud to have heard and become reacquainted with Frank X Walker yesterday.

As an aspiring writer, my hope is that I learn from Walker how to best dignify my beloved Appalachian coal mining culture in a manner that presents the dreams, sacrifices, the labor and the love in a manner that is understood and valued . Cultures, within cultures, within cultures.....we are all part of the ever expanding whole.

Books by Frank X Walker include:
Affrilachia
Buffalo Dance: The Journey of York
Isaac Murphy-I Dedicate This Ride
Black Box
When Winter Come: The Ascension of York.

Hoping you check out one of Walker's books,
then read with honest and reflective feeling.

Peace,

Judy

Fixin' Supper Last Night

2011-02-22T13:46:00.002-05:00

When I say "I need to fix supper", Northerners ask me if supper's "broke", kinda upsets me, but when I was a child and still today I "fix" most of my meals. Maybe it's a coal camp phrase, maybe it's a rural phrase, maybe it's a southern phrase, but some people just don't understand it. Or, they want to tease me--a little-like my students when I ask them if they got their "lessons". I say it on purpose knowing "homework" has been in vogue for half a century now.

This piece is about food, though, not language.

My friends and family know that I've been a proclaimed vegetarian for about 25 years. Well recently, I admit to eating some of brother Johnny's fresh, homemade pork sausage. It was wonderful. About once a year I become a social carnivore and eat a fresh, organic hamburger and they do taste good, especially when I make sure where the beef came from. But I stay pretty faithful to my vegetarian life style--and eat soy burgers fried crisp with lots of seasoning and mustard and onions. Healthy and pretty good. Anything fried crispy is pretty good to me!

I have to be creative in fixing tasty old fashioned meals though. Actually, in our home, we grew up on vegetables with salt bacon often being the only meat on the table...we didn't like it, so the little saucer of fried bacon was always placed in front of Daddy's place. Mother used the hot, smoking skillet of grease for baking our daily bread. Yes, everyday except Sunday we had cornbread.And everyday, Mother cooked beans or black-eyed peas (Daddy was from Alabama so we learned to like Black-eyed peas)

Real treats were chicken on Sunday, pork-chops for breakfast (Mother made awesome brown sop), ham on holidays (courtesy of the coal company), turkey at Christmas, & meatloaf occasionally. To me, fried wieners and kraut was the best meat dish--and perfect with soup beans. In spring, Mother picked wild greens in the hills to go with our beans and cornbread, tender spring greens killed with bacon grease, fresh green beans, sliced tomatoes and onions with each meal, new potatoes, cabbage, roshineers, (found out when I was in college this meant "roasting ears"..did you know that?).

Since we were usually 6-10 people, Mother always had tons of potatoes or macaroni with tomatoes or cheese to fill us up. Of course, when we waked home for lunch we found fried bologna, pork n beans, cheese sandwich with a sweet pickle, etc. Once in awhile we charged lunch at the fountain and caused a big fight on payday if Daddy "went in the hole". Fountain food was worth it though. I still think the secret ingredient in their hot dogs was the waxed paper melting down into the food. People quit using waxed paper when Saran Wrap came out and it made a difference in taste. Wrap your hot-dog in waxed paper some time, let it steam, and enjoy a memory. Saturdays was a time for hot dogs and hamburgers. Sunday was a large breakfast with biscuits. Then, Sunday dinner usually had special meat or Chicken and dumplings and several bowls of vegetables and gravy to go with it al, and biscuits or rolls. I don't remember Mother making cornbread on Sundays.

But this is about fixin' my supper yesterday. While a small pot of butter beans cooked with a little salt, olive oil and margarine for seasoning I fixed everything else. I put a little olive oil, into a skillet, added a large can of seasoned mixed greens, threw in some fresh spinach, then as it simmered, I added a can of hominy (I also do this with quartered potatoes) and let it cook down. Mother taught me to let things cook down into the seasoning.

OK, beans are simmering and butter beans --I like the large Limas--take just a little4 over an hour to cook...so I start on my cornbread. Fresh ground corn meal, (brother Johnny's hand ground is the best), add some flour...guess at it, but no more than 1/4-1/2 cup for my taste. If you use Johnny's Wiley Branch cornmeal, you don't even need to add flour it's so rich and naturally thick. I remember mother scraping fresh corn to get that rich goodness for fried or creamed corn. I added 1 Tbsp baking powder and 1 tsp. salt. Never, never add sugar to cornbread. I taste it sometimes at restaurants and wonder what they're thinking! I made cornbread for my NYC neighbors once and delivered it hot for their evening meal. They saved it for morning and ate it with jam. So, cultural differences come into the cornbread experience.

So I'm making cornbread. I pour some skim milk, adkd about 1/4 Cup veggie oil, then since I need to use up some eggs, I add three into my liquid, beat it up pretty good, and stir into my corn meal.

Today, I decided to fry cornbread since I love it and it's easy and I want a piece real fast. Aunt Olga actually bakes cornbread in an iron skillet on top of the stove. She's the one who taught me that serving the men folk first was, "tradition, not submission". She's the last sibling of my Mother's 12 brothers and sisters.

While I'm cooking, I wish some of my brothers and sisters were with me. We love to eat and will eat almost anything. We talk and taste and talk about life while we cook. Both my brothers are great cooks so we all enjoy the kitchen.

Mind you, I'm cooking this meal for myself. My daughter has a special diet and we're alone here, most of the time.

Here's where I cheated: There was a jar of bacon grease in Sandy's fridge and I thought I'd better use it up, then we won't have any more. So, heated up the bacon grease in a large skillet and started the frying process, 4-5 cakes at a time. Fixed a plate covered with paper and napkins to absorb any extra of that bad old bacon grease, flipped the bread over at just the right time and started taking it up. I hope everyone knows what "taking it up" means. My friends will!

Since I made a lot of batter, I pour me a big glass of milk so I can have hot cornbread and cold milk while I work. Nothing better in this world. So I turn the bread the little bubbles tell me to and hope they're a little crisp around the edges. I start taking them up. I eat one with my milk, even as I add the next batch to the skillet. Women can do anything! All at the same time! Flip them, take one out, turn them, flip, eat one, turn, take up, eat ...you know the drill. Then I decided I'd better taste those greens and make sure they are seasoned good. Check the butter beans, not done yet, so I have a little, very little plate of the greens and hominy. Cornbread, milk, greens, this is really good.

I'm still standing, mind you, fixing supper, and have already eaten a full meal. Do you ever do that? It's especially fun when you set the table for several people and take care of them; them not knowing of course you'vealready had a full meal. How noble we women are! When the beans got done, I had just a little of everything to make sure it was a totally good meal. It was. Of course for this final tasting, I sat formally in front of the TV and watched a really bad episode of Maury. Totally decadent meal.

Then, last night about 11 PM, I went downstairs for a snack. Guess what I had? Right. And there's enough for granddaughter who will visit today. She's vegetarian too, so I told Sandy not to tell her about the bacon grease. Not nice of us, but the bread's just too good for her not to eat it.

As the Dawson and Nova Bussey children always said, if we have some cornbread, we can have some cornbread and milk, if we have any milk.

I enjoyed fixin' this meal so much I just had to share.

Peace,
Judy

The Henry and Dona Shepherd Family of David and Middle Creek, Kentucky: Connections to My Life

2011-02-19T11:02:00.014-05:00

Henry & Dona Shepherd Family David, Kentucky
Photo originated with Larry Hardin, a descendant of Henry and Dona Shepherd.See Hardin's comments below.

Judy Nelson Calhoun, Daughter of Wiley Nelson, provides identification for those in the photo:

I will name this family for Paul in his time of grief of losing his sister Sally. The Family of Henry & Dona Stephens Shepherd: Henry, Dona (child on lap)Reubin, Ollie & Verba in between, Rome (next to Henry) Della (far left front) Peggy, Susan, Louellen, Kitty (behind left of Dona) Mae, Nana, Ashland (Pauls Father) Oliver, Richmond & Jacob. Paul can do better when he feel like it. My Mother was a Shepherd so I am related to all.

My Connection by Judy Bussey
Many of us grew up with the Shepherd families, East Kentucky pioneers. The Bussey children--and all children in the coal camp--always had Shepherd playmates and classmates.Shepherds, Slones, Hickses, Griffiths, Nelsons, Wrights, Webbs,Howards, and other families had settled and lived on Middle Creek since the Revolutionary War. As I stated in my profile at this site, I research my life's cultural, economic, political, and geographical influences in order to understand myself, my beliefs, my values, and my life in general. The Shepherds were part of the three distinct cultures that surrounded me during my formative years in the progressive coal camp of David.

The smart and resourceful people from the rural areas surrounding David have owned and farmed that land for more than 200 years. We merged into one community as the land owners sold or leased portions of their land to Princess Elkhorn Coal Company Organization (PECCO)and our community activities began to overlap. Our fathers worked for PECCO. One of my strong memories is of Ashland Shepherd, in the photo above, building and finishing the wood interiors of our coal camp homes. He built us a beautiful corner bookshelf, a prized addition to the standard coal camp home. Ashland was a smart man and a preacher. We all remember listening to him talk as he worked and the kindness with which he treated everyone.

His son, Paul, who comments below also worked for PECCO. Along with other David boys like my cousin Bill Bussey, brother Rodney Bussey, Brother in law Bruce Howard, and most of the DeBoard boys,they helped build and maintain the water system, the swimming pool, the grass and hedges planted all over by PECCO to beautify the area. The David boys cleaned Water tanks, cut hedges, and hauled trash. As Boy Scouts, they served as Air Rangers and reported airplane activity during the WWII era. Elsewhere on this blogspot, I talk about brother Rodney's adventures as a spotter and as a water tank cleaner. PECCO built a sound enterprise and built a well known group of employees from the greater community.

The work of the camp was nonstop, both on the surface where the women stoked the coal stoves for heat, cooked the meals, canned the food, washed the clothes, cared for the children and literally kept the home fires burning while the fathers, brothers, and sons labored in the deep mines around the clock. I love this line from an old coal mining song, "the women sigh and the babies cry,but the mines, they never stop".In fact, the little coal town was built to ensure there were always miners within walking distance from work so the mines never had to close. At times, the roads into the mines were made impassable by mud, snow or ice. Eventually the dirt roads were blacktopped, but until then, getting to the mines was a job in itself. Therefore, the camp was a practical, profitable enterprise in addition to being our home.

Farmers became coal miners, company carpenters, company plumbers, weigh-men, teachers, school staff, truck drivers, clerks, and otherwise key people in the development of the only childhood home I ever knew. The coal camp of David. It's difficult to describe the phenomenon that was David. One way is to share our stories.

The rural children became David children and we all grew up together on the Lick Fork of Middle Creek where PECCO decided to center their coal mining operation and build a community for the miners and their families. My father and his brothers had come to Kentucky from Alabama to work in the coal mines, Mother's home place was on Jones fork of Troublesome and in Stone Coal. David miners came from all over. From the mines of Harlan,Carr Creek, Wayland and beyond. They came into David from Auxier, West Prestonsburg, Van Lear and other coal mining communities to work for "real money" which was promised by the company. So, within the community of David, all these rich cultures mixed together.

Daddy took us up the "New Road" to Cumine Shepherd's home-place to pick strawberries and blackberries. And probably to get a "little brew" as the song says. We loved Cumine. Then there was Ora Lee "Red" Shepherd,an intriguing character who thrilled us by riding her horse across the hill into our hollow, goods and products hanging on her saddle. I know "Red" is an educated interesting woman, but to me, back in my childhood, it was like the wild west on the road right outside our house, 7th on the right up Official Hollow, or "Fisher Holler" as we called it. I'd love to know the name of the place where "Red" lived just over the hill from us where no road had been built before. Virgie and Darb were beloved, but down and out people from Ruff & Tuff. We loved them too. I went to their home a few times with Mother. Mother loved visiting in the rural homes since they reminded her of her own childhood home. The wonderful women up Caney and Brushy would make sure she had cow-butter and white half runners or whatever they had at the time--tomatoes, cabbage, eggs, and other wonderful groceries. I was always bewildered about what my home really was.We had "running water", a term I love to use, and indoor plumbing. In 1952, we even had television. At Granny and Pap's, there was another overlapping of history. Uncle Rob Hicks had wired their home with electricity, but we used the toilet outside and drank cold well water from the tin dipper always present in the water bucket.

Before I forget, the third circle of my cultural influence was "town"--Prestonsburg, the county seat. Town was something we wanted to "go to", but rarely did. Town was an enigma for me. It loomed far away from this child as a place of stores, clothes not from the company store, and two movie theaters. We all looked forward to our occasional forays into this exciting county seat. Maybe a trip to the dime store. During our high school, all the children from the left fork of Middle Creek were further united in daily school bus trips over winding, at times rough, roads--from David to "town". We always left before daylight; in winter, the bus returned at the edge of dark.

David natives, Ken DeBoard & sister Charlotte DeBoard Ratliff shared Hardin's photo of the Shepherd family with our Facebook friends who would see it as significant to our Middle Creek and David heritage.This post is designed to help us recognize and acknowledge a part of the families that were so pivotal to our lives in the coal camp. Below, Judy Nelson Calhoun and Paul Shepherd expand on this particular group. My hope is that some Shepherd descendants and other David natives will find this site in search of their ancestors and old friends. Judy Bussey

COMMENTS FROM DAVID FRIENDS

Kenneth DeBoard
The Heading at the Top was supposed to read "Great Families of David", My apologies. This photo is from my sister, Charlotte. Larry E. Hardin of Frankfort, Ky shares this photo with his readers. The photo was taken ca 1936 at David, Ky near what is now the Richmond Shepherd Cemetery. Hardin writes, "These are the children of Henry and Dona Shepherd, My Grandmother, Della Shepherd Hamilton is the first girl on the back row, starting from the left: Uncle Ashland is the first man standing, Great grandpa Shepherd is holding my Grandmother's youngest sister, Verba Shepherd Lester, Grandma Shepherd is holding my Grandmother's youngest brother, Reuben Shepherd".

Paul Shepherd
Ken I had the pleasure of knowing each and every one of them.What a great family, Grandpa and grandma had. Dad was the Oldest, Then aunt Kitty, from there I would have to check.Not very long after this grandpa died of kidney failure. What a... burden this must have been on grandma. All the kids pitched in and did what they could do to help.
Jim Hale was a Icon back then and he gave dad work to do. Pay was only like .75 a day but it went a very long way since most of the food was raised in the garden. Clothing was hard to come by so it was passed down until it wore out.Dad and mom lived in with them when they first got married & told many stories how the family coped with life.

One of the great Stories told: every Sunday morning dad and mom would get up and fix breakfast for the whole family. Even after dad and mom moved into their own place where I was born he still helped with the family. Then the WPA came along and very few people have even heard of it today.Those were hard times for families back then, If those times should ever return 75% of the population would die in today's world, God forbid this will ever take place.Yes there were evil times back then with a few. But family and LOVE was so strong it ruled. (Well said! I believe this so much Paul, Judy Bussey)
I remember how we would walk for miles across hills through the valleys to visit on Sundays, That was the day of rest and no one worked. Family time. Some of my aunts and uncles were not that much older than I so we played together, aunt Ollie, Verba, even the older ones would grab me and hug me and I thought they would never let me go. Uncle Rome and Ruben were young.

In time each started to marry off.Some stayed close by so we could still visit, like aunt Kitty and Jay,uncle Richmond and Rebecka who is my mom's sister, Aunt Louella and Langley Patton moved in David, aunt Peggy and Marcus Patton had the shower house for the miners.Aunt Della and Howard Hamilton moved in David. Aunt Ollie lived a few years down at the forks where Howard and Jinny Hill had their store.Some moved to Ohio, others moved to Michigan, even dad and mom went to Michigan at one time to live, but that was no place for dad so they went back to Ky where he felt his roots were.

Then that great company PECC came to David and gave that area new life and brought in new families from all over EKY.Then things started a change sons and daughters got to stay in EKY until the 50's then the move started again, This is how life is and we have to accept it or we can not make it.

Sad to report only two of the children are still living today, Rome and Reuben. Rome lives in Ohio, and I have not heard from Reuben over the last 20 years.
I have thousands of cousins, Double First, First, Second, Third, Fourth and many I have never met.These are just from two people.

These two people had brothers and sisters. Jacobs Shepherd's family
John Shepherd's family, John B. Shepherd's family, Another Jacob Shepherd's family, A John E. Shepherd all the way back before this country became a Nation, around the 1700's. This is just from grandpa Henry Shepherd's family. Now to follow grandma Donna you have to go through the Stephens family which could be large or larger.
Just from this one family a whole State could be named from it.

I just added "Kitty Shepherd Burchett" as a friend on Facebook. I Went through her photos and my heart broke. I had an idea who she may be, then when I saw her mom and dad, Want to say Gloria and Beecher I love you dearly.

Want to Thank Judy Nelson Calhoun for filling in for me.Yes we are family in more ways than one. Judy's Mom and My dad were cousins. Since the passing of my Sister Sally life just isn't the same.Sally and Jim was always there when they were needed and want to say Jim I love you buddy with all my heart.

Time waits on no one.Time is a killer that has no emotions and shows no mercy. In the last few years we have lost too many in our family: Russell,Paul D.--"Ralph's son", Mom,Rose Ann, Ralph's wife.. just a few weeks after mom. And now not even a year yet the loss Of our dear sister Sally. This is a part of living. Rise up and reach out while we can.
Blessings to all my readers.
Paul Shepherd

Home Place of Elizabeth Shepherd, wife of Ashland Shepherd, mother of Paul Shepherd.

Kenneth DeBoard
Great review Paul. I enjoyed your message, Its great to see how all the Shepherds are tied together. I know what you mean by getting to visit your relatives on the weekend. We made regular trips to Garrett, Hippo, Hueysville and other places to visit and they regularly visited us. If you took the Shepherds out of East Ky, there wouldn't be many left.

Kitty Shepherd Burchett
Thanks for the photo! Kittie was my grandmother. My dad is Beacher!

Judy Bussey
Kitty, I remember your parents from my childhood in the coal camp at David.

Please bear with me for posting a picture of my own Granny and Pap: Lizabeth Gunnels and John A. Hicks, originally from the Jones Fork of Troublesome, then into Stone Coal, near Garrett, as the agricultural economy began to fail in the early 1900s. I'll close this piece by saying it's hard to read this without a tug at my heart. The coal camp houses my family lived in no longer exist. Although Pattie Clark and David Burns Mollette and very few others still live there, most of our friends and family former playmates and classmates are scattered all over. I'm posting a photo of the Elizabeth Shepherd home-place to help us sense the earth, the beauty, and the eternal nature of those beautiful hills we all called home.

Lizabeth Gunnels and John A. Hicks, parents of Nova Hicks Bussey, grandparents of Judy Bussey siblings of David. At their Stone Coal home @ 1940.Pap's family had been land and timber owners before the Civil War, but as the economy became coal based, he also had to work a while in the Wayland coal mines.

I hope some of our readers will contribute to this discussion so others can read your comments at this site anytime.
I'd love to hear from you,
Peace,
Judy

Terry Lea Webb Buchanan: August 11, 2011

2011-02-15T13:04:00.008-05:00

The following historical memoirs are written by Terry Lea Webb Buchanan (shown here in a recent photo with her mother Nancy Webb) and on the 1962 day of her wedding to 4-year Air Force Veteran and college lab partner, Ellis Buchanan.

Terry never lived in David. Our coal-camp connection is however, real and strong. Cora Ruth Wright Hughes is another girl (from West Prestonsburg) who didn't live in David, but to whom I'm strongly connected. We all sang in the Patsy Teenagers, a company sponsored singing group and we all went to Prestonsburg High School together. As a young girl, I wondered why Cora and Terry Lea were in our group, until I learned that their fathers were also underground coal miners who worked alongside Daddy, deep under those hills in the narrow valleys of which, our little coal camp nestled. There, Terry Lea's father was a victim of a horrible mining accident that crippled and damaged him for life, ultimately killing him. My father worked 34 years underground and died young of black lung complications. Cora's father ended up putting in 50 years in those dark dungeons. It's important that we David natives acknowledge the sacrifices of our coal mining ancestors and acknowledge their important contribution to our lives today.

Terry's Mother, Nancy was left with 4 small children to support. Many of you will remember Miss Nancy Webb as a Prestonsburg Grade School teacher. She was firm, required excellence, but was so loving of her students, says my brother John Bussey, to whom she gave relentless attention to keep him interested in school. Miss Nancy took him home with her to have dinner with her family, when he may have needed a good meal. She checked on him if he was late or absent from school. She walked the long way to school, herself, just to go by Johnny's to see what he might be up to after Karen had gone to the high school and Daddy had gone to work. I digress. That's a story of a time when my younger siblings lived in Prestonsburg, after our parents' divorce--a story that will be written elsewhere.

Miss Nancy is legendary for disobeying the principal's orders and taking her entire class to the funerals of their classmates who perished in the 1957 school bus disaster. They wanted to, and she felt they should, honor their classmates. That disaster, in which 27 students and their driver drowned, is still noted as the worst school bus disaster in U.S. history. Miss Nancy's students were intent upon going so, they marched in dignified peace and quiet, as instructed by Miss Nancy, out of the school and back in again later, without notice. I wonder if the principal ever found out.

I also have history from Cora Ruth, as well and will post it another day. Today's memoir is of Terry Lea's East Kentucky heritage and her links to some important historical figures.

Terry Lea married Ellis Buchanan, a Scot from another EKY county-Harlan, Breathitt, or Knott, I believe. Today, in addition to honoring their Appalachian heritage, they honor their ancestors from Scotland. Both hold leadership roles in the National Scotish Association, in Texas. The Association serves to keep their ancestral traditions alive. I loved discovering this cultural connection to Terry and Ellis. The Dawson & Nova Hicks Bussey siblings of David also have ancestors from Scotland through both parents. A maternal ggg grandmother, Sally McKinney and a paternal, ggg grandfather, Alexander Godbold Rollo, came from Scotland. McKinney to East Kentucky and Rollo to the Carolinas and Alabama.

I'm not a genealogist, but these indelible bonds clarify my own life, my roots and heritage, and help me and other David natives pay tribute to all the coal miners and their wives, the surrounding rural population, and all who worked to bring life into our little village in another place in time.

A Brief Personal History by Terry Lea Webb Buchanan

Virgil A. Turner Webb, born March 30, 1911 married Nancy Watts Powers, born June 6, 1919 Married March 17 ,1939 (St. Patrick's Day). Dad was the son of Dr. Tobius Turner Webb, who was the son of Jacob & Nancy Auxier Webb. Nancy Auxier was the Granddaughter of Samuel & Sallie Brown Auxier.

Samuel was a Revolutionary War soldier & a spy for Gen. George Washington. He was placed on Gen. Cornwallis' staff at Yorktown and sent vital info back to Washington, that helped win the battle at Yorktown. President Washington gave Samuel Auxier a land grant of 3000 acres in what was, then, Western Virginia, for his service to this country. The land is the site that runs from Auxier to Porter Elementary School in Johnson Co, East Kentucky.

Samuel died at 41 or 42 from a fall from a horse. He lingered for several days. Sallie lived until she was 99. She was blind at the end & lived with son Enoch & his wife Polly Van Hoose Auxier, Nancy's parents. Sallie received one of the first Revolutionary War widow's pension, which was $99 a year.

As a child, we still had 300 of the original acres & the Webb Family Cemetery. The land had virgin timber on it. Dad cut it down & sold it to pay for mine & Stephen's college tuition. Had we known, we wouldn't have let it happen, but it was after we had graduated that we found out where the money came from. Now all that is left is the 5 acres the cemetery sits on. It is on a knoll over looking Porter Elementary . School. The school sits in the middle of Jacob & Nancy's cornfield. The field where Jacob died a horrible death--another story for another time. The old farm is history, but the stories remain so with Judy's help & encouragement, I'll write out a few of them.

I still have the original deed to the acres signed by Washington & each of my ancestors from Samuel on down to my father. Each signed it as they inherited the land. When my grandfather got it, there were still 2800 acres, during his life time he deeded parcels of land to the tenant farmers who had been farming the land for the family. He only kept 300 acres.

The family home and the acreage surrounding it back to the mountain top. The old home stood until 1954 ,when my great aunt Martha went into the hospital & died. The night she died someone backed a wagon up to the porch, removed the antiques & burnt the house to hide the theft. The home stood on a knoll over looking the Sandy River and the events had been witnessed by someone across the river.

There were no roads into it from the Prestonsburg side of the River so we would go to East Point & row a boat across to visit Aunt Marth, just as she had to do to go to a store. Sometimes, we would drive, instead, to Van Lear & walk in across the mountain on an old logging road. When the weather was bad or the river up, that is how we checked on Aunt Marth. Dad worried about her, but she wouldn't leave the home place. The attic of that old house was a treasure hunt for me--clothes from long ago times were still in trunks waiting for their owners. Each wrapped loving in tissue paper or cheese cloth & packed away. Aunt Marth allowed me to play dress up as long as I repacked them carefully. Old letters , receipts, newspapers, a buffalo rug with "D. Boone" burnt into the under side. A newspaper with a report of George Washington's last days before his death. All thought to be burnt.

Hopefully, who ever took the furniture also saved some of those historical papers & other items. I'll never know. But I'll always grieve for their loss. I was 12 yrs. Old. Thankfully, Aunt Marth, before her last illness had put some of my favorite family items in a shoe box tied with a blue satin ribbon. Written on the lid, please give this to Terry Lea when she is grown. My aunt gave me that box in 1984, I guess I had finally grown up enough to have it. Inside were the following items: a small Bible, carried by Jacob during the Civil War & his capture & time spent as a prisoner of the Civil War. A letter he wrote his bride of 6 months when he was captured, he wrote the letter in 1862. Sewn to the letter was Nancy's reply upon receiving his letter in 1864. The original deed to the farm place signed by each who had inherited it. There in the box were also pictures, samples of Aunt Marth's handwriting as a school girl, a picture of my great-great aunt Lizzie Walker, who was the first female Methodist minister circuit rider, and served rural East Kentucky from 1916 to 1928 when she died. The old shoe box also contained the Death Memorial cards of my Great Grandmother & grandfather & great uncle Buddy. She had placed some buttons & some blue satin ribbon, items a small girl would love to hear about, in with the important papers.

That box is my greatest inheritance of worldly items. Each one now carefully preserved for the next child to receive when she is grown up enough. I just wish The old place still stood so she could experience it as I once did. I' ll do more on Dad's side later & get to mother's.

Our connection to Daniel Boone came because his sister Mary Boone married Squire Webb. They travelled with Samuel & Sally Auxier to view their land, Daniel guided his friends & helped them build a block house for protection before he left. While with them, Boone explored the area called David & found the saltlicks from which he supplied the Auxier's new settlement with salt to preserve their meat for winter. In fact, as Judy wrote, Daniel Boone spent the winter of 1768 on the creek where David, her childhood coal camp home, would be built alongside the new underground mines @172 years later. Judy quoted Carrico's citation from Boone's journal that, "the steep ravines and harsh climate made the area [Middle Creek's site of David] unfit for human habitation guess the rural farmers, the rugged coal miners and their children, proved Boone wrong on this one. Boone remained friends with Samuel until he died. Samuel named two sons to honor this friendship, Daniel & Nathanial Auxier. The Nathanial is for Daniel's brother & a son.

Enough for now, you probably didn't want this much.

Miscellaneous comments from Terry Lea Webb Buchanan

I remember my Grandmother Powers saying to someone she had invited to stay with us, "Come on, it won't be any bother, we'll just put another nail in the wall for you to hang your clothes up." I always laughed when she said it, but she meant ...it, it seems. That big old house had many rooms, but few clothes closets. The ones it did have were small. Trying to remember back to that time I can only count three in the whole house. The house was built soon after the Civil War, but in our family it was Amma's new home. Amma was my Great Grandmother Amma Alice Callihan Carter, my mother's grandmother. We lived in that old house until I was 10 years old. The old home stood on Court Street, in Prestonsburg, just below Bud and Gwen Wells Alexander's home. We moved into the house she lives in after my Great grandmother's death, in 1950, 3 months before my 10th. birthday. Mother was expecting a baby, my sister, Janey Carter Webb Moser, who was born 2 weeks before my tenth birthday.

They tried to tell me she was my birthday present, since Stephen & I hadn't been asked if we wanted a baby. We said in unison to take the baby back & get us a puppy. Unfortunately, we really said it & that story has haunted us at every family get together from then on. Someone just had to tell the story, putting Stephen & me on the spot. Not sure if Janey ever forgave us. She brings it up occasionally, herself. When Dodie came along we were older & wiser ( we never did get that puppy. We had to wait until we grew up.

Terry Lea Webb Buchanan comments to Cora Ruth Wright Hughes on the friendship of their brothers, Johnny Wright and Stephen Webb.

"She I remember that well. They sat in the hall on the floor laughing & talking to each other for sometime. They sure blocked what ever the boys were up to that night. They enjoyed each other's company as much as we did & Steve & Johnny did. We had many good times together through grade school & high school. During those long days when we were waiting for the Air Force to bring Steve home for the last time, I had managed to hold it together in public until Johnny walked in. When he hugged me, I finally broke down & cried, he just held me & cried with me. Seeing him without Stephen in tow, made it all too real for me.

Up to that point, I had been able to tell myself, it was a mistake, Stephen wasn't dead, I'd imagine. He'd come home & clear the mistake up. But seeing Johnny alone, made me face reality that day, & quit holding on to false dreams. They wouldn't let me see him, when they did bring him home, my husband, Ellis Buchanan, made the official identification for our family. Dad never got over Stephen's death. He blamed himself, because he had always talked to Stephen & to all of us, about his days flying, testing planes during the War, barnstorming, his & his pal Jim's crop dusting business in the mid west, how he landed his plane in the field near a school. Met the young teacher, who brought her class out to see the plane & meet the pilot. ( that young teacher was our Mother, Nancy Watts Powers). We always thought the story of their first meeting so romantic!

Stephen would have been a pilot, I believe, without Dad's stories. He loved planes. He jumped at the chance to learn to fly helicoptors. To this day I can't get into a helicopter. I get sick at my stomach. I've tried-once to tour the outlying islands in Hawaii-but I didn't go. Just could not get on board. I kept seeing Stephen as I had seen him last before the crash. Same thing happened in Europe, so I quit trying to get in them. I knew it wouldn't happen. Janey, Dodie, even Mother have flown in them since. I just can't shake the horrible feeling I get when I try. Give Johnny our love when you talk to him next time. Take care my friend".

Terry remarks on her wedding (see photo above) to Ellis Buchanan on August 19,1961

My Granny Powers helped me make my wedding dress, as she did most... of the clothes I wore. She'd show me my mistakes & help me correct them. I was very proud of that gown. A lady in Martin my grandmother knew made my veil. My daughter Maurya, wore it when she got married. She has packed it away in case Tabby or Emma want to wear it. My sister bought her gown from Priscilla of Boston. But times were different then, (15 yrs later) I think I would still tried to make it even then. I enjoyed sewing, then & now. I made clothes for my girls & for my granddaughters. I don't now because the use of my arms is not like they were then. I'll ask My daughter if she minds if I put the picture of her in my dress up. I was proud she wanted to wear it, we offered to buy one of her choice, as we did for her sisters, but she had made up her mind. We did have a new veil made,I wanted her to have her own. All three of the girls got to decide the details for their weddings. We had 3 very different weddings,thankfully they spaced them 2 yrs apart-'90, '92, and '94. I don't believe Ellis could have stood them any closer. He didn't like giving his little girls away. He's told Matt & Larry he is glad the next weddings are theirs.

Dad grew up in Weeksbury. His father was the company doctor in both camps. When Dad left Berea HS he took his college money & bought an airplane the went to flying school in Lincoln,Neb. Instead of college, like his father hoped. He & a buddy from the flying school started a crop dusting business out west. They earned extra money doing stunt flying at local fairs. On a trip back to Wheelwright to visit his family & friends, he landed his plane in the field next to the school. A young teacher brought her class outside to see the plane. Dad was 27 then, Mom only 19 yrs. He went back to his business, the war effort was gearing up, so 8 months later he & Jimmy D. Tossed a coin to see who went in the Army military & who went to test planes for the war effort. Dad said he lost the toss, & took the job with Martin Aircraft co. In Md. He went back to Weeksbury & asked Mom to marry him. They married on St. Patrick's Day 1939. A few months before Mothers 20th birthday. Dad was 28. They left for Baltimore, Md.

I know that Judy and Wonnell Bussey Godsey are first cousins, daughters of brothers, Dawson and Otis Bussey, who were among the pioneer miners at the new Princess Elkhorn Coal Company deep mines in David, Kentucky. Otis and my Dad were friends from their Weeksbury & Wheelwright Days-then of course during the time of Dad's critical, life-altering accident in the David mines.

Dad stayed in touch with his friends Otis and Ora Bussey, who were there for our family when Dad was hurt in the David mines. They were waiting for Mom when Mr. Dixon got her to Dad. They went with her the next day when he was flown to Lexington. We owed them more then we could ever repay. Wonnell was always so good to talk to me & listen when I needed to talk then.

Someday I'll write more details of Dad's mining accident, in the David mines, that changed our lives forever.

Until Then, In Scot,
Moran Taing (Thank you)
Slainte' & Dia Beannauht Leat (Health and Good Luck to you)
Terry Lea

William T. Billy Bussey: David Memories

2011-02-10T15:46:00.011-05:00

Billy Bussey is my first cousin and someone we all looked up to. We grieved when he left the camp at age 17 to join the Military, but always treasured his visits back home. Below, he writes of growing up in David.

This is a recent photo of Billy and my brother, Rodney Clark Bussey, first cousins who grew up in David and remain close to this day. They both went on to become great citizens. They are the sons of brothers, Dawson E. and Otis T Bussey who were the first miners to come into the new mines and coal camp which was being built on Middle Creek in Floyd County, East Kentucky. The roads hadn't been cut and the tracks hadn't yet been laid when Daddy and Uncle Otis came to work at the David mines. The camp was named for Princess Elkhorn Coal Company president, David L. Francis.

Rod became a headmaster at a private school on Long Island and taught at The Lexington School before spending 30 years with Berea College, retiring as a Vice-President. Rod devoted his life to serving Appalachian students and Berea students from around the world.

Bill is retired from several tours of duty during his 30 years in military service to the USA. He served several tours in Viet Nam , Uganda, Cambodia and other hot spots during very troubled times. He stayed in touch with Uncle Otis and Aunt Ora on a ham radio. We were always glad when someone heard from Billy. He also served in Defense Weapon design before his last retirement. Rod and Bill can correct my information as needed. They are both modest so I held back on their many accomplishments and contributions to us and our country.

Dedication of the David Swimming Pool circa 1949
A first in the hills of East Kentucky, built by the coal miners, company employees, and their sons.

I hope you enjoy the memoirs of David Native, Billy Bussey

Memories of David Kentucky by William T. "Billy" Bussey

In this memoir, I try to capture a few random events from the earliest days of David, Kentucky. I hope to fill in some spaces due to the lapses in time of our individual memories. I invite any of the original David personalities who may still be around to share and continue to fill in the blanks.Several of us old timers might be able to help with some of the early details. I've read the detailed and interesting stories from Kermit Collins and I believe our generations overlap in the early years.

I am Billy Bussey, and our family and others families came to David at the beginning. The first houses were the five houses before the railroad tracks. You might remember these five houses and they were used to house the earlier David workers. These men were the men that built David. During our first trip to David, we visited there with dad and some of the workers and they served us dinner.

Alka Davis and crew were busy cutting trees, sawing them into building materials and building houses in David. The saw mill was in the lower end of the ball field. You might remember the large saw dust pile; it was more like a hill of saw dust. I remember too, the cutting of trees and the men used mules dragging the logs down the hills. They were amazing and the job was extremely dangerous. You can still see the deep paths the logs made as they were pulled down the hill. I would spend long hours watching them work. They men used long whips to keep the mules pulling and the mules were inches away from being run over by the logs.

During our move to David we stayed in one of the houses on the left, I believe the third one, as you pass school house hollow going up toward the ball field. A few days later, we went as a family to select a site for our house in Official Hollow, or cousin Judy tells me many of the children called it "fisher holler", and she wondered why.

My dad, Otis Bussey, had been working at Wayland where the coal company was having a hard time. The workers were paid in company money and could only spend it at the company store. Dad was hired by David and was asked to go back to Wayland and find men to fill key positions at David. These key men became some of the foremen at David. Ed Carver, Dawson Bussey, Tandy Bartley, and several others were important to the company and community. I hope readers supply other names for us. During this time, Mother had taken us to visit relatives in our native Alabama. Dad had started working at David while we were gone and and was hiring men from Wayland. The company at Wayland asked Dad to go ahead and leave the house in Wayland so he had to move all our things to David while we were still in Alabama.

I started school at David, 1st grade and Miss Frankie Best was my teacher. The school was used for all types of gatherings. Movies were shown there, 10 cents, one reel at a time by Glen, I've forgotten his last name, whom I believe was from Auxier. He also showed movies in David by tying a sheet between houses to be used as the screen.

Kermit Collins, who wrote about our school or lack thereof, came a little later than us. We lost the first school. The town was all involved in saving for the war effort, newspapers, lard, clothing, etc. We stored these items in one of the class rooms. Stacks and stacks of newspapers and other items. All packed too close to the coal stove. To keep the dust down the floors were oiled. As described, we used coal and the stove would really get hot. In my 3rd grade, the school caught on fire and we all ran out of the school and I remember hiding in the big creek in front of the school watching it burn. As I remember, it was a great fire, the school was gone in less than 30 minutes.

Kermit wrote about going to school in the church. Miss Allen our 3rd teacher never missed a class and we continued in this mode until the new school and gym were built. The gym was a big thing for most of us. An interesting story is about my dog, Blackie. He was the only dog allowed in the school. When it was time for recess, Blackie would get up and go to the door, recess time. At the end of the year students were recognized for perfect attendance, certificate and a silver dollar were the awards. Blackie was called up the front and received his perfect attendance slip and his silver dollar just like the rest of us.

Boy Scouts leaders were Preacher Durham, the leader for a while, as was my dad, Otis Bussey and R.L. Carver. However, Ray Stambaugh was the long term Scout Leader. I think Ray was also a boxer is his early days, quite a man. His boxing name was "Battling Ray".

Later, the coal company authorized the building of a scout cabin at the head of Official Holler. All the men and boy scouts worked together. They cut trees and gathered materials and built the cabin. David Francis gave the scouts an original Mountain Long Rifle including the pouch and horn. It was really nice and impressive, a real Kentucky long rifle. Later, I believe in the 50’s the cabin and all contents were destroyed in a fire.

Every year some of us went to spend a week at Camp Arrow Head. Some of us were selected into the Order of The Arrow. At the David camp, we built a small dam and an outside area similar to the Order of The Arrow. Members of the Order of the Arrow were Dan Carver, Richard Dixon, Pete Everly and several others I don’t remember, and me. We performed a ceremony like the Order. We developed a system and we wore Indian outfits and one of us, Sonny Carver, would kneel before the stack of wood and was careful not to touch it. After three bows the fire would erupt. We still keep our secret; Sonny Carver and I came up with the magic.

Early, there was a lot of excitement about the reservoir being built for David’s water. When it was completed, for some of us boys, it became our swimming hole, rock skipping, picnics, cook outs a much needed hangout place. This is where many of us learned to swim. We had a big party dedicating the dam. People of David showed up and a good time was had by all. I remember one of the ugliest things I ever saw at the dam was a big fat water moccasin. He went his way and we went our way.

Tony Rainer was contracted to build the theater and fountain. My dad, Otis, and family ran the theater and fountain. Dot Crauswel, my 1st cousin, my sister Wonnell, Dad and mother ran the fountain. I cleaned the floor and did odd jobs. I also was the second at running the projectors in the theater. Cleaned up, and anything else needed to be done. We had a county news paper, The Floyd County Times; I sold these papers for several years. Bobby Rainer was selling the Times around David while his dad worked building the Theater. I called the Editor, Mr. Norman Allen and asked him to stop Bobby from selling papers in David, because it was my town. He did. Mr. Norman Allen was a good source of reference for many years. I also delivered the Lexington Courier Journal and sold subscriptions to all published magazines.

Later, several of us were hired to dig a ditch from the water plant through town. At the end of the day we would head for the pool, nice clean cold water. Later, I became one of the life guards at the pool along with Ann Everly, and James Lloyd Hale.

Several of us boys started the First Aid Team. The members were Lowell Hager, Donald Puckett, Gordon Ratliff, Wallen, and me. Over the years some members came and went but Lowell and I stayed with the team. We practiced in the back of the church. We didn’t fool around; we worked hard and won every Tri-State event we entered. The prize of 12 silver dollars was good but learning and being the best was important.

One day at the pool I saw James Lloyd Hale working hard to pull someone out of the pool. I helped and immediately began giving artificial respiration. The person was not breathing but after several minutes he seemed OK. Someone called Prestonsburg for help, 10 plus miles away. I also asked someone to get Lowell Hager to come and assist me. We had a big crowd, however I didn’t trust anyone else, just my friends and partner from the First Aid team. Lowell arrived and we would switch off administrating the artificial respiration and never losing a stroke. Help arrived and took control and I believe we were all pleased the first aid team training had paid off.

I thought the blackberry patch behind number one tipple was secret only a few of us knew about. Many berries were picked there were always perfect for that black berry cobbler, jams and jelly. One year Dad bought ten little pigs and we kept them at the tipple pen in front of the black berry patch. Dad raised those ten little pigs and we dressed out them out in the fall. It was like a big party, many in the town joined in the work and shared in the meat, lard and other parts. My grandmother Lurid Nevada Clark Bussey, from Dora, Alabama, used the head to make some kind of loaf. (Judy tells me it was souse meat and that Uncle Dawson brought a hog's head home every Christmas for Aunt Nova to make him some souse meat. I hear Aunt Nova always dreaded this job, but it was a Bussey tradition that she kept going)

Another time dad won the raffle for a pig called Big Red. He ran wild in the hills, pens couldn’t hold him. After a lot of effort we were able to house Big Red in his new home, a strong reinforced pen at the tipple. That fall Big Red dressed out at over 800 pounds. In any case, he was big.

Very important people in David were Harry and Betty Fiedler. Harry was an engineer and Betty was Betty. She organized the Patsy Teenagers and we traveled all over the Eastern part of the country. Shirley Hager, peggy Bussey, Peggy Bartley, Judy, Toby, Karen, Rod Bussey, Betty June Honeycutt, the Hammond girls, Pattie Clark, me and many more over the years were in the Teenagers. More joined, and some of us moved away. Later, the teenagers were led by by Mrs. Kathryn Frasier, who developed the group even further.

Betty taught us to sing, saw that we visited interesting places, White Sulfur Springs, Blowing Rock NC, TV in Huntington and the list goes on. A book could be written about The Patsy Teenagers in White Sulfur Spring WVA. I remember the first couple of meals and we were ordering from the menus. Use your imagination. I have a picture of the group, Christmas of 1951.

We can go on about David, but I believe it provided the basis for learning the necessary skills that have helped us through our lives. We played sports and refereed our own games. We may not have been the biggest or best or the strongest, but this made us try harder and we learned what it took to make it in life.

I hope some of what I have written will help fill in that early time space and add a few details from my perspective. I think it might be good if we could identify what all the young people of David became. I know Judy is trying to showcase a few of us of facebook, but there are so many more David kids, and I'd love to know the people they became.

Kermit wrote briefly about Taylor Stumbo, the sheriff. He shot my dog, later I heard he thought it was sick or dangerous. I didn’t believe that. She was a nice, friendly little dog and she was not sick or dangerous. I was not fan of the sheriff Taylor’s.

I now live in Clermont, Florida.

Bill Bussey

Glen DeBoard: Poem to my Mother: 1987

2011-01-01T14:41:00.004-05:00

Willard and Beatrice Leatha Kilgore DeBoard

Willard was a miner in the Princess Elkhorn Mines at David, Kentucky. Beatrice DeBoard lived both on Middle Creek and in David as a coal camp homemaker and mother.

April 15, 1987
This poem, in memory of our mother, Beatrice Leatha Kilgore DeBoard, was written by sister Brenda Deloris DeBoard Erdell, who also read it at Mom's funeral. Every time I read this poem it moves me. Glen DeBoard

MOM
She stood firm when she disagreed
She didn't give an inch, our Grannie Bee
She had limitless capacity to love, and
I feel she still does, from above

She puts her needs last every time
If all did, it would be sublime

Her words were simple but carried an impact.
she told it straight to you, and that's a fact

Her touch was truly a gift
More than once she gave our hearts a lift.
As she prayed in the closet on her knees,
she asked God to watch over her babies.
She loved each of her children in a different way
Because she knew we all had something different to say

Her heart grieved deeply when she thought we were lost
And she was determined to help at any cost

If you were trying she’d give you her last dime
If you weren’t trying she’d kick you in the behind

We owe our Mother more than we can possibly say
And there is only one way to possible repay

When we do that, we can allow ourselves to rest
And that is to embrace life with our very best

Our best is a cheerful smile, a helping hand
And a forgiving heart
And the courage to speak our piece.
And the courage to do our part.

Brenda

Growing up in Kentucky: Glen DeBoard Reflects on His Life in David and Middle Creek (part 1 of 3)

2010-12-28T18:55:00.015-05:00

The Beautiful DeBoard Family in David, Kentucky: Willard and Beatrice Leatha Kilgore DeBoard with children: Charlotte, Kenneth, John, Glen, Wayne and Brenda.

This posting is from dear friend and David classmate Glen DeBoard. Enjoy Glen's memories. I hope they stimulate your own reflections on your life on Middle Creek and in the coal camp community of David, Kentucky. We hope to hear from you. Enjoy!

GROWING UP IN Kentucky 1944-1960 (Part 1)
by Glen DeBoard

Some of the things I remember growing up in David, Kentucky, around 1945, before we moved to what our family referred to as "the house on the hill below Allen Sloan’s store".
The truck or wagon with a tank on it that delivered water to David residents: Did they deliver ice also? I can remember large blocks of ice before we had an
electric refrigerator.

I remember one of our grandpas sitting on our front porch. He had a mustache. John DeBoard or Oliver Kilgore? Help me out Ken, I was too young.

Jim Henry and his team of horses pulling a wagon of candy and treats. Brother John was hit by a car while he was running to meet Jim Henry. I remember the sliding front right wheel pushing John as he lay in front of it. It was a scary moment for all but John wasn’t harmed. I was right on his heels to meet the wagon and was lucky I couldn’t run as fast as John.

I remember the boardwalk across the creek to an area on the side of the hill where people kept dogs and chickens penned up. The creek looked so gigantic to me at the time and it was in later years when we moved back to David that I realized the creek was very small.

Across the road from our house is where the Wards lived in later years. It seemed as though we lived there some but I believe we just spent a lot of time there playing with neighbor kids in their yard. There was a small stream that ran under the railroad track, through a large cement tile and through this yard. It continued under the road through our yard and out in the creek I mentioned above. The reason I mentioned this stream is one time after a hard rain this stream looked like a raging river to me. I was so young and there was an incident so scary that I can’t remember the details. I believe Kenneth fell in it and was carried down stream a few feet. I must have been very young at this time-2 or 3.

Our neighbor Varnel Clay, who now lives in Lagro, Indiana, cut a tree down with our brother Kenneth in it. The location of this was in the back yard by a small road that went up over the railroad track. Varnel was a neat kid about brother Ken’s age. His family moved to Johnson Co. sometime during the second time we lived at David. I remember a very hard paddling he received from the school principal. He was bruised very badly and today his punishment would be considered abuse for sure.

I remember the red water stand pipes with valves on them that people got drinking water from for home use. You could hang your bucket on it and open a valve. They were at different places in town. This must have been the start of the new water system from the reservoirs and filtration tanks. Later we all had bathrooms and laundry stoves installed, which were heated by coal. These heaters supplied us with hot water, which was a luxury in those 1940s years in the coal camp.

I could go on and on about memories of growing up in this small town David that we all loved and missed when we moved away. I really enjoyed family evenings watching TV, especially on Saturday nights when friends from out of town came. We watched wrestling matches, enjoyed Pepsi and popcorn, what fun. We had so many kids come that Dad had his and Mom’s bedroom made smaller so there would be more room in the living room for kids. There were not enough seats, so we lined up on the floor.

How about all the fun we had at the school gym. For several years the principal, Richmond Sloan, who lived out of town, let us keep the key. I guess he got tired of us coming to his house and asking if we could use the gym. It was hot in the gym but we used it a lot all summer long. I believe this is why the basketball team at the big county high school in Prestonsburg always always had at least three kids from the small town of David on the starting five.

One night Ken, John, Wayne and I were jumping off each others' backs and dunking the basketball. We were having a ball. Being the youngest, Wayne could not quite dunk the ball. He was so close, but could only pin the ball against the rim. I got the brilliant idea to rise up as he jumped off my back. From a kneeling position. I rose just as Wayne’s foot hit the middle of my back. This caused Wayne to turn sideways and fall to the floor, breaking his arm. Sorry Wayne, that was not very smart of me.

Do my friends from David remember Billy Ray Hamilton? He had a brother named Philip who was my age and we were good friends. They later moved to Abbott. I will never forget when they told Billy in front of our house his Father was killed in a mining accident. This was a sad day.

All the trips in the hills were fun. We climbed trees and large rocks all the time. I had so much fun with my brothers and friends from David doing this. The last years in David as a teenager, I roamed the hills hunting squirrels and rabbits. Doing this and fishing caused me to really like outdoor sports. I think our son Mike got this from me. He loves it also.

Growing up we had the swimming pool all summer at no charge because our parents, our coal mining fathers, built it with company furnished the material. Outsiders paid to swim. It was the only pool around for miles. Later Paintsville had a swimming pool built. The coal camp of David had a swimming pool before the city of Huntington, West Virginia did. The kids of David were called water dogs when we went to Boy Scout camp at Jennie Wally State Park.

One year we won all the contests in the swimming area because we were such good swimmers. Brother John won the diving contest and I was second. We had a potato race where you put a potato in a spoon and put the spoon into your mouth. When we started swimming toward the finish line all lost their potatoes. I went under water and felt the bottom for potatoes and found two. I put one in my trunks and the other in my spoon and swam to the finish line.
Hey John, do you remember you and I won the greasy watermelon contest? Two boys from each camp met in the middle of the lake and the one that got it to the bank was the winner. You could get drowned in this contest.
We went to scout camp about every year. Most all the kids couldn’t afford it but Princess Elkhorn Coal Co.(PECCO)let us earn money by working in the community for a week cutting grass, trimming hedges and other things like grubbing bushes around the reservoirs. This work paid our way to a really fun week at Jenny Wiley State Park Boy Scout Camp.

The older kids,who were working for money to go to college, were our bosses. We got away with murder but also worked hard to pay our way to camp. Ray Stambaugh was our scout master. He was a coal miner and had about six kids. His wife died when I was very young. His oldest daughter, Mary Frances, took care of the small kids and one of the girls was in my class, Carol Sue Stambaugh. Two of the younger boys were twins Ron and Don and a younger one was name Gilbert. Neat family-

David had a park with swings,a merry-go-round, sliding boards, sandboxes and other rides. It was great for small kids. The company hired one of the college girls to supervise the small kids every day through the week all summer at that park. We had a party at the end of the summer. Looking back it was a great community activity to get the small kids together. I can remember Peggy Bussey and Peggy Bartley doing this at least one summer. Boy, they were beautiful supervisors.

The baseball diamond was fantastic with large bleachers. When it was new they had, I think, triple A baseball there. When I grew up we played baseball and softball there. We had a traveling baseball team and a traveling softball team over the years. I have a ton of memories of the games we played over these years and I’m sure my brothers do also.

Some of the kids we played ball with were James & Ronnie Hager, Tommie & Jimmie Dawson, Green & Billy Tussey, Gene Clark, Jimmie Penix, Roger Waugh, Ancil Patton, David & Ronnie Lions, Tommy Cole, Rodney Bussey, and many more kids that were our friends.

Evert Hager whittled (carved) a bat from a willow tree limb for us to use. He even put a trade mark on it so it would look like the rest of the bats. I used it playing softball, until the ump at Wayland declared it illegal. Boy-could I hit that softball with that bat.

The two reservoirs provided the drinking water for the community. They stocked the reservoirs with large catfish every year. They always had bass, crappie,and bluegill. I grew up learning and loving to fish. I could tell you hundreds of fish stories from both of the reservoirs. Once, Tom Castle and I were fishing and it came a flash flood. The spillway couldn’t release all the water and the dam almost washed out. The company had miners stop working and put sandbags on top of the dam. The town marshal, Oak Mullins evacuated the town or at least tried to because they thought the dam was going to give away. It probably would have washed all the houses down Middle Creek.

Another time I missed school to take my dog rabbit hunting. I didn’t take a gun because it was the day before opening season. I was walking up the frozen ice on the bigger of the two dams, watching my dog track a rabbit on the side of the hill. The sun was shining several yards ahead of me as I walked on about a ½” of fresh snow that was on the ice. As I got past the hill and out of the shade, I felt the sun shining on me and saw it shining on the fresh snow. After about two more steps on the ice where the sun was shining, a crack in the ice ran in front of me making the snow fly up in the air about 6 inches (neat). I decided the ice was not that solid, especially where the sun was shining on it. I turned and took one step and the ice broke through and down I went.

I can still remember how cold the water felt and the shock to my eyes made me close them. I must have gone a little sideways under the water because when I came up, my head hit solid ice. There was a panic feeling that came over me that would most certainly give me a heart attack these days. I opened my eyes and like a miracle, I could see the sun shining through the broken ice. All around where the snow was on top, it was dark. I still love the sunshine. Each time I tried to get out of the water, the ice would break. Again and again I tried to get out. I looked to the bank and decided that it was to far away to break the ice all the way to the bank. Putting both hands on the ice, slightly pulling down, I put my right foot up on the ice pushing down with it. Somehow with both my hands and my right foot, I rolled myself out of the freezing water. I didn’t take a chance standing up. I crawled all the way to the bank. Needless to say, I ran as hard as I could home, at least a mile away.

I stripped out of my clothes on the back porch and rushed to the bath room. That hot bath sure felt great. I still remember my frozen pants standing up on the back porch when I tossed them in the corner.

Once after the large dam was stocked with huge catfish, my brother-in-law Bill Ratliff (more like a brother) bought some Zebco rod and reels for us to fish with. I will never forget Sister Charlotte going with Bill and me one evening. She was with child (Ronnie) and might not have been in condition to fish. Well not in condition to pull in a 24” catfish. She was totally exhausted and had to sit down. The fish got off the hook and was flopping on the bank. When Bill tried to keep it from getting back into the water with his foot, Charlotte picked up the fish and it slipped through her hands, back into the water. We all had a good laugh. Later, Bill caught a 36” catfish. It took a long time to get it in due to the 6 lb. test line. We took it home and prepared it for dinner. Good memories--- Another time Bill and I both had a large catfish on at the same time and our lines got all tangled together. My line broke and Bill pulled both fish in at the same time. What fish stories!We were a close knit family and David, Kentucky was a great place to grow up during these times.

Random thoughts and flashbacks at David
-Stick ball games in the back yard of the grade school. Also football games in that yard and in the front yard and also the company store yard and swimming pool yard... Hey Ken, John and Wayne, How many times have you gone through the hedges down the hill and get the ball that got away in the front school yard?
I remember a few games we played the boys from Prestonsburg at the David Airport.Red Minix would come with them. He was tough.

Brother John and I doing almost everything together. We were more like twins.

-Going to the Boy Scout meetings in our scout cabin by Hagers. We would built a huge fire in the fire place when cold weather set in.

-Building a small cabin with a loft on the hill behind Hagers. We murdered a stand of young popular trees. They were soft and straight and easy to cut. I wonder if anyone from the company really cared. James and Ronnie did most of the work. If we needed any advice, James and Ronnie’s Brother Charles (Baldie) Hager would straighten us out. We camped in this small cabin a few times.

-Listening to Cincinnati Reds games late at night with Brother John. The games on the west coast were late. Dad would come home from work at midnight and sit in the floor with his work clothes on to catch the last of the game. How did we get up early enough to catch the school bus?

-We had some dare devil slay rides when the snow was just right. Down the hill from the scout cabin was a scary ride. Few made it without flipping. One winter we walked to the top of the hill pulling our sled. From the Magoffin county line with Wayne on my back was unbelievable. We could not make the last curve with the straight in front of us above Alkie Davis. We hit the bank so hard; I don’t know how we survived. I cut my hand and broke my belt. I don’t remember Wayne sustaining any injuries. We got back on and went to the park before we stopped again.

-As we got older we all learned how to put a fast breakfast together. It was either oat meal, box cereal, cream of wheat or can biscuits, eggs and bacon. Mom stayed up late since Day got off work after midnight. That meant when Charlotte was old enough to take care of this chore, Mom could sleep in. I’m proud of my Sis. How did she put up with us? Mom always had our clothes ironed and laid out for school. Occasionally Dad would get up and surprise us with sausage-gravy, eggs and drop-biscuits. Wow—

-Hog Pin Hollow- This place behind our house, up over the railroad tracks had gardens and hog pins. The land belong to the company, but first come first served when it come to using it. There were chickens there also. One time a large boar broke down a wooden fence to get to a young sow. The bore was so huge; its weight broke the back of the sow. “Butchering time”.

-There was a large septic tank in E. Music’s yard. This was the first house on the right of School House Holler across from the school. It had several pipes about 5 ft. tall that ventilated the tank. Each pipe had a U fitting at the top of them. One of our good friends who was about 13 at the time was striking matches and throwing them up the end of a U fitting. He got the job done, but I don’t think he knew how dangerous this was. Suddenly an explosion rocked the whole town. Music’s yard was totally destroyed and our friend was laying several feet away wondering what in the hell happened.

-How about Bill Ratliff installing a gas-motor on his bicycle. A small pulley pressed against the wheel and moved him alone. He showed it to me after he came back from the service. Cool

-How many David boys remember playing pool in a small house across the creek that belonged to the Durhams? Location was where the creek crossed the road on the way to the park.

-Playing ping-pong in a room upstairs in the church. Had some good games. Tommy Cole was good.

-Bill Clark could shoot a bird with a heavy rubber band using BBs.

-Ralph Wells used his Dad’s shop behind their house. They would talk on a radio. It would override the local P-burg station. I remember girls singing over the radio from this station. Could they have been Ralph’s sisters and their friends? Where was the FCC? –

-That old juke box in the fountain. Fats singing Blue Berry Hill.

-Hanging out after dark in front of The Fountain by the hand rails.

-A few swimming parties at night at the David Pool.

-I accidentally burned the stock off Ken’s 22 rifle. Elmer Crum carved a new one for it and it looked just like new. -Sorry Ken-

-Freddie Harper coming back to David from POW. I hope this info is correct.

-A couple of our David Grade School picnics I particularly remember us walking to Magoffin County over the David hill. Another was a picnic at the Boy Scout Cabin. We chased all those pretty girls all around the hills.

-I found a mommy dog with about eight puppies in a cave at the top of the hill behind our house. It was cold and there was a deep snow. Since I had my shotgun, and couldn’t carry all of them, I came home and asked Bill Ratliff to go with me to get them. It was a struggle to carry the mother and a couple of the pups in the snow. Bill got the rest of the pups and we made it home. I found a home for all the pups except one that I kept. The mother and all the pups died from distemper soon after that.

-There was a low spot in our yard and under the house that collected water. The company hired a crew to raise our house and back fill under it to get rid of the problem. I remember that Chuck Goble from Auxier worked for them. When I moved to Wabash, In. Chuck lived there and owned a Texaco service station. We were good friends over the years.

-Playing basketball at the fire station by our house. Who put the goal up?

-Shooting Bill Ratliff’s Colt 22 pistol and Marlin 22 rifle.

-Saying hello to all the people on their porch each time I walked down the sidewalk.
Mr. & Mrs. Dawson, Coles, Cavins, Prestons, Daniels, Clarks, Adkins, Ratliffs, Halls. Adams, Burketts, Clarks, Fitzpatricks, Pattons, Hamiltons, Stambaughs, Stumbos Hammens, Prices, Clays, Hicks and Hales. I know I forgot some-

-Playing Tin-Can-Alley. John, do remember seriously cutting your thigh when you hid behind that post with a nail sticking out of it? Just look at that large scar and I’m sure you will remember. One of the Miners on the First Aid Safety team bandaged it.-Gabby Hall

-Planting pine trees on every hill around. Was this a Boy Scout project? Thousands of them.

-A large snake bit Wayne on the top of his foot. Also, all the snakes Kenneth caught. He would just grab them behind the head. –no way-

-Frog gigging in the reservoirs at night. Snakes all over the place.

-All of the times we went to this huge rock called the Turkey Rock. Kenneth is the only person that climbed on top of it to my knowledge. At least that I knew of.

-Driving sister Charlotte to McDowell Hospital in the middle of the night to have her first born—Ronnie- Her husband Bill worked 3rd shift and we couldn’t wait for him.

-Oscar Adkins bought the material and furnished all the tools and let at least a dozen boys build a bird house. It was in his yard. I thought this was the greatest. His son Greg was my best friend. Not long after they moved to Johnson Co. Greg passed away. Dad and Mom took me to their house to see him. This was a sad day.
-Greg and I were best friends. We were ages nine and Ten. We rode our bikes and were together all the time before they moved to Johnson Co. I can remember his Mom worrying about her son because of his heart condition.
-One time Oscar took his family on vacation. He hired me to feed his hunting dog that was chained up by his house and slept under it. This beautiful bird dog broke the chain one day and came to our house. As it came through our yard dragging the chain, I grabbed the chain to catch him and take him back home. The large dog dragged me through the yard until we came to our gate opening. I can still remember my shoulder hitting the gate post and the chain slipping out of my hand. The bird dog ran out into the road and a truck ran over it. It was so hard for me to tell this to my best friend’s Dad.

Ruff-In-Tough
I was in the 2nd grade when we moved to Ruff-In-Tough. John and I started the 4th grade when we moved to David the 2nd time, so we must have lived at Ruff-In-Tough about 2 years. We knew all the people in the area, even on both forks. Mostly Sloans and Shepherds. I remember walking to the David store to get groceries with Dad. We took the tram track and Dad always said do not touch the tram car cable, it has 500 volts. We passed two entries into the mountain that was mined by our Dad and his co-workers.

How many trips did I take with my brothers to the trash dump at the head of this small road we lived on? The company trucks dumped sludge there also. We had fun there playing, even though it was a dump. Just past that in the edge of the woods, we had our yearly Ruff-In-Tuff school picnic. We played games and covered every sq. in. of that area. There were trees cut down, like someone was logging the area also.

I also remember Dad bringing home a 1939 Chevrolet. We thought it was the neatest car in the world. I always went with Dad every chance I got. I remember him letting me drive that car a few times when we turned up Ruff-In-Tough. I was younger than 10 at the time. He wrecked the car one night. He wasn’t hurt –just a few bruises. The next day a flat bed truck brought the car home in pieces. I wondered how Dad was still alive. It was sad to see the car. Later Dad said his horn was blowing and would not stop. He raised the hood and pulled a few wires until the horn stopped blowing. Later on the road it was dark and Dad stopped because one of the wires he pulled went to his headlights. He flagged a car down and asks the guy if he could follow him to the next town. After the guy refused and speeded away. Dad decided to follow him and wrecked. Could this have happened? Or, was Dad a good story teller.

Dad took all of us to Lomansville one time in that car. This was where Dad grew up. I can remember an older gentleman (my grandpa or great uncle) in the house raising hell because someone was smoking in his house. I remember this lady putting us to bed that night. I thought I was going to freeze to death in that upstairs bedroom. She put enough quilts over us; it was hard to move in bed. Later I remember being so hot I had to push these heavy quilts off.

We went somewhere that first night in Dad's Chevy. I can’t remember who was with us. Dad hit a red fox. He stopped and picked it up and threw it in the trunk of the car. Later when he opened the trunk, the fox jumped out so fast, it almost knocked Dad down.

Brother John, was it when we lived in Ruff-In-Tuff that you and I visited Uncle Charley Clark and Aunt Leona? It was Gene Clark and my birthday. We took a birthday cake that Mom made for us. While we were visiting, you, Gene and I went to the new swimming pool that they were building. I can remember all the pretty girls roller skating on the roof of the pool building. There was no gravel on it at that time.

Glen E. DeBoard 1998

Middle Creek

My sister, Charlotte Ann (DeBoard) Ratliff and I exchange e-mails going over our wonderful memories of growing up in Kentucky. Most of the memories of mine that I shared with her were of us when I was the age of 10 through 17 years. The last e-mail from her was about memories she has at about the age of 8 years when we lived on Middle Creek. I was about 3 years old and we moved to Ruff-In-Tuff when I was 6 or 7 years old. Most of us refer to our house on Middle Creek as “The House on The Hill”, or below Allen Slone’s Store”. This residence was about half way between David and the (Forks) Mountain Park-Way.

My memories of living on Middle Creek are vague. This had to be around 1945 to 1949. Not being very good at putting my memories together, I want to attempt to write some one liners of my flashbacks starting at the age of one until we moved to Ground Hog Holler or also known as Ruff-In-Tuff when I was about 7 years old.
At the age of 1+ I have a few flash backs of living at Garrett and also in Ohio.
As I was talking to Dad one day, telling him of them—He confirmed them.

At the house on the hill I use to crawl under a small table just inside the outside door going to the kitchen. This table was against the wall just inside the door to the left. This was my safe haven when company came to visit. I was to shy to play in front of strangers.

I fell asleep on top of two new linoleum rugs one day. They were still rolled up in their round containers lying side by side in the bedroom adjacent to the front porch. When I awakened, I was surprised I could sleep on something so uncomfortable.

We were looking for Mom one night just before bedtime and found her on her knees in the closet, praying. We heard her voice and opened the door or curtain to find her. She was in tears and looking up in the dark and talking to God in a slightly raised tone of voice. I only remember Mom going to church a few times in my life, but as I think about this, I realize Mom was close to God and I’m sure several of those prayers were for her Kids.

Before Dad ran a power line from Henry Morris’ electrical meter for our electricity in the house, we used kerosene lamps in the evenings before bedtime. I can remember Dad bringing his battery powered light home from work and using it to read. This had to be after midnight and I should have been in bed. Bad boy- I use to get up through the night and check Dad’s dinner bucket to see if he left anything from his lunch for work. Many times there was a piece of cake.

Dad was building a hog-pen for a hog that he purchased. I watched him all morning and he was about done with the job. He bent over the new hog-pen to drive a nail at the bottom. He drove the nail through the fence into his ankle. I bet you could hear him at Allen Slone's store. I can remember him bandaging it. I think Charlotte, Ken and John were at school. I didn’t think Dad could do a job of this magnitude. I was so proud of him.

Dad made a bow and some arrows and actually went hunting in the woods above our house. I remember the arrow heads were metal inserts. I was totally amazed when I saw Dad shoot an arrow and hit a vegetable package on a stick in the garden. We thought our Dad was really cool after this impossible feat.

We had chickens and some turkeys at one time. I remember finding a nest full of eggs by the huge tree, just over the bank. Later, I remember several chickens with small chicks. I heard a saying later in life. This mother told her kids to “quit working them chickens”. I bet I worked our chickens.

We had a pet dog. I can’t remember what it looked like. I believe it was small and before the Collie we had just before we moved to Ruff-In-Tuff. A lot of small things came up missing around the house. Most of them were small toys. I think it was Ken that figured it out one day and gave the dog a small toy to play with. He followed the dog to his hiding place under the house and found several items the dog had taken. Ken started his detective skills at a young age.

At one point Dad was hauling water from a well at the Sloan Store to our home. Our well must have been dry. It was a large container, similar to metal garbage can. He had it in our toy wagon. It was a job pushing this wagon with about 30 to 40 gallons of water all the way home, especially up the hill into our yard. I think Dad was tired and left the wagon and container of water outside the door and went inside to rest. Being the smallest, I could not push the wagon like Ken and John, my big brothers. I decided to push the wagon by myself, just to prove to myself I could do it. You got it, I turned the container over and spilled all the water. Again, you could hear Dad at the Sloan store. I was so scared; I crawled under the house in an area that no one could get to me. I stayed there for hours. I contemplated running away from home at this early age of 4. Later, after Dad cooled down, Mom and Dad talked me into coming out from my hideaway. They didn’t even give me a whipping. Till this day, I believe I deserved one. Can you imagine all the work getting that water?

Seems like we always had a large garden close to the house. I can remember all the fresh vegetables. One year Dad put out a garden across the road. This creek bottom was mostly sand. I can remember the Sloan boys planting corn in this bottom. They had a hand corn planted and would walk down the entire bottom sticking the hand planter in the sandy soil every step of the way. When Dad laid out his garden across the road, he made several long rows for the sweet potatoes by heaping the sand up 12 to 18 inches high. I can remember the thought of the day was, as he pushed the sweet potato plants into the top of the rows,nothing will grow in this sand. I never will forget how large the sweet potatoes were that year. I have never grown them that big in my 64 years.

There was a neat small store down the road from us. I think Jay Shepherd owned it. Orange Crush in the dark bottles was my favorite drink there. In the field behind him was the place they made sorghum each year. They would fire up a large stove with the juice from the cane running onto the top of it from the mill. One or two mules would walk in a circle turning the mill while one of the workers would feed the fresh sticks of cane into the opening of it. The juice would run down a flume onto the top of the hot stove while another worker would stir it or push it back and forth until it got thick. Mom sent me after a gallon one year. It was all I could carry. I dropped it as I crossed the road by Jay’s store at the large curve. As I tried to catch it, it landed on my finger on the blacktop and cut and or smashed my finger. Dam that hurt-

At a house by Jay’s store, just across a lane, was a union meeting or election one time, Two men got into a fight. One of them was knocked out and lay unconscious for a very long time. I didn’t know either one of them at the time. In later years, I overheard one of the men we knew at David, talking about this in a conversation with someone else. It turned out that both of these men were from David and I knew both of them. We were all friends at this time. Today I just think it was a disagreement between two young men.

How about all the trips Charlotte, Ken, John and I made going around the hill to Richmond Sloan’s Dad’s property. I don’t think we were supposed to be there. One time we built a fire in a small cement room on the hill above his house. Some of his kids came up and ran us off and gave us all kinds of hell. We went back several times but were always quiet so they would not know we were there. Charlotte told me she remembers gathering paw paws once when we were there. You could hear Mr. Sloan telling us to get out of his paw paw patch. Charlotte ran home with her paw paws wrapped in the tail of her dress. One time I made this trip by myself. Just as I got to the edge of the woods above our house I saw a very long black snake wrapped around a tree. You could see large knots on the snake. Later I found out they swallow young rabbits and birds whole and this is the way they break them up inside. I moved on and the trip to the cement room went well. On the way back I made my way down the hill to early and got into some thick brush. Just as I got to an empty stream bed or some rocks of some kind. I heard the sound of what I know now to be a rattle snake. I peered through the brush toward the rattling sound and saw a large snake by some rocks. I backtracked out of the brush and made my way back up the hill to the woods and then toward home. Just at the edge of the woods I stopped to rest and was looking down the hill at our house. I heard a noise close by and it was that large black snake I saw earlier crawling up very close to me. I rolled sideways down the hill and got up on the run toward the house. I got my brothers and we went back and threw rocks at that snake until it crawled into a hole.

One time our Mom and Dad had a disagreement. Mom at about 30 years old went to stay with her mom. Seems like it lasted about a week. I really can’t remember. She got in Uncle Glen’s Oldsmobile or Buick carrying a baby. I think it was Brother Wayne. I was a little tyke. The older kids were staying with Dad. This was a sad day for me. I jumped into the big car. I was going with my Mom. I had to get out of the car and stay with Dad and my older brothers and sister. At this age, it was hard to understand. I really missed Mom while she was gone. Kelly Haywood’s daughter cooked and cared for us while Mom was gone.

The Haywoods were a great family and great neighbors. We always were made to feel at home. They had at least three daughters and at least two sons. For the life of me I cannot remember their names. Was it Alta, Christine &???

The youngest girl, Alta, was my sister Charlotte’s age. ?? They treated us like gold. Their youngest son made trips to the hills playing with us. We played there and also in the creek. I helped Kelley in his large garden by the creek one year. To tell the truth, Kelley and his wife was probably baby sitting me. I remember one time we were at the Haywoods. Seems like some kind of celebration. Someone in an airplane flew overhead several times that day and was diving down close to his house. Rules today would not let a pilot do that for sure. Kelly also give us haircuts.

Just after I turned six years old, Dad took his kids to the movie at David. I think Wayne was to young so I believe it was Charlotte, Ken, John and me that went with him. We were in line to pay our way into the movie. Can you remember the small room there where they collected the money before going through the big double doors? When it became our turn to buy tickets, they told Dad if any of us kids were under six years old, we could get in free. Dad turned and ask me, “ Glen, aren’t you five years old? I said: “No Dad, I’m six years old.” He said: OK, and paid at least a quarter for my ticket.----Sorry Dad----This is so funny to me when I think of it.

We went to Sunday school at David several times. We rode the public bus there and back home. The driver was Jim Pee. I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to go if I didn’t have big brothers and my sister Charlotte. A few times I remember going to church there. Preacher Durham’s driver picked us up in a truck with seats in the back. There was also bible school at the buckeye school every summer. They served cookies and fruit. The walk to that school was about a mile. This was our school my first two years until we moved. That would be a long walk to school these days. Seems like it was up hill both ways-ha. John and I got a new pair of suspenders when we were in first grade. They were snapped to a cardboard clock with an hour and minute hands. We took the clocks to school. Mrs. Mildred Whittaker was our teacher. She put the clocks on the chalk holder and taught the whole class how to tell time with them. This was Goldie Stephens’s sister. Goldie was our teacher at David.

It was Christmas time when I was in the second grade. Mrs. Whitaker gave each kid in the class a poem to memorize while school was out for Christmas. I read it a few times and thought there is no way I could recite this poem. Mom helped me with it over and over again each day until we went back to school. Mrs. Whitaker asked each kid to stand up and recite their poem. No one in the class could do it. When she finally asks me, I wanted to say no also just to go along with the class. I thought of how much time Mom spent with me making sure I knew each word. I stood up and without missing a work recited the poem. Mrs. Whitaker pinned a star on my butt. No, but she did give me a good grade.

One time my brothers and I were chasing Sister Charlotte and another girl around the house. Somehow Charlotte got her right elbow into the window pain at the back of the house. It not only broke the glass but Charlotte received a large cut on her arm. Look Sis, to see if you still have a large v shaped scar on your right forearm. Mean boys.

I remember Dad dressing up in his khaki shirt and pants on Saturday to go to a first aid meetings at David. Seems like his picture, with his team was in the newspaper. One Saturday he ended up at Ocy Sloan’s store buying chances on a clock with a horse on it. I think he use to hang out with Ervin Sloan and Johnny Prater. Mom sent us to tell him to come home. We went to this store and told Dad, Mom wanted him to come home. After we told Mom what he was doing, she went to the store and bought all the chances left and took the clock. Way to go Mom.

The first football Mom and Dad bought us boys, we were above the house seeing who could kick it further. Ken and John could kick the you-know-what out of that ball. It finally was my turn. I would completely miss the ball with my foot. Finally after Ken and John got tired, I tried and tried to kick that ball. I don’t remember if I ever made contact.
Last summer, I was watching Cody next door trying to kick his new football and having a hard time making contact with his foot. It made me think of us over 60 years ago.

I’m sure Charlotte, Ken and John remember that Dad was always playing tricks on us. This one instance he made a dime disappear. We checked his sleeves and looked all around. We stayed right after him asking what happened to that dime. Finally, he said it was inside a potato under the hot ashes in the fire place. We thought he was pulling our leg. He raked around in the ashes with the poker until he pulled out a potato. Sure enough, a dime was inside it. Boy, did I think he knew magic.

A few times he told us the story of Raw Head & Bloody Bones. Man, this would scare the crap out of us. This one time, shortly after he told that story, he slipped out of the house and put his head inside one of the windows and screamed. He had a white sheet on his head. I think that marked all us kids for life.

I remember the picture of Mom and Dad sitting on the dresser. Who has that picture now? Man, they were a good looking couple. Do you guys remember the picture of “Jesus knocking on the door”? I have it. It had some damage on the edges. I had it professionally framed.

One time Dad spent most of the day fishing in the creek across the road. He came home for a snack and returned to find his fish gone. We walked down the creek looking for them. Sure enough, he found the huge stringer of fish. Not to long after that all the fish in this creek died from bad water from the David mines.

Did we get our first refrigerator while we lived there? Seems like Clayton Wills delivered it with the company delivery truck and Mom helped him get it into the house. I believe Mom had problems from lifting that heavy thing.

The year before I started school, I remember spending mornings with Dad. There was a program on the radio each day that he listened to. I remember that old radio with a huge battery behind it. Dad practiced his first aid, while listening by tying tourniquets on me at the pressure points. He would put my arm in a sling and tie splints to my leg. Boy, was I being used!I knew all the pressure points to the human body before I started school. I still know them.

I remember Mom cooking on that wood stove. She would make chocolate candy from time to time. We loved it. Did we fight over who got the spoon she used to stir the candy? Mom would string green beans and hang them on the wall behind the stove to dry them.

I believe our sister Brenda was born not too long before we moved. Seems like the doctor came to the house. Mrs. Morris made us stay at her house during this wonderful occasion. Brenda was the pet. We thought she was the most beautiful baby in the world.

I think times were hard during the years we lived on Middle Creek. I assume this from reading the history books. I don’t remember wanting for anything. I thought we had everything. I’m sure we did, because we had each other. We were lucky kids.

Glen DeBoard
2007

Greatest Mother In The World
January 18, 1997

I would like to tell you of one of many instances why I thought my Mom was the most wonderful mother in the whole world. First you need to know the setting. It was in a small coal mining town ( David ) in the state of Kentucky in 1953.We had a contest at school that helped raise money. I was in the fourth grade and decided to compete in the contest. Each year in our gymnasium the school and community had a festival. It was actually a fund raiser for the school and entertainment for the children and their parents. Several activities took place leading up to the Saturday night festival.

Each class sold pies, cakes and candy each day at school that week. It was all donated by the parents and sent to school by very proud kids. Each child that wanted to participate in the contest would raise money that eventually would be part of the fund raiser. I asked for donations by going from door to door and also by mowing lawns to get all the cash I possibly could. The one that raised the most money would be crowned King with one of the fund raising girls being crowned Queen.
Looking back on this event, it seems child like and I wonder sometimes why I wanted to compete. It must be the need of kids to feel special sometimes. I believed if I could win this contest, it would be the greatest thing that ever happened to me.
The money I earned cutting grass wasn’t much, but with the donations I collected it all added up to $9.50. It seemed like such a large sum of money and really, it was in those days. We all put our money in glass jelly jars with our name on them. That Friday morning all of us in the contest put our jars of coins on the end of the bake sale table. You could not tell for sure who was leading except that some of the jars were almost full of coins. The dead line was the end of the school day and prior to lunch, one of my classmate’s Mom came to the school and brought some candy to put on the sale table. She picked up her son’s jar and looked it over. She folded a ten dollar bill and inserted it in the slot in the jar lid. This kid wasn’t even in the running and all of a sudden he was the leader. I was sure he had over $10.00 at this time.

I was kind of quiet on the way home for lunch and my brother John talked to me about what had happened. As we all sat around the lunch table at home, John told the story to all and there was a few comments said about it. Mom made no comment at all. A quick lunch and out the door we started. We always wanted to get a few minutes playing time in before the school bell sounded. Just as I was going out the door, Mom asks me to come back in the house and talk to her. She let me know that she had not contributed to the fund raiser and give me a $5.00 bill. Our eyes met and I didn’t know what to say. She gave me a hug and said get out of here or you will be late for school.
You know $5.00 was a lot of money in 1953,especially in a family of eight people. This was one of many instances of how Mom treated her kids. She was strict and firm, but had a heart of gold and much love for her kids. This must be why all my brothers and sisters show so much love today and will give you the shirt off their backs. In later years Mom (Beatrice Leatha Kilgore DeBoard) was known as Granny Bee and all her grand kids loved her. She passed away April 14, 1987 and will be missed by all.
Oh, by the way, look in the 1953 Floyd County Year Book and see King Glen DeBoard on stage with Queen Francine Burkett.

Glen DeBoard Today, 2010

COMMENTS

There is always a DeBoard in my memories of David Kentucky, our East Kentucky coal camp home. In every grade in my school years, there was always a Bussey and a DeBoard. Charlotte was in the generation of my older sisters, Toby and Peggy, Brenda in the younger generation. The boys were such good friends and protective boys, just like my brothers.

The Bussey kids bonded much like the DeBoard kids did. We loved & protected each other, supported each other in all competition from round town to swimming to sleigh riding down those treacherous hills. I think maybe all of us coal camp kids bonded in our prayers that our parents could survive the challenges that came along with coal camp life.

I related with so many of Glen's memories, like the time I collected a meager 63cents in an effort to become a Halloween princess....

or, walking up the road and speaking to the adults sitting on their porches, "hello Mrs Capelli, hello Mrs Wilson, Hello Mrs Cole, etc", I dreaded this ritual at times, being a shy little girl. But that's the way it was back then.

In talking to my David classmates I've learned that there are generational perspectives and memories that are unique to each of us. While each is different, each is real. By compiling these individual accounts, we're building a bank of memories that validates our own self concepts and enables each of us to understand our history, our culture, and the work ethics and dedication of our parents who were true pioneers in the East Kentucky coal fields. Thanks for writing, Glen!

David Natives Reminisce: Page 5

2010-12-26T16:34:00.011-05:00

Nova Hicks Bussey (Mother) Toby, Judy, Peggy, and Rodney circa 1944-5

Josh Peck I can't believe that's Nanny she was PRETTY!!!!

Judy Bussey She was a real beauty Josh!

Margo Collins I'm so glad we can share these pictures and memories. As we get older we become more and more interested in the things that have always been interesting throughout the years. Nova Hicks was a natural beauty.

Paul Shepherd
What a great photo. Time has changed so many things about our lives. It is so easy to read every face in this photo. Surly that can't be Toby. With out the names I would have guessed Peggy to be Toby. There is that look of certainty in Peggy's face that Toby carries today.Rodney look like he did when I went to school with him. Judy has that look of who cares this is my life just me and my lolly pop.Toby, with her clinched fist, yell, I'm having the time of my life. This is so much fun.Yes Your mother was very beautiful, The expression on her face tells so many different feelings going through her mind.

Elaine Wells Andrusia Rodney hasn't changed a bit has he????

Glen DeBoard Thanks to all that is posting these photos. I love to live in the past.

Judy Bussey Rod's kind smile and sweet face are timeless. Best big brother a girl could ever have. He has always watched over me. ♥

Elaine Wells Andrusia Hmmmm, not sure about that Judy. I think my bruz was the best, Ralph, he use to carry me on his back to school so the mean ole bad dogs couldn't eat me up! Rodney can comein 2nd, okay. Cuz he was one smart dude to have cared about my beautiful sister Susie. Glen, this is the best site that I think is on the computer!!! I am so very grateful to Judy for this site. i can go home again, I can truly go home again and remember it as it was back in the mid to the early 60's

Glen DeBoard Elaine, you got it girl, this site has the wonderful world of David and so many friends close by that I knew so well. I hope Judy does not get tired of us responding to her pictures and comments on the town I grew up in. I feel like we are using Judy's information but it is so much enjoyment, I can't help myself.----thanks Judy

Elaine Andrusia
Know what Glen, I think Judy is happy to have us on here. I also think that the David "Clan" has to be the happiest folks that ever evolved in today's society. Yep, we are the Clan from David or could you say we are the "David Clan" I think that is how I want to remember us. I think that those who grew up there and enjoyed the life we (David Clan) had there were truly blessed from God. I mean, why did we ever have to leave (except to go to the doctor-which I had to do several times cuz I was such a walking disaster! Bottom line, those who lived outside of the David Community were left out of the most wonderful life that God has ever put on this earth, except for the Garden of Eden and I think maybe, just maybe they could have taken some ideas from David, Ky!

Libby Howard Peck My Nanny was beautiful. I wonder what was on her mind in this Picture. Johnny and Karen came later. I think she always dreamed of being able to be herself...Dancing , singing, talking, telling stories. Getting away from her way of... life.She was my best friend, we could talk about anything.......I spent a lot of time with her when she moved to Tutor Key. She was so proud of her little house. Nanny and Jeff would sing all the time.I wish I could remember all of her stories that she told me. We all need to make a journal, pass it around to all, and then we can read it an get to know how she touched all of our lives.

Pattie Clark Mollete's Back Yard Photo with Comments from David Natives: Page 4

2010-12-26T16:33:00.012-05:00

The view from Burnsie and Pattie Clark Mollette's back door, in David, Kentucky--my childhood coal camp home. (2009)

Pattie still lives in David. Looks just like the back yards did back in the 40s and 50s. We played all over those hills. Betty Mae says her yard still looks this way. Guess I shouldn't have moved. My hillside back yard view on Wylie Branch was beautiful, too.

Comments from David Folks

Terry Lea Buchanan Boy does that snowy scene bring back happy memories

Judy Bussey we always found something to play whether or not we had toys...I showed my granddaughter a big tree with grapevines out where she works and told her we swung on those vines...wonder if kids still do that?

Betty Childers Judy that could have been on the hill behind my house....ha Betty

Judy Bussey Guess I'm homesick for a hill out back.....got an extra room? ♥

Margo Collins Judy I love this picture. My heart and soul was pulled toward it. I wish my Mom could be here right now to enjoy this with me. ♥ U.

Judy Bussey Margo, we can go visit my longtime friend and David native, Betty Mae Clark...she lives in Louisa, not far from Johnny...we must go!! Betty Mae and I went through 12 years of school together. She & Archer came to your Mother's visitation, but I didn't get to introduce you all....

Nancy E Spiggle Looks like the hill behind our house in P"burg. Actually, it could be behind almost anyone's house in E.Ky.

Bussey
You are so right. and I hope they really *see* it. Reminds me of my attachment to the hills. Karen and I spent hours with no toys, playing "playhouse" all day '"p'like this rock's a table, p'like this is the baby bed' p'like I'm Nyoka swinging... on this grapevine, p'like, p'like, p'like...", when I moved my children up Wylie Branch I said, great, now you can play in the hills. They said, "What would we do?.We all see through different eyes, don't we? I still get wistful and am inspired by this backdoor view....♥

Fran Justice
Judy, I was just questioning/asking if anyone had ever "P'liked* as a kid, then my eyes went up to your post about *pliking*. I guess most of us pliked growing up, especially when we were in a hurry. Bill says as kids, when they were getting ready to play *cowboys*, whoever said,' "I'm the main player" first, got to be the cowboy who was never killed, even if they were shot a million times.

Judy Bussey
Glad you knew "Plike". We played the best games ever, didn't we! Do you remember "roun-town", when we played baseball in the road? when someone was "out", you could "bring them in" with three runs! Those boys were so good and would hit the ...ball clear up to Hagers. Deanna was the best girl. Sometime we used "slabs" of wood cause we didn't have bats. and those balls were hard to replace!What was it called when you threw the bat to someone on the other team then placed one hand on top of another until someone got first choice? I never expected to be chosen, I was just thankful they let me play!

Betty Childers This picture was taken from my Aunt Pat's back door .

Paul Shepherd Judy no coins to toss in those days. Just toss the bat and hope you ended up with the last pinch on the bat. I don't believe I ever got picked first. Lucky if I got picked. But I knew I was good lol

Fran Justice We used to play "roun town" in the parking lot almost from our house on front street. It was really fun, I could actually play it fairly well. Better than that danged cookie jar, Judy.........lol

Paul Shepherd How about "any over" ? Anyone remember that game. I think the best thing about back then, no such thing as generation gap. Moms and pops would get out and play with us on a Sunday after church and have what was called Dinner on the ground. I remember how folks would come from David back in the late 40's when church was in our home and spend all afternoon. Then one night a week.

Judy Bussey ‎*Games* is a good topic. Maybe I'll try to get that going too. I sure remember Any Over....throwing a ball over the house....someone trying to catch it on the other side...?

Toby Ann Bussey Howard "kick the can" and "go sheepy go".

Pattie Clark Mollette Hide and seek

Arlene Cecil Mumble peg, or draw a large circle in the ground and play marbles, who ever won the game you had to give away your prized cat head marble, going upon the hillside and carving your initials and your boyfriends name on a big walnut tree, then gathering the walnuts in a burlap bag and taking them home to be hulled out and used for the holidays. Take a week for the stain to wear off your hands and fingers.

Judy Bussey what is mumble peg. Is it the knife game? Karen mentioned that game where we threw knives at each others' feet (I can't believe we did this!) seems you spread your feet apart after each throw...anyone remember??? Boys were great at this game...

Paul Shepherd Arlene speaking of walnuts just the last two weeks I just gathered 5 big,big garbage cans of walnuts to use for a harmless stain no chemicals,water base,dries fast, no lasting odors a green product as they say. Made my own picker upper so no stains on my hands took a metal can, mounted it to a handle at a 45 and can pick up 2 walnuts each time.I planted 2 trees 30 years ago in my yard. I will post the stain on my site

Childers Betty I remember mumble peg, you stand straight in front of each other at any distance, I guess, and the threw the knife on the ground where you wanted someone to put their feet. then they moved their feet, then it was their turn and you did the same . I guess we did that until someone legs got to short and couldn't go any farther so the last throw would win...right...

Judy Bussey wow...can you believe they let us throw knives at each others' feet...and without supervision...imagine that today! this is the game Karen mentioned....I don't remember calling it Mumble peg, but guess we did.

Peggy Nelson games; RED ROVER, HOPSCOTCH, ROUND TOWN ,JUMP ROPE , JACKS,

Rod Bussey
Round Town was one of my favorites....when we could find a ball....a bat was always available disguised as a broom stick, a slab(wide board), or a branch from a tree.......do you remember how the "captains"used a" bat" and alternated placing one hand above the other person's to determine who chose the first player?

Cora Hughes We played Round Town, too....do you think anyone but those of us in Floyd County even know what we are talking about? My brothers always made me run after the ball....been running ever since!

2010 Photo of Pattie Clark Mollette, David, Kentucky

David Natives Reminisce: Page 3

2010-12-09T23:58:00.005-05:00

(l-r) Dawson Bussey, Tandy Bartley, Unidentified Miner. Underground in David Mines.

Paul Shepherd:Judy ,What an awesome picture. Most in the modern world do not know what our
Dads,Uncles,Brothers, Cousins, Family members and Friends had to endure each day to support their families.Food on the table,clothing and shelter.A good education so their children would have a better life than they had. It took a real man to do this labor so his family could survive. There was so much Love and responsible they risk their lives everyday.Then when it came time to enjoy life as it was meant to be many were too sick or died before their time. That was true Love.

This should be a poster picture to show those that live in their many million dollar homes, ride in their limos, eat the finest foods, hang out with what is known as the elite crowds, walking down the red carpet as if they are Gods of the people. These are those that say coal mining should be stopped. Don't they realize if coal mining stops a great deal of the Nation and World will also come to a stop as millions will loose their incomes. Who will give food and shelter to the needy.

You have a great group of photos. We forget about lots of things in this life but the fond Memories will go on forever.

Judy Bussey: Paul, It took me a few years to really know how great Daddy was in many ways. Now I tell every class he crawled on his knees every day for 34 years to keep 8-10 people sheltered and fed. Any transgressions he made are easily lost these days... in my realization of his persistence and hard work..often on bad "miner's knees"...they just kept on going, didn't they. I ask my students how many people they know in today's world that would stick it out to keep a family together. Not many, I'm afraid.I think they love when I dignify labor this way...I value all work and make that clear to them. Would you mind if I put your comments on my blog spot: www.appalachianroots.blogspot.com I appreciate your feedback and deep thoughts about our heritage. I remember your Dad, Ashland very well. He was indeed a smart man and a hard worker.

Linda Morefield: My dad worked in the mines for awhile but when they built Carr Creek Dam, we had to move and he chose that moment in time to do something else with his life. We came to the end of the Mountain Parkway and bought a farm in Winchester and he... became a maintenance man at the Clark County Hospital where he could fix any machine that broke down. He worked just as hard there as he did in the mines and then came home and worked on the farm until dark so his work ethic continued even after he left the mines. I had several uncles that worked their lives in the mines and lost one uncle to a cave-in when he was only 16 or 17. He had just started working and was so proud of doing the job his dad had always done. My mom's dad spent his life in the mines until he died in a car accident. Your pictures certainly make it clear what they went through for us, though.

Judy Bussey:‎Linda, you have me in tears. We have so many common bonds..always did. I'm glad for the good conversations we had. A strong work ethic seems to be the common thread of those great men. Your father was probably the most skilled man around,... they had to learn so much to keep thin ♥ Judy

On another subject, Linda, I have strong memories of your waiting for Adam to come home from Iraq. He was among the first young men to go to Iraq and I hated it so bad for you. I asked about him often and will never forget the day he came home! You are a wonderful mother, daughter, wife and grandmother-to name a few--and you held all the forts down as I remember--attributes of a strong coal miner's daughter! ♥

The women were special too. I write about mother elsewhere and won't go into it right now.

Glen DeBoard: Hey Judy, The person on the right in this picture looks like Eula's Dad, Eugene Hager.

Paul Shepherd: You may be right Glen. I know him by his glasses.seen him many times but after all these years can't remember the name. At first I thought it may be Ruie Cavens

Glen DeBoard:Eugene (Gene) and Mildred moved to Wabash several years ago. Being John"s father-in-law, I visited their house many times. We were fishing buddies. I was looking at Judy's pictures and thought it looked like Gene. Maybe we can find out. I get so much enjoyment looking at Judy's pictures---thanks Judy

Judy Bussey: I'm in tears now. To think the miner might be our own special Eulagene and Jonell's father. I only met Eulagene this year, knew Jonell in high school....How wonderful if we discover our fathers were together in that dreadful underground. Great Men. Paul said once they were all pioneers and deserve to be honored. I agree. Let me know if you confirm it. I can't wait to find out!!! I'll be seeing John and Brenda tonight, maybe we can find out then!♥

Judy Bussey: These are *our* pictures Glenn! Feel free to contribute and I'll put them up.I'm so glad our David community is gathering around, so to speak.

Judy Bussey PS: I just learned recently that friend Barb Hager is cousin to Jonell and Eulagene. I'm going to ask all of them so they can help us identify the miner on the right!

Glen DeBoard: Paul, did you mean Rudell Cavins? He was my next door neighbor. I'm sure it is not Him. I guess I did not know Ruie----October 22

Pattie Clark Mollette THE MAN ON THE RIGHT LOOKS LIKE WALTER ARROWOOD AND BURNSIE SAYS THAT IT IS WALTER ALSO.
October 22

Glen DeBoard
My Dad worked 2nd shift for years. He and us boys were die-hard Reds fans. When the Reds played on the West Coast, John and I would stay up late at night and listen to them on the radio. A little after midnight Dad would come in with his black miners clothes on and say---What is the score boys. He would curl up on the floor to keep from getting coal dust on the furniture and we would finish listening to the game. Boy, these are great memories. Needless to say John and I would have a hard time getting up the next morning to catch the school bus to P-Burg High.
--Hey John---We use to be able to tell all the guys names on the Red and their batting averages. Do you remember T.F. Ratliff giving us the baseball cards that come in his chewing tobacco packs? When one of them was a Red's player we were thrilled. What happened to all those cards?
Johnie Greengrass, Ted Kluszewski., It's been too long
October 22
Glen DeBoard
Hey Pattie and Burnsie, I'm glad you commented on this picture. I'm sure if both of you think this is Walter, you probably are right. I thought it looked like Gene but I am not sure. I'm sure Eula and Jonell will comment as soon as they see... our comments.
It's great to communicate with people from David that I knew so well when I lived there. Can you tell me about Bill, We use to hang out and have a great time when I was a teenager.

Pattie Clark Mollette Glen, Bill died Feb.17,2007. He lived in Lexington ,Ky. I am the only one still living .I still live in David. Good to hear from you I love these picture where we guess who the people are. Good to hear from you. Pat

Glen DeBoard: I am sorry Pattie, I didn't know. Bill and I were such good friends. He was a little older than me but He rode me on his bike and we fished and did all the things that kids did in David. I remember stopping in David several years ago and saw Bill and--was it Dorthy? I thought all your family was so great. I can still see your Mom and Dad sitting on the porch when I walked down the sidewalk. They would always say hi to me and they were Icons in David. Tell Burnsie hello
October 22
Judy Bussey: Rod and I have a friend who is Walter and Velma's nephew. I'll ask him (Phil Haney) to look at this photo too. Funny, but I don't see Walter in the face of the man......but, Pattie has been proven the expert on these old photos....

Phil Haney looks a little like Walter, but it is not clear enough. Walter wore glasses.October 23

Glen DeBoard John told me that he and Eula both didn't think Eugene worked at David. I thought he told me some stories about working at David. My mistake gang- This guy looked like my friend Eugene (Gene). I miss him.
October 26

Judy Bussey; I'm tagging friend Fran Burkett Justice and her daughter Anita, who has written a screenplay about the mines. I want Anita to see how our fathers worked, always on their side or their knees. The unidentified miner will soon become Walter Arrowood unless someone has a better idea.October 27

Anita Justice Skibski This is an incredible photo. I was telling mom that I'd love to have the beginning credits roll over photos like this one. I'm definitely going to suggest it if they ask my opinion.

David Natives Reminisce: Page 2

2010-12-09T23:42:00.005-05:00

Cherokee Bill ( William Verne) came to David several times over the years. He could shoot, throw knives, ride horses. snap cigarettes from the boy's mouths with his bullwhip!ll I rec'd the following from Cherokee Bills grandchild. Additional Information appreciated. William Verne married someone from the David area, so some of you may have information:

"MY GRAND-FATHER WAS THE "THE GREAT CHEROKEE BILL" HE WAS BORN IN THE YEAR OF 1901 AND DIED 2 MONTHS BEFORE I WAS BORN IN APRIL OF 1978. IF U HAVE ANY INFORMATION ON HIM, I WOULD APPRECIATE IF I COULD GET THAT. I DO KNOW FOR A FACT THAT HE WAS BORN ON A RESERVATION IN OKLAHOMA AND IT WOULD BE GREATLY APPRECIATED!! I ALSO THAT JESSE STUART WROTE EITHER A BOOK ABOUT HIM OR IT WAS A CHAPTER IN A BOOK!!

John Anderson: He shot a cigar out of my mouth with a 22 cal rifle, and also cut off a piece of rolled up newspaper from my mouth with his whip. This happened in or about 1952-55 when he appeared at the Strand Theater.

Judy Bussey I'll make sure to notify his granddaughter who's watching these comments--Billie Jo McRoberts. She's anxious to know more about her famous grandfather and didn't have any of these pix until I sent them. I'm trying to write a piece about him...will let you post it on "My Floyd County" if I ever get it done!

Judy Bussey:I also talked to my son, Tommy, who found it hard to believe we had such a man as Cherokee Bill in our childhood....wonderful, unbelievable in today's world. And, I bet he used a real 22 didn't he!

Billie Jo McRoberts: hey it's me Billie Jo. i need u to call me, im here with my dad and i need to show him that link to your blogs.

Judy Bussey I haven't added to them, Billie Jo, but you're inspiring me to get busy. I'll call shortly....I need to write this story with all the photos. Maybe I can do an abbreviated version and someone else can expand it.....I'll tag my published novelist friend, Jawahara Saidullah...for advice...maybe she'll help me....♥
Linda Morefield
I just signed up to follow your blog, too, Judy! I didn't come from the same area but a lot of the memories of mountain life are the same. Carr Creek in Knott County is now somewhere under Carr Creek Lake but you can still see a small section of road right in front of where our house was in Carr Creek right below Carr Creek Hill where the old high school stands. We left there when I was 11 in 1968 (well, that just told my age but I'm not changing it!) but many of the mountain ways and the love of my Appalachian history came with us. Thanks for starting this - I'll get online and catch up to your current postings soon. I'm looking forward to it.

Judy Bussey ‎@ Linda: Great to hear from my old Buddy! We always had much in common...so many good conversations...Daddy's first job was in Carr Creek Coal Company...

Linda Morefield I read that! I just closed your blog down and read every post! If the location and names were a little different, it could have been my family in almost every post. . .We may have been born miles apart but a lot of our experiences growing up were the same. I was the first of the children born in a hospital, too! I have enjoyed reading everything. Thanks for sharing all this.

David Natives Reminisce: Page 1

2010-12-09T22:47:00.006-05:00

#
Glen DeBoard I wished the David sign didn't turn out so dark.
Eulagene DeBoard I have never seen this one, the sign is still shows up real good. Love it.·

Ruth Goble THIS WOULD MAKE A GOOD PICTURE FOR FRAMING.

Glen DeBoard Graden Walter took this picture and gave it to me when we were neighbors at Indian Hills Dr. 41 years ago. He was traveling from their plant in Tenn. and decided to drive through the mountains and meet Mom and Dad.

Judy Bussey I'm stealing this one, Glen for my David memory album. It's great! Thanks for sharing!

Glen DeBoard This is defiantly a land mark for entering David. I just wish it was plainer to see the sign. You are certainly welcome. After all the enjoyment I have received from your photos.

Paul Shepherd
Glen, This sure brings back lots of memories.Just to the right the old Ruff & Tu ff slate road build up high then curved right to Ellis sloan's. holler going to the left where they would take slate to dump. Every summer my family would take... 4 or 5 -10 quart bucket to pick blackberries. Dad and mom would get theirs full and we kid were lucky if we got 1 bucket all together lol.How well I remember the colors. Some were black, some were red and some were white or clear.

Then to the right of Ellis was the main holler. Norman Shepherd's and the School, That is where My sister Grace taught her first year.

Back down as you crossed the tracks to the left up on the bank was that big Fan that circulated and pulled air from the mine.I can still remember the loud sound it made, I can still smell the odor that was in the air.
The Electric sub station located there. I always love to see the trolley pulling all those cars full of coal going across the trestle--Sparks flying from the arm as it was rolling on the electric wire.
The pull car had a long slot where the drivers had to lay flat and I know it could not have been over 18 inches high.

Many of the loaded cars you could see where the coal had been leveled by the low overhead.

Today's Generation does not know what our fathers, uncles, friend, neighbors and men from other counties had to endure to make a living for their families.

One other place I have not seen any pictures of was the Airport. Man how modern that town was in it's time.
I remember when Carl Wise would come flying up through the valley. That gave me goose bumps when I was a Kid.
Many times dad would come home after work and we would go down to watch the plane take off. To me that was big time.

I do hope someone can post some pictures of the Airport.
Great photo Thanks for sharing

Kenneth DeBoard Thanks Glen, I haven't seen this one either. It is definitely going into my David photos. That trestle reminds me of the DVD we have of Dad.

Glen DeBoard
Thank you Paul. Reading your comment is just like being there. When we lived in Ruff-In-Tuff I was to young to walk to David by myself but did many of times with Dad. The track around the hill took you past the big fan and also an entry under the hill.
Seems like they had a couple of air shows at the airport through the years. I always was told customer contact people would fly in and the company would put them up at the club house. Thank you Paul for sharing your memory. You really have a gift for writing.-------

Judy Nelson Calhoun Thanks for postng this picture! Anything with a sign of David brings back so many memories!

Judy Bussey Loved the commentary Paul. As Glen says , it's like being there. My cousin, Jimmy is Carl wise's son. Maybe he has a photo from his dad's stuff.

Darrell Schonborn Sr. THIS IS WHERE KY COAL WAS BORN!!!

Roselee Hall Bowen i remember that road...travled many times
Darrell Schonborn Sr. Glen , remember the quicksand pit!! Always always scared to go up near it due to the movies I saw as a kid!!

Glen DeBoard I can't remember where it is located.

Darrell Schonborn Sr. We could see it from the rd coming into David, I don't know if it was a wise tale or what but I was believing it at the time!!

Rosa Shepherd Thanks for the wonderful memories

Happy Tears for the Rescued Miners in Chile & Salute to Underground Miners Everywhere

2010-10-13T14:19:00.005-04:00

I'm watching the Chilean mine rescue de los 33 and have cried happy tears all morning. They're bringing up the 22nd man up right now. Did you hear about the 79 yr old retired miner whose son was down there? He went in the mine determined to get his son out, but had to give up because of the falling rock. Then he wanted to dynamite his way through...of course, he couldn't. Imagine his relief when the international team put together this the amazing "Fenix" in hopes of a miracle rescue.

Today, when his son came out....the father was in the hospital. I look forward to news coverage of their reunion. I relate to the families and their depth of despair at having a loved one trapped underground.

My father, Dawson E. Bussey (left in photo) worked "way down in the mines", under a mountain, for 34 years--sometimes as far back as 1 1/2 miles. I respect him more each day and understand him more than ever. Yes, he hit the bottle regularly, but how on earth did he go down there every day? Missing work wasn't an option. He worked on his knees in a low 30" tunnel, excavating a seam of coal.He did it for his family, just like the trapped Chilean miner who had promised his family he'd quit. He was close to paying off his family home, so decided to challenge the enormous weight of that deep, dark rock world one more time.

Daddy worked for us, too. He would rather have been a performer--a blues singer, a dancer, a musician, or an actor. He actually played music and sang on stage before his family migrated into Kentucky looking for a better life than Depression era Alabama had provided.

He first went into that dark underground dungeon for money. Later, he went solely for the 10 people who counted on him for food, shelter, heat, safety--and opportunity for education.

As a coal miner's daughter, I was pleased to hear from the underground miner from West Virginia that a bond exists, a brotherhood, so to speak, between miners everywhere. Once you've worked under the earth in those vulnerable unpredictable circumstances, no one but another miner can understand that isolated world.In that same spirit of unspoken connection,33 families have bonded into one as they wait for their loved ones to be freed. I rejoice for and with with those families.

One commentator called the miners "heroes" whatever they mine for--coal, gold, copper. He emphasized how people worldwide depend on all these minerals in our everyday lives in ways most of us take for granted. Flipping a switch for light means somewhere coal is burning to power generators. Copper is used for so many things--jewelry, sure, but other things we don't even see and take for granted--plumbing, cables & wires.

So much of our living, depends on the labor of underground miners. No matter what our political views on depleting nonrenewable resources, we need to remember these honorable laborers like my father and his hard working companions in the photo. They worked for years in a 30" underground tunnel for the Princess Elkhorn coal Company in David, Kentucky, my childhood home.

Next time you flip a light switch, use it as a reminder to salute underground miners everywhere.
Peace,
Judy

The Mines Can't Stop

2010-05-17T23:35:00.004-04:00

For the wife may sigh an' the children cry,

But the mine--the mine can't stop

Berton Baily
"Song of the Coal Miner

I was intrigued by specific comments by David L. Francis,President of Princess Elkhorn Coal Company Organization PECCO). He explained how the company could keep the mines running during severe weather that made the roads to the mines impassable.

Pecco strategically planned the coal camp of David, on Lick Creek in Floyd County Kentucky to ensure miners were always available to work. During the WWII effort, the demand was high, the profit was high, and the community structure was designed for success.

PECCO wanted at least 1/3 of their employees, especially foremen, to live in the camp so there always be a local labor force available.

I had never thought of this, but it took years to complete the cutting of a road through middle creek.The "first seven miles of the road was a WPA rock road", and the last three, pure dirt and mud. The only way to get to David was horse and wagon during the wet season.

Finally, about 1943, the year I was born, the road was graveled and then in a few years the State blacktopped the entire road from Prestonsburg to David.

Before the blacktop, however, those first miners were the key to the ongoing working of the mines at a time when the war demand for coal was at a peak and supply was critical to the War effort.

That's why they built a camp and came up with various and sundry ways to keep the miners available and working. I've often said it was a double-edged sword. The miners worked to sustain the many amenities and benefits the Company promised and provided the children.
The adults were trapped. All parents wanted a good life for their children.

The miners were trapped in the double jeopardy of providing for their families by working the mines.I think it was this entrapment that set coal camps apart from other communities and made personal dreams almost impossible. My parents gave up their personal & creative dreams for us--their children.

Charles Dickens said it best, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times".

Peace,
Judy

Past and Present Merge, Somehow

2010-05-17T21:58:00.004-04:00

"Awfully difficult to keep the line between the past and the present". Edie Beale, Gray Gardens

Keeping House

2010-05-15T14:20:00.012-04:00

Our house seemed big with 3 bedrooms, 1 bathroom, a living room, dining room, and kitchen. I sometimes wonder how much real area the house contained. It may have been very small. We lived in every square inch of the house and our chores were designed to make it as livable as possible for the 8-10 people who may have lived there at any given time during my childhood.

Every day we were expected to set the supper table for 8-10, just plates and forks if we could find enough.We played with spoons and forks outside digging in the dirt and making mud pies. We probably lost everything Mother ever had.She didn't say a word. One of Mothers creative endeavors was art and she started painting on the dinner plates. We had accepted it as routine to go hunting for plates and forks at suppertime.

The table had to be ready for bowls of hot food whenever Daddy was ready to eat. Sometimes he wanted to eat as soon as he got home from the mines but other times we waited until he did something or another outside. He liked to play with his little garden, or go "under the floor" to unwind a little. The food was always hot and ready on demand--Mother had that down pat. Amazingly, we all sat down together for supper, every day. No prepared foods--everything prepared every day, from scratch.

After supper, the girls raked out the dishes, cleaned the table, swept the dining room & kitchen, washed the dishes, scalded the clean dishes with boiling water, then dried them. Rodney & later, Johnny carried in the coal. I'm not sure what other chores the boys had. We always messed up the kitchen again finding snacks at night. Cornbread and milk or homemade fudge if we had the ingredients; or,ice cream & pop charged to Daddy's payday at the fountain.Sometimes, soup-bean sandwiches. We took whatever we could get.To this day, in Mexican restaurants, I say, "No frijoles, por favor".

On most Saturdays we were expected to clean the entire house--sort of. Mother was far from being a good house keeper but there were certain things we had to do--Toby laid out the cleaning rules, Peggy helped enforce them.The oldest were always in charge of the youngest. It took years for me to be "the boss".

Sometimes, we dug down into the sides of the couch cushions to retrieve bobby pins, marbles, pencils, combs, and brushes that we had already replaced by charging new ones at the Company Store. More than once Daddy asked us what we did with all this stuff. We could never find a comb or brush or bobby pins. " G'Damn", he would say over and over.

We swept the whole house--and put all the dirt into the trash, not sweep it out the back door, which was much easier. Then we mopped all the floors (every now and then we had to wax the hardwood floors).Toby made us dust and arrange the coffee table with the nice magazines Mrs. Spotte or Mrs Bradbury had given Mother. Karen and I couldn't do it to please Toby so were pleased when she and Peggy ran us out and we didn't have to clean inside anymore. We did a fun job, though; we scrubbed the front porch with water and soap. Karen and I laughed and played on the slick enameled surface in the soot colored foam before we had to rinse it all off with buckets of cold water.

Oh yeah, on Saturday, we made the beds and "shook" all the sheets. I wonder what may have been in them?

Once a year, Mother made us spring clean. Her idea of spring cleaning was to paint the dining room table, chairs, and cabinet; wall paper the living room and dining room--they got so dirty with the coal stove going all the time. We helped with the wall paper...cutting the roll of border, holding the sheets of wall paper covered with gooey paste so Mother could line them up. One year a product came out that was supposed to absorb the dirt from old paper when it was rolled up in a ball and used to wipe down the walls. That was an adventure in itself.

We also put all the mattresses outside to soak up the sun while we cleaned the bed-springs. The front room floors got shellacked or varnished--I never knew the difference--every year or two. They needed it badly because Mother let us roller skate in the house, crack nuts on the floor with a big rock, and, in general, do whatever we wanted.Somehow all of this got done, maybe half way done, but as Merle Haggard said, "Mama Tried".

I don't think any of us worked too hard.We spent every spare moment playing in the hills, at a friends house,in the gym, or elsewhere in the camp--until dark every day.

I watched David homemakers--my friends' mothers do laundry on Monday, iron on Tuesday, grocery shop with a list, and do preventative maintenance on their homes.We did none of that on schedule and I wondered why Mother was different. With a household of at least 8 people, there were always dirty clothes and always the coal dust covered work clothes Daddy wore underground every day. The washing was a back breaking chore and everything was dryed on a clothes line...even in the freezing winter. Mother got it done somehow. Things were washed as they were needed, ironed only when necessary. Folded at times, but there were no predictable routines within our home. The most important laundry was Daddy's dress clothes, which were sent to Shurtleff's dry cleaner and laundry in Pikeville. Daddy's shirts were starched, folded, and very white, his handkerchiefs were beautifully cleaned. Mother's priority was to have his wardrobe laid out on the bed so he could step out, looking handsome and stylish every weekend when his 5 1/2 day stint, at least one mile back under the hill, was done.

And, that's how we kept house.
Peace,
Judy

Tulip Poplar Shadows in the Night

2010-05-14T01:33:00.008-04:00

I remember a huge Tulip Poplar that stood half way up the road to my house in "Fisher Holler". I know it was a Tulip Popular because, as Girl Scouts, we learned the leaves of all native trees. The company, Princess Elkhorn, installed a street light just up the road from that big tree and at night it cast shadows that were alive and terrifying. The only rule we had was to be home by dark. There were times, though, when I found myself running up that road scared to death in the pitch black of night in the narrow hollow. The shadows played in the middle of the road, but I had to run through them. I couldn't walk on the sidewalk which was too near the hedgerows and hills where monsters or Indians or ax murderers were hiding. I'll never forget this mad dash of terror.

I would arrive home breathless, facing 9 steps up to our front porch. Nine more hurdles and I'd be safe. The steps were open at the back and there was sure to be someone underneath waiting to grasp my ankles. I could feel their grasp as if it were really happening. I moved fast.

Finally, safe at the door, I was relieved to see sisters and brothers sitting around the dining room table doing their lessons or listening to the radio. Mother might be telling an interesting story or just entertaining them in some fun way. Mother might be reciting poetry or telling details about some famous movie. Peggy or Toby might be making homemade peanut butter fudge.Daddy was always asleep after dark so we were warned not to wake him. We could have fun as long as he didn't wake up--since he got up about 5AM to arrive at the mines by 6.

After 1952, I would have found them in front of our 17" Black and white TV, dishes done, floor swept, lessons done, and coal brought in.

Found sparingly in New England, the Tulip Poplar is abundant on the southern shore of Lake Erie and westward to Illinois. It extends south to north Florida, and is rare west of the Mississippi River. Its finest development is in the Southern Appalachian mountains, where trees may exceed 170 feet in height.

I just learned that the Tulip Poplar, another variety, is found only in one other place in the world. A specific mountain range in China. I'd like to learn more about this and the lives of the people in those hills.

Peace,
Judy

Comment from Reader, Paul Shepherd, fellow Appalachian Kentuckian:
Good morning Judy. Been reading your blog and just want to say how much I enjoy it. The things you write are so familiar. Growing up as a child I can say I experience them in my home. the games you played. The fear of someone lurking in the darkness like a tiger or lion waiting for you to enter that spot where it knows it can easily grab you and whisk you away and no one would ever know where you are.I remember being out late at night my friend letting me out at the main high way, Soon as he pulled away there I was all alone sometimes it was a beautiful clear night with the moon reflecting off the mountains or it could be one of the darkest night low over cast as I walked down the lane 500 feet or more each step I took the fear was increasing by the moment.At the end of the 500 feet I had to make a sharp left turn another 100 feet. By this time a cold sweat was seeping under my clothing."Lord will I ever make it to my safe bedroom, Then just like you at the end of the 100 feet. Thing got worse but I have two choices to enter into safety. To my right I can climb up this bank to the back door, but what if something knows that is the way I'm headed and just as I reach for the door handle it will reach around the corner from the darkness pull me in where I will never again see the light of day.
Then there is the way straight ahead at the end of 100 feet long steps going up to the front door made of nothing but two runners and 15 or more steps. There are shadows being cast under neath dark as black and ever step is opened under neath.As I step on that first step I feel the rush flowing through my body, the tingling, the coal sweat dripping as my hair starts to move up my neck going onto my head. I've got to do something fast. I let out a sound and start running up the steps missing ever other one. Get to the door thinking what ever it is it must be right on my heels, oh God let the door be unlocked or I am doomed. These things were very real and I some times wonder Lord how did I make it.

Dark as a Dungeon

2010-04-06T22:20:00.005-04:00

Merle Travis wrote "Dark as a Dungeon" in 1946. Mother used to sing it to us and the lyrics haunt me still. The coal mines haven't really changed. Brave men and brute labor are still required to mine the precious fuel in the most dangerous of circumstances.

In 2010, coal miners are still making a hard living.My mind goes back to the risks Daddy and other miners faced each day as they lay on their sides for the 1-2 mile "joyride" to the face of the coal under the mountains of Middle Creek.At the face, they crawled on their knees to mine coal. In addition to the constant pain of miner's knee, they endured slate falls, "shooting from solid" dynamite casualties, and the ever present shortage of breathable air. Has the situation changed?

Before the implementation of mine safety laws there were strategies in place to make the mine appear safe.In the early 40s for example, air was diverted to where it was needed most-to the sections inspectors were visiting on a specific day. Before the ventilation laws, air was short on many sections in any given mine. Needless to say, many miners were short of breath on those days. My father gasped for breath all the time and died with 25% breathing capacity. Why did they continue to go in? They had no other way to support their families.

Maybe we'll discover the real cause of the most recent West Virginia mine disaster where 27 men were recently killed in a methane explosion in an AT Massey mine.I sincerely hope it isn't the result of preventable human error. Companies are still (allegedly)lax in their efforts to ensure safety. One primary safety law for coal companies is to provide adequate ventilation so miners can breathe and methane cannot accumulate in deadly, explosive proportions.

I wish peace for the families those who have died in the dark-as-a-dungeon coal mines.

And peace those whose families look the other way as their miner leaves for work, to avoid bringing them bad luck.

Peace,
Judy

Sorry as C'yarn

2010-03-18T23:01:00.005-04:00

He's sorry as c'yarn, people used to say about someone and we knew the general meaning--they were pretty much useless in all they did. I hadn't heard the word in years, though, then friend Tom Mattox said someone was "sorry as c'yarn". I was immediately intrigued. I knew exactly what he meant, but had no idea where that mutually understood word came from. I also wanted to know how "c'yarn" is spelled. I had never tried to write it before.

We all know,the East Kentucky vernacular includes many old English terms,preserved by our ancestesors who came from Scotland, Ireland, England, and Wales and lived in peaceful isolation in remote hollows in the beautiful foothills of the Appalachians. Tom didn't know where the word came from but he supposed it was related to "carrion", dead, rotting flesh that's of no use.

I, then asked my brother Rod and he suggested the same, citing the following dictionary meanings:

Carrion-- The rotting flesh of a dead animal; something that is decaying or disgusting.

One thing is for sure, the phrase is easily understood by those who grew up hearing it applied to specific people.

Any thoughts on this word? Any ideas on how I should spell it? I never heard the word "carrion" all I heard was "c'yarn" I've heard it for years, but not recently. I thought it had died with my elders, but apparently not.

Peace,
Judy

My Floyd County Home

2010-03-18T12:20:00.004-04:00

Click this title for link to "My Floyd County Home".

John Grant and Doris Martin Anderson still live in Prestonsburg, Kentucky, the Floyd County seat, and "town" to me as I grew up in the Floyd coal camp of David. I remember John as a handsome football player and Doris as one of the prettiest girls ever! John has designed a site named "My Floyd County".

At "My Floyd County" readers can learn more about our common history, share personal memories and experiences which should enlighten us even further as we move forward in life. My brother Rodney Bussey told me about the site. Rod, John, Red, Henry, James, Bruce, Larry, Satch,Tom, Dennis...and many more were the P-burg Blackcats during my 4 years at PHS.

Any old Blackcats out there? My wonderful brother-in-law, Bruce "Black Jack" Howard stands out in my mind.He's still married to my sister Toby Bussey. Also, I had the privilege of visiting with brother Rodney and Red Minix recently and they remember every play the Black Cats made in those days.

Hey Black Cats, leave a message here, and/or go to "My Floyd County Home and touch base with everyone!

Peace,
Judy

Word of the Day--Malleable

2009-12-24T05:35:00.005-05:00

Word of the Day for May 14,2010 is:

malleable • \MAL-ee-uh-bul\ • adjective

*1 : capable of being extended or shaped by beating with a hammer or by the pressure of rollers

2 a : capable of being altered or controlled by outside forces or influences
b : having a capacity for adaptive change

Example Sentence:
Grandma took the cookie dough out of the refrigerator and allowed it to soften to a consistency that was firm yet malleable.

Ever use a mallet, a hammer, or know someone who worked at Dayton Malleable? Then you may be interested in the origins of the words.Did you know?

There is a hint about the origins of "malleable" in its first definition. The earliest uses of the word, which first appeared in English in the 14th century, referred primarily to metals that could be reshaped by beating with a hammer. The Middle English word "malliable" comes to us from Medieval Latin "malleabilis," which in turn derives from the Latin verb "malleare," meaning "to hammer." "Malleare" itself was created from the Latin word for "hammer": "malleus." If you have guessed that "maul" and "mallet," other English words for specific types of hammers, can also be traced back to "malleus," you have hit the nail on the head.

Heritage by James Still

2009-12-16T13:22:00.002-05:00

I shall not leave these prisoning hills
Though they topple their barren heads to level earth
And the forests slide uprooted out of the sky.

Though the waters of Troublesome, of Trace Fork,
Of Sand Lick rise in a single body to glean the valleys,
To drown lush pennyroyal, to unravel rail fences;
Though the sun-ball breaks the ridges into dust
And burns its strength into the blistered rock

I cannot leave. I cannot go away.

Being of these hills, being one with the fox
Stealing into the shadows, one with the new-born foal,
The lumbering ox drawing green beech logs to mill,
One with the destined feet of man climbing and descending,

And one with death rising to bloom again, I cannot go.

Being of these hills I cannot pass beyond

I've displayed an autographed version of Heritage in my home for years. It's among my favorite passages of all time. Still chose to live out his life in a log cabin in Mousie, Kentucky on Troublsome Creek to which he refers in the passage. Mousie is also the birthplace of my Mother, Nova Hicks. Still was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for his novel, River of Earth and served as Kentucky's Poet Laureate. One simply cannot equate illiteracy to log cabins.

I hope you enjoyed reading Heritage here.

Peace,
Judy

Driving "Back Home" Today

2009-12-15T10:35:00.002-05:00

Today I'm driving back home to East Kentucky. I need a few days to visit friends and family after this challenging semester and relocation to my loft apartment.

This will be a more leisurely trip than usual.There is a spot just beyond Winchester where the hills seem to rise out of the earth and the view is breathtaking. I have stopped at that spot for many years just to take in the majesty of the image. I always know I'm really driving down into the hills, not up the hills.

I'll ask my engineering friend, TM how the foothills really emerged from the belly of the earth. Erosion? Eruption? From driving this for many years, I know the counties are 20 miles across. I wonder if this is an actual fact of the old English/Irish land division, or if it's only marked that way on my route. When I pass the exit to Royalton, I always look to the right and think, way back there, across several hills, is David, my coal camp home.

My grandchildren are tolerant each time we pass Route 7 and I retell the story of walking over the "new road" to the head of the Licking River (at Royalton) to celebrate the end of school each year.We packed, in little brown paper bags.Vienna sausages, potted meat, crackers, peanut butter sandwiches, or whatever Mother had for us.

I repeat that Daniel spent his first winter in that region of David and wrote that it was "severe, and unfit for human habitation". Well I guess we proved him wrong by living out our entire childhoods in David in little company houses that lined the base of the hills up all three hollows.

The Licking River site was once engineered by GW's crew as a possible gateway to the west. I hope East Kentucky children are learning the richness of their history and heritage. They would heighten their perception of our land as one of beauty and promise. The promise is still there. It lies in the youth and their willingness to learn from those who have gone before. We are only hampered if we limit their dreaming and help them make those dreams come true.

I miss driving through the little towns and sometimes detour for a scenic route. I like to see Oil Springs, Crockett, Moon, West Liberty, Salyersville and all the "real" places that have been supplanted with By-Passes.

Remember the hometown drive ins, freezer freshes, and our favorite, "EAT" at Winchester. They had upside down banana splits and the best hotdogs and hamburgers. We always stopped there. Now, we choose from McDonalds, Arbys, Hardy's, etc. which now make all By-passes look and taste just alike.

"I cannot leave these prisoning hills...being one with this earth, I cannot go"

Paraphrased from James Still's Heritage.

The hills can look desolate and barren in the winter. Coal dust and poverty are part of the picture--just as it is everywhere.We need to figure out how the people can make money working in coal and still respect the land and the safety of the miners. I believe we're making progress.For more than 100 years, Coal has been the only hope for the East Kentucky economy.I worked in the Appalachian coalfields for 15 years, My father worked for 35 years underground, My nephews still go underground. It's scary to not draw a paycheck, especially at Christmastime. These miners are great men who deserve their pay. They don't need to "back in to pick up their pay".

Tomorrow I'll post a picture of the view of the emerging mountains and a copy of James Still's Heritage. Yes, I'm melancholy, I'm homesick, I'm going home today.

Peace,
Judy

Books are still Banned?

2009-12-11T09:58:00.004-05:00

Why do we need to be reminded that censorship is still tolerated around the world? In the late 60s we began to hear of books that had been banned in the US during the 1940s. I bought a couple--The Awakening by Kate Chopin and Delta of Venus, a collection of erotica by Anais Nin.

As I read the Chopin book, I was reminded of Madam Bovary. I wondered why American publishers banned the story of an educated, talented woman who was driven to suicide because the social restraint she faced as the chattel of her husband was too much to bear. Isn't this what happened to Anna Karenina? Maybe Tolstoy's complex tapestry of turbulent, pre-revolutionary Russia was perceived more as literary than Chopin's brief novel. I got a similar message from both in regards to women. I loved the depth and character delineation by Tolstoy but eagerly and quickly lapped up Chopin's brief story. Maybe a "best seller" on the topic of disenfranchised women would have added fire to their nascent liberation movement in the US.

Look at the list below, created by my friend Jawahara Saidullah, herself a published author and advocate of banned book awareness. I'm pleased that I have read so many of the books on her list, while not knowing they were banned in other parts of the world.

In addition to Kite Runner, Dr. Zhivago, Bluest Eye, Catcher in the Rye, Why the Caged Bird Sings,(all shown on her banned book link) I've now read lady Chatterley's Lover at least 3 times. It was finally published in the US @1959 after a 30 year wait from its original publication. My high school friends and I underlined the "dirty parts" and passed the book around. My father saw me reading the book in the yard one day."Let me see what you're reading", he demanded, sounding a little perturbed. When I told him, he took the book from me in an unusual disciplinarian mode.

Later I learned the book had social meaning, so I read it again, digging more deeply into Lawrence's underlying message regarding social class restrictions. There were no dirty words in the book as we'd been told, or else I had become desensitized to sensual sexual references.Forbidden love is still a great topic and points to the problems lovers face when their attraction is socially unacceptable.

I learned that coal miners were distinctively lower class and could never rise above their dark and dirty destiny. Maybe the stigma followed the miners to America where coal camps were viewed by many as lower class, transient populations. Hmmm, maybe I'll read Lady Chatterley again.

The same social statements are visually and intellectually entertaining in the French movie of Chatterley and in the British movie, Miss Julia, both favorites of mine.

As children in Kentucky, we were allowed to read Anne Frank, though, and Alice in Wonderland. I was in grad school before I heard of the dangerous meaning hidden in the layers of the writing. Now we can read them with new interest to discover what dangerous messages the books send to other countries and cultures.

Jawahara wrote an excellent essay about why we should read banned books:

The following is from Jawahara Saidullah's website

What did you read during banned books week?
I had planned to read a banned book especially during banned book week but could not, for various reasons. So I decided to make a list of some banned books I've recently (or not so recently) read. These could have been banned in any country/organization. Here goes:

1. Satanic Verses: re-reading

2. The Jewel of Medina

3. The God of Small Things

4. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

5. Animal Farm

6. Ismat Chughtai's 'Lihaf' (technically a short story but one of my faves)

7. The Diary of Anne Frank

8. The Da Vinci Code (technically not literature or even really a book, but heck it was banned in Lebanon)

9. Doctor Zhivago

10. The Grapes of Wrath

11. The Gulap Archipelego (started reading it, but now it sits staring balefully at my from my bedside table)

12. Lady Chatterly's Lover

13. Lajja

14. Lolita

15. 1984

16. The Kite Runner

But perhaps more important than a mere listing of books is the question: Why should we read banned books?

This is what I think.

The freedom to think, to read and to write whatever we want is to me a fundamental right. For, if there can be limits to what we can read, what else is left? Policing what we can and cannot read is like posting a cop in our brains. No matter how heinous, gruesome, or disturbing, the freedom of expression relies on the premise that we all need to defend each other's rights to expression despite our own discomforts with these expressions.

Unorthodox viewpoints, unpopular ways of looking at the world and its people creates a tension. A tension that makes us grow and explore and develop in new and unexepected ways. It is important to challenge the status quo, for it is in doing so that humanity develops.

This does not mean that we all have to agree. On the contrary. Instead it creates a free, equal, and open forum for discussion in which those for and against an idea can debate it in the marketplace of ideas.

Constraining thought in a free society points the way towards totalitarianism sometime down the road.

I have the right to read what I want to. You have the right not to. I cannot mandate that you must read what I decide. And you cannot tell me that I cannot read what I want to.

So, during this state of economic instability and the general malaise in the world, let us all put away our lists. Try to read at least one banned book a year. Make yourself heard by picking up a banned book and quietly proclaiming that you believe, truly believe in the freedom of thought and expression. And that, ultimately, you are fully prepared to debate this and all other thoughts you hold dear.

For nothing is sacrosanct. And ultimately, that makes every thought valuable enough to be debated openly, to be discussed honestly. And what better freedom of expression can there be.

Don't wait for the next banned books week. Read a banned book.
Posted by Jawahara Saidullah at 6:09 AM

December Memories

2009-12-09T13:41:00.003-05:00

Dear Reader,
It's December 12, 2010 and I'm thinking of winter in David,Kentucky, my Appalachian Coal Camp home. By now we would have exchanged names for gifts at school with a price limit of 50 cents. Mother always tried to buy something fun for us to give--like a wind-up toy or a good rubber ball, for example. She complained if we got a box of chocolate covered cherries.

The Company Store would have filled the upstairs area with all kinds of Christmas toys. Virgil Warrix, Ruth Burchett, Grace Moore,Clayton Wills, not to mention the store staff, the PECCO office staff, and Lily Price, the post-master (we weren't pc back then), and George, the butcher probably purely dreaded time of year. The oiled hardwood steps went straight up beside the butcher shop so George would have heard every step and all our excited shouts.

Remember all those little wind up toys that scooted all over the place until they wound down. Erector sets. Guns, bows and arrows, cowboy and cowgirl suits, all we could do was dream about what we might get!

Miners' wives could shop there and "charge it". The charge would be taken out of the miner's next check. Daddy hated this because sometimes, more often than not, he'd "go in the hole". His check would be Zero. We dreaded payday because we also charged Bobby Pins, Kotex, Lucky Star filler paper (everyone saved Lucky Stars), writing tablets, pop, and sometimes, lunch at the fountain. Mother was a little too lenient and we took advantage when we could. She didn't worry until payday, when Daddy would discover how far 'in the hole" he'd gone. The Fountain __Ethel Wills, Ora Bussey, Dot Crauswell, Carolyn Howard, Pattie Clark Mollette, and others who worked there over the years--made the best chili and hot dogs ever. Later in life, I've decided that it was wrapping the hot-dogs in waxed paper that gave them that special taste.

Of course other days, we walked home to a lunch of cheese sandwiches, fried bologna sandwiches,canned pork and beans, or wieners sliced in half and fried brown in a skillet of bacon grease. Delicious on bread with a little mustard or mayonnaise. We loved the fountain, though, and the few times a month we dared go in and say "charge it".

Once our girlfriend, took a whole gang of us in and charged our lunches to her Daddy. She was a little rebel and this was a daresome thing to do!

We wrote lists for Santa and sent them up the stove pipes of our Warm Morning coal heater.I asked for stuff like diamond rings, gowns, watches, and whatever doll was the big name that year. One year it was bride dolls. I never got these requests, but Mother always managed to get us something. Once we were past the age of "believing' we didn't get special gifts. Maybe one little thing was wrapped for us. It was a great milestone in highschool to have a boyfriend at Christmastime, knowing they would have to buy you a gift. I bet some of them had hardtimes buying those gifts. Mother was generous with Daddy's money and if our 23 cents per hour babysitting money wouldn't cover it, she'd help us buy presents for our boyfriends-if we had one!

We always could count on our socks hanging on the wall to be filled with oranges, apples, walnuts, saw-log peppermint candy, horehound candy for Daddy.The nuts weren't hulled, of course and we could never find a hammer, so we got heavy rocks from outside and cracked the nuts right on the living room floor. There were nut hulls and orange peels everywhere. We enjoyed the Christmas goodies. She even let us skate in the house, anything to keep us occupied.

My older brother had his Christmas fun cut short when, as a mere 8-9 year old, he started playing Sants for us three younger ones. Not fair, but he had fond memories of doing so much for us. I think Mother asked him to help because he was so kind and sensitive and she knew he'd understand. Reminds me of a poem mother wrote about her getting a doll with torn lace because, as her father told her, "Santa knew you'd understand, honey". So many life's lessorn we learned through all these things.

Daddy made sure we got a coconut to share and poked a hole in it so we could drink the "monkey pee" inside. He would laugh and laugh after we drank it and he told us what it was.

Always, just when Mother couldn't handle one more thing, Daddy would come through the door with a big "Boo" and proudly deliver her a freshly severed hogs head. Don't ask me how she learned to make "souse meat", but she did it. I don't remember any of us helping her with this Christmas delicacy. The older ones usually have different memories. Another Christmas delicacy she made, just for Daddy, was oyster stew. We had never tasted oysters and none of us would try the dish.Daddy loved it, though, and she made it only at Christmas.

Mother always decorated the porch for Christmas. She'd go into the hills in Mid-December and cut pine branches to nail all around the front door and the front porch banister. She worked really hard at this and we had to help her. One year blue lights were all the rage and Mother got some--probably "charged" them.We loved those blue lights, too. There was no electrical outlet on the porch, so Mother ran the cord through the living room window. She never won the annual prize, but we voted for her anyway.

She put pine branches around the living room bookshelf--a luxury item built by Ashland Shepherd, the Company carpenter into some of the houses. We were proud of that amenity. Our time-payment World Book encyclopedias were displayed prominently.Over the years, We read every word in them, cut out pictures for school reports and Mother never seemed to mind. She thought it helped us learn.

One year Mother & Mrs Wilson learned to make candles by whipping heated paraffin wax and mixing in gold or silver glitter. She made all shapes and sizes by molding them into cups, glasses, tin cans, milk cartons, and anything else she could find. She kept the house messed up but found she really enjoyed creating things. She would place these beautiful, glittery candles throughout the pine decor and we were always wondering what she would do next. Aerosol spray was invented in the mid 40s, I think, and when the gold and silver hit the company store in the early 50s,wow, did she have a great time. Christmas took on a whole new shine!

Nights were cold in December. Ice would freeze on the inside of the windows. There were no storm windows in those days. We had heavy quilts to keep us warm and usually a sibling or two helping warm up the bed. Mother hung a quilt between the dining room and living room at night to divert most of the heat in the direction of the bedrooms. There was no heat in any of the rooms except the living room. There sat the Warm Morning coal stove taking up an entire corner, but leaving enough room so that we could sit--all six of us, I guess--up against the wall behind it. That corner was warmer than anywhere in the house and we liked to put on our socks and shoes there. Sometimes Mother handed us a plate of cornbread and gravy to eat back there, sometimes a biscuit.

Mother would arise about 3AM and sneak out of bed. (Daddy would be upset if he woke up and found her gone, so this was a big deal). She'd stoke up the fire, take down the quilt barrier and stoke up the laundry stove in the kitchen. The laundry stove heated our water and she managed to get it a little warm before we got up. She'd make Daddy's lunch, brew their coffee by pouring boiling water into the wonderful old drip-o-later (I still use one) and find some quiet time-her favorite time of the day-for her writing and a cigarette or two before waking us up.To this day, I don't think Daddy knew Mother was a writer and an artist.

In grade school, we walked to school with a headscarf on, but our bangs would freeze. I'd love to see a picture of us in those headscarves...looking like the rural women of Bosnia and the Ukraine--not like the look Jackie Kennedy made famous.

In high school, the bus ran at 7 AM--always before daylight. We got to Prestonsburg about 7:30-7:45 and waited at the Black Cat drive in for classes to start around 8:30. Those mornings are memorable. The boys with money played the jukebox. We had a quarter for lunch at the cafeteria and if we spent a dime on a coke, we only had 15 cents left and couldn't afford to eat. We had to make hard decisions. Bruce Howard,my future brother-in-law, always had extra money and sometimes played the jukebox for us or bought me a coke occasionally. When brother Rod had money to spare, he made sure I had some too. I was so proud of Bruce & Rodney--both Black Cat varsity athletes.

The David Middle Creekers were always the first to arrive at PHS and the last to leave--rarely getting home before 5 Pm, when it was already dark in the winter. The bus would pull in at the Company Store and we were always glad if it was still open so we could run in and buy our necessities. I know Grace Moore and Ruth Burchett dreaded us. There was no privacy for us when shopping because we had to ask for everything.

Once I had to ask for a box of Kotex and was so embarrassed I told Ruth, "They're not for me, they're for Toby". Rod said he felt the same way once when Mother told him to ask Ruth if they had anymore "chalkies". I won't elaborate but home some of you remember what a "chalkie" was.

So, December is reminding me of cold days, cold house, icicles hanging on the front porch, snow cream, childhood fun, hard work, Mother's creativity, who will receive gifts, who won't have any, the company store, and "going in the hole". Through it all we learned there were people less fortunate than we and that Christmas was for giving to others. Somehow we managed that too.

Thanks for letting me share these December thoughts.
All that's left is life,
Peace,
Judy

2009-12-05T13:44:00.002-05:00

Dear Reader,

I finally found the writing I referred to last week. The writer is Dumal, not DuMaurier as I first said.

Rene Dumal is known for his spiritual search that involves true "seeing", real "seeing", objective "seeing. I have read his book, Mount Analogue, and was reminded by my brother Rodney, of his commentary on how reaching a summit might affect one's view of the world. I'd like to share Dumal's The Mountain Top with you.

The Mountain Top

When one has been to a mountain top

One has only to come down again

So why bother in the first place?

Just this....

One climbs...One sees

One descends...One sees no longer

But one has seen

There is an art of conducting oneself

in the lower regions

By the memory of what one saw higher up Rene Dumal

I think Dumal he uses the metaphor of the mountain to illustrate that when we experience higher or "finer" impressions we can use those--if we work at it-- to more honestly live in the world but not be constantly led by the world. We can serve something higher--if we have truly seen and truly remember.

I'd like to hear from you,
Peace,
Judy

2009-12-05T13:25:00.002-05:00

This back-view photo from Pattie Clark Mollette of David seems appropriate since I've been discussing our hillside yards recently. Pattie still lives in David and looks out into the winter wonderland created by trees bushes and grapevines, and of course utility cables. These are the hills we played in from daylight to dark and, with enough snow would sleighride all hours of the night. The boys would burn tires for heat and light and we'd pile on their backs and fly down the icy slopes all the way to the Company Store..or into the creek. Socks served as gloves for most of us. Then we'd get so cold we'd run home and hold our hands and feet too near the Warm Morning Heater and then we'd itch forever.Thanks for the memories, Pattie, and for sharing your beautiful view. I wish I were there with you right now!
Peace,
Judy

The Walk, a Poem by My Mother, Nova Hicks Bussey, 1958

2009-11-27T13:25:00.007-05:00

The picture on the right is a view of the David coal camp from the hills
I took a walk this morning, in the early morning breeze
A rabbit crossed my path; I heard the squirrels in the trees.

I like to walk in the morning and relieve my worried mind--
To look at nature around me, hoping a new treasure I'd find.

This morning my mind and heart were troubled. From my face, I wiped a tear.
I wanted to keep going so far up the mountain feeling God was near.

I stopped to pluck a daisy. Memories of my youth came back to me,
Telling fortunes with this beautiful flower sitting under an old, old tree.

I walked up the mountain. Sumac was low and crowded too.
Wild grapes were hanging all around, I stopped to pick a few.

I saw a snake sleeping peacefully, I moved on without any fear.
This was his kingdom and his castle, I had no right to interfere.

I stood admiring drift wood in the small mountain stream,
Scenery so beautiful, it would be any artist's dream.

My mind became less worried because exhaustion had overcome me.
I came to an opening and sat down on the soft grass, under a tall oak tree.

I sat there wondering how much further I had to go.
The path seemed to get more narrow but I'd make it if I took it slow.

I prayed as I walked the narrow path because it had become difficult to see.
I looked to see a huge rock looming, high over me.

Through a clearing I could see the top of the mountain,
It seemed to touch a bright blue sky.

Briars scratched my legs and arms, it didn't hurt.
I had to make it and I'd try.

The rest of the path was rocky, but soon I reached my goal.
I flung myself on the ground sobbing to the depths of my soul.

Rain came beating down on my face, and the wind began to blow.
I said," God, will my life always be filled with fear and hate? Please, God, I have to know".

I saw the trees bending to and fro, their leaves almost covering me.
I wiped the rain from my eyes, then I saw this small tree, unknown to me.

It was taking a beating, but its leaves were hanging on
While the leaves of the oak were on the ground. The oaks, so tall and strong.

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
I looked at that little tree (and it seemed to me, I grinned)

I said to myself,"Why, that little tree could be me."
I'd manage to hold my own because the strongest really are weak.

I started back towards home. I looked up and smiled into heaven.
It seemed to be quiet and peaceful as I went back down.
Written by Nova Hicks Bussey, 1958

Poetry: Does Language Alter Meaning

2009-11-27T11:00:00.006-05:00

In high school, we participated in Regional Speech and Drama competitions. I remember one special event held at Pikeville College. My teacher, Mary Lou Miller, fresh out of college and only about 21 years old, approved of my reading. While I didn't win a prize, I still hold dear Renascence by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

"All I could see from where I stood was three tall mountains and a wood. Over these things I could not see. These were the things that bounded me"....

"Then, all at once, and over all, the pitying rain began to fall. Oh God, I cried, give me new birth and put me back upon the earth".

I'm sure I over-dramatized the latter line (isn't it awesome!) Mother was dramatic and loved to recite poetry to us. I probably acted out the damn thing.

I loved the reading and still quote the poem, but the judge said I pronounced Renascence wrong. I emphasized the second syllable with the "a" sound in "hat". The proper marking for that sound now escapes me.I still say it my way, and hope friend Jawahara Saidullah will provide some international input. I grew up reading many British books and still use much of the spelling, so I hope this pronunciation has something to do with that influence. I want to be right on this but will accept the judges verdict, if necessary. I think the following may prove me wrong after all:

Dictionary: re·nas·cence (rĭ-năs'əns, -nā'səns)

Do you ever hold on to these little personal failings?

Mother taught us values and morals by reciting poetry then telling us its meaning. The story, the moral dilemma, and the choices. Yesterday, after my discussion of never reaching the top of the hills behind my coal camp home, I promised to post Mother's poem, The Walk.

I'm wondering how the Appalachian homemaker's version of seeking the summit, differs from Summit by du Maurier, the renowned British wordsmith. How much does the language affect meaning? Mother always got her point across in plain if not Standard, English. She always made every thing rhyme whether it was logical or not, so at times her poetry is, on the surface, elementary. She was a primitive painter, so maybe she was a primitive poet as well. We'll see.

OK, I'm going to look for the poems.

Cleaning Water Tanks as a Summer Job

2009-11-26T11:05:00.004-05:00

Did anyone see the movie Australia? The water tank was a pivotal dramatic catalyst. That's how the David water tanks looked. The tanks were being built when my brother Rodney was just big enough to be running around the camp and annoying the men who were digging the ditch around the tank. He was probably trying to sell them water or something. They decided to pull a prank on Rod and told him to go down in the hole and get something for them. He walked straight into a yellow jacket or hornet's next. As they laughed at his vulnerability, Rod ran crying all the way home.

When he was 18, however, Rod and, perhaps, other coal camp boys, actually got the job of cleaning out the David water tanks. Today, I thought of him in the Australia tank with the creamy son and his mother. I imagined Rod as he scrubbed the walls all the way to the bottom and drained the sediment.After rinsing out all they could, he swept any residue into a bucket and hand carried it up the ladder. The tank was rinsed again.Remember the creamy holding on to the ladder and trying to save his mother from the rising water?

When Rod's tank passed inspection, it was filled once more with the fresh mountain water flowing from the top of the hill. Rod swears that was the cleanest water tank in East Kentucky. The company gave jobs to some of the college boys in summer to help with their expenses. My parents always appreciated this incentive to stay in the camp. That old double edged sword again.

I don't take water for granted and know the engineers performed miracles in David so we could have running water in our houses. We were proud!

Later,
Peace,
Judy

The Hills and I

2009-11-26T08:04:00.005-05:00

Called my brother Johnny this morning at 6:30. His wife, Eda said he had gone deer hunting and would be back soon. Since I'd been up since 5 AM, I wanted him to be proud of me. He says that anyone who sleeps past 5 AM misses the best part of the day. Johnny built a pretty deluxe deer stand last year and I betcha he's up there chewing tobacco and enjoying the morning--maybe even has a little heater and some coffee going.

Or, he's just sitting in those hills behind his Wiley Branch home looking up over the ridge for the sunrise and listening to the wind through the now barren trees. Looking down at the roofs of his and his son's home and to my old place. Maybe he's listening to the creek roll by. I've done that before. If you pay close attention, the sound is magical. The wind also has a special sound in those hills. It sounds differently each season, indeed, with any change in the weather. Dry leaves versus wet leaves. Frozen branches versus limber branches. Heavy rain versus a light shower. No leaves versus full blown foliage. Did you know that when it's going to rain, maple leaves give us a warning by turning their backside to us? While this may not be in the Farmer's Almanac, I learned it by listening to the old folks and doing my own observations. It's correct.

When I lived on Wiley Branch, I loved watching the sun come and go over the hills. Watching the movement of the shadows and the light was better than a clock. What happened to the little girl who never noticed a sunset in the coal camp of her childhood? I now seek harmony with nature, it was so much a part of my childhood. The hills are eternal and always offer something new for the observant eye.

As a child, I played all day in the hills, but never really noticed the sunrise and sunset. Maybe the sun didn't shine up "Official Hollow". Maybe that's why people said we had to have the sun piped in. Our hollow was narrow. Our yard was the hillside. We looked out the back straight up a hill where Indians lurked just beyond the forest line. When we looked out the front windows, we saw another hill.On that hill, we could see wooden steps winding high up to a big house reserved for company officials. Mr. & Mrs. I. C. Spotte lived there once. He was an engineer. They were interesting people who had survived the Philippine death camps during WWII.

The Bradburys and the Strattons also lived in that house at one time or another. I baby sat for both families and felt very important. The women liked my mother and always gave her magazines like Look, Collier, & Life--real luxuries in that day and time.Toby arranged them in a flat cascade on the living room coffee table and we all read them religiously. I still read magazines from back to front. Remember the cartoon "Hazel" that was always last? I always read it first.

Back to the hill. Near the base of the wooden steps that led to the official lodging was a little mountain spring. We loved to drink water there. This summer when I took my granddaughter Savannah to David, I was sad that the spring was dry. We picked up a couple of rocks as mementos of the trip to bring home with us. Further up the hill was a huge water tank on stilts. This was the water supply for the camp. Pretty modern in it's day, I suppose. On the left of the spring, further up, sat the "Club House" where international coal buyers were lodged and treated royally. There were no Holiday Inns nearby. Mrs. Ora Howard, assisted by Ms. Justine Dawson, a David native, ran the place just like a proper British Mansion. I loved to visit them.Having started reading the Brontes at age 12, I let my imagination run wild. Ms. Howard taught me to knit and to make macaroni and cheese with real "white-sauce", a term I had never heard.If she'd said "thickenin'"I may have caught on more quickly.

On the left of the Club House the hillside was landscaped into a rather formal garden. There I saw my first gold fish pond with Lilly-pads. That's also when I began to love Adirondack chairs. I remember sitting in the sturdy, solid wood, always white painted chairs. Beyond the pond up the hill was the Shepherd Family Cemetery. I wish I had paid more attention to this beautiful old-time cemetery. I went to school with many Shepherd children over the years.The long row of wooden steps that led straight up the hill may have made the steep climb easier for those carrying the casket. I'm sure the company built them to guarantee the Shepherds access once they had bought or leased the hilly land that formed our two main hollows.The Shepherds were pioneer royalty and had been on that land since--well, maybe since the late 17th or early 18th centuries.

We're still only half way up the hill, aren't we? Behind these two houses there were just trees, grapevines, little caves, all kinds of wild flowers, and big rocks. On the clubhouse hill, way up high was "The Devil's Stool", a famous gathering place for the boys in the camp. On the bull-dozed road leading down from the official's house, the boys tied a rope to a branch so that we could swing out over a cliff. Scary stuff back then. I fell off it once and sprained my arm. I was proud, though,that they let me try.

It was fun to play house in the hills where we'd "play like this rock is the table and play like that rock is the baby bed". "P'like this rock is the coal house". "P'like you're the daddy and there's some Indians attacking us". "P'like the baby is cryin". "P'like you get shot". "P'like I'm fixin' supper"."P'like this mud pie is cornbread." "P'like this stick is my horse". I wonder if little girls and boys still say "P'like"?

Some days we were Nyoka and Judy the Jungle girl--two of our favorite "funny book" characters;and some days, most days, we would enjoy a round of cowboys and Indians. There is no place better than the hills to play hide-and-seek, go-sheepie-go, or tin can alley as night falls. We played until dark. That was our only rule: Be home by dark.

I just don't have any memory of climbing to the top of the hill or of watching the sunset over the ridge as I did later in life. We were so immersed in our natural surroundings, we didn't look up except when lying on our backs looking at the artistry of moving clouds or looking for the trail of smoke that followed the planes that were finally breaking the sound barrier. Brother Rod was a Boy Scout and worked in the Civil Air Patrol, with other Boy Scouts, using binoculars to identify planes in the aftermath of WWII. They looked for each and every plane that passed over the camp and kept an official log. They were given access to a Company telephone (no one else had one) and were to report by phone if any planes aroused their suspicion. We felt safe with Rodney being in charge. He was all of 10-12 years old. I guess coal companies would have been enemy targets. Coal was important to the War effort so many of the miners were exempt from the draft.Daddy was one of those.

I'm missing Thanksgiving in the hills this year--the first time in many years--and the thoughts of Johnny hunting in the hills behind his house triggered all these memories. Later today, I'll post "The Walk" a poem by my Mother, Nova, who actually made it to the top of the hill. I wonder what she saw?

Until then,thanks for letting me share these memories with you.
I hope this is a good day for you and yours,
Peace,
Judy

If I'd write more often...

2009-11-07T21:26:00.002-05:00

...there would be shorter stories, I imagine. I would stay updated and not need to write more to express that which needs expressing. The name of my blog is "Appalachian Roots" and is subtitled "Discovering My Truths". Therefore, I never know what my topic will be--historical influences or the impact those forces have had on the person I am.

I'm trying to move from the past to the present. I didn't know it would be so difficult to see myself in a new light and not in the light of my very distinctive cultural heritage. I'm astonished when reminded that we watched as "Red" Shepherd would appear on horseback from the head of our hollow. She would ride down our road, on to the company store and the post-office with various sundries hanging from her saddle.

This was in the 1950s, not really that long ago and I'm still amazed in knowing I lived in that place and time.

Cumine lived over the other hill, on the "new road" where the strawberries grew. Karen and I picked strawberries on her hill one day. It rained and Daddy came to get us in his Hudson. The car was so low it dragged on the dirt road. Daddy cussed all the way home. Karen and I just listened and hoped it wouldn't get any worse when we got home. Cumine's home was down over a hill where a cut-through the big rocks allowed poker games to be held in secrecy. That's where Adrian Shepherd was gunned down in a poker game. I went to school with Adrian's daughter, Bernice.This is a very vivid memory.Sherrif Taylor Stumbo took charge, as best I remember. I haven't checked facts on this story, just writing my memories.

Did these things really happen in my childhood home? Maybe that's why I love Western movies and books so much today.We were living on a frontier, but didn't know it.Law was just being recognized, but was still not welcome.

OK. I've many Cherokee Bill pictures and stories and hope to offer them next.

Thanks for checking in at the various intervals of my journey.

Til Then,

All that's left is life,
Peace,
Judy

Down-Sizing and Liberation

2009-11-07T17:06:00.007-05:00

Dear Reader,

I grew up in East Kentucky where we were taught to hang on to things so we could help our children "set up housekeeping". I'm not so sure that's the practice today, since young people tend to replace everything rather than hang on to it. I regret that my son talked me into junking my good sofa because it was in bad need of new upholstery. Kids go to Value City and buy sofas for 3-400 dollars. I still don't have a sofa, because to get one as good as I had would be 2-3000 dollars. So, I assume, eventually, I'll buy at the discount house myself.

Now, my best chair is in dire need of recovering, so I'm going to get some estimates. I simply cannot junk it. I'm beginning to identify with Mrs. Habersham from Dickens' Great Expectations. My furniture is ragged, I love old clothes, even with holes. I pull 20 year old stuff from my closet and, sometimes, they let me wear it. My granddaughter wants to put me on "What Not to Wear". She says adamantly, "It's not the age of the clothes,but the style. You just can't wear that"!

Today, as I downsize, yet again, from a 3-bedroom apartment to my daughter's upstairs studio/loft apartment, I have enough stuff to add furnishings to both my son's and daughter's homes, with left over junk to store. What will it be like to not have my favorite bed and no sofa?

My beautiful bed is too big to be carried up stairs to my loft, so I'll store it for awhile--at Tom's house. I have a great twin mattress and box springs that will suffice for both a sofa and a bed. I'm giving art to both grandchildren, including a really nice Elvis poster.I gave Dawson my piano, since he's a budding rock star and writes music.

That piano has been in my home for 40 years. I gave Tom and Dawson some coal-mining antiques, including an "as-mined" map of underground sections below my home of David, Kentucky. This map, a favorite piece, was given to me by an engineering friend more than 20 years ago. I also gave Tom Uncle Rob's gavel that he used as President of the UMWA in Wayland, Kentucky in the 40s--it was a prestigious position. I gave him some mining photos and a tie tack award Daddy won for safe mining when he was a section foreman in the 50s. I had always wanted to make Dawson a ring from it and I hope Tom will.

I plan to store Nova's Primitives for later display so they will be boxed for safe keeping. Savannah is getting my original oil-on-silk painting, another treasure given me by a good friend; an original art piece by Appalachian artist, Peggy Wells; and two Ruth Bernhard photos along with the companion book of her work.

I'll keep my 5 favorite Picasso prints that I found in NYC 25 years ago for $5 each. They are beautiful, rarely seen prints, and are my favorites. I'll also keep my original Appalachian art, by East Kentucky friends Mike Keesee, Ann Meade, and Tom Whittaker. Of course I'll keep my original charcoal nudes, by Lexington friend, Elsie Harris.

My latest addition is an original by Chris Eaton, abstract and colorful. I must keep it. Maybe artist/architect friend Maryam will come help me make the most use of my new space. My loft is rapidly filling up, isn't it? Maryam will probably suggest a midnight burning of my material chains.

Tom's been trying to get my beautiful glass, octagon table top for years. I'm holding out on that one. Today I took Mother's antique coffee grinder to Sandy's where I'll integrate my favorite kitchen stuff with hers--if she can tolerate me.

Tommy will take the Italian cutting board and framed poster with poem by Talleyrand--mementos from our coffeehouse days. I'm wondering who should take the Italian Mama Roe fondue pot and pitcher. Am I too old to have a fondue party? The loft may be the perfect place. My true friends like sitting on the floor anyway so having no sofa should be just fine.

Sandy is agreeing for me to put my book collection in her dining room. Will they all hate me when this move is final?

Why am I writing about these mundane things? We all know possessions have no real value. What is important is my ability to transition with grace. I'm thinking it will be awesome to re-identify my environment in some new and interesting way. The boxes of books and pictures will, somehow, set the tone.

I'm writing about this because I have realized that fewer possessions, fewer responsibilities, lower rent (smile), will afford me a higher style of freedom, yet keep me close to those I love.

I may be able to fly to Geneva, Switzerland and spend a couple of weeks with wonderful friends Jawahara Saidullah and her husband, Bijoy Sagar.They are 2 hours from Milan,Italy and 5 hours from Paris,France.I've never thought much about my own freedom, but now I know I've been held captive.

I talked to a friend today who is enjoying the same experience of giving things away. He likes being present to the pleasure his children and grandchildren experience with his treasures. We agreed a new form of liberation is possible.

With no strings of any magnitude, this coal-camp dreamer may be able to do some world traveling. My next dream is to visit friends in Australia--Melbourne in the south and Sidney in the North, England, Germany, and Southwest USA.

I yearn for hours of conversation, good meals and good wine with Bijoy, Jawahara, Geoffrey, Kathy, Fritzi, Barbara, Glenn y Patricia, and other friends I've missed over the years. Sobre Mesa, everyone!

Liberation may result from living in the loft!

Peace,
Judy

Afterthought: "Twice I was a mother, once I was a wife. Tore out all the pages and all that's left is life. Tomorrow, oh tomorrow, I wonder who I'll be. Got scrapbooks filled with photographs and none of them, not one of them is me."

Going to Thanksgiving: Personal Memories

2009-11-05T23:27:00.013-05:00

This will be the first year in at least 44 years that our family has not reunited to celebrate Thanksgiving Day. We "go to" Thanksgiving at Toby and Bruce's home and in the past 3-4 years to brother John's on Wiley Branch. People come from all over to share in the day. The six Bussey siblings are usually there. If one's missing they will regret the day and be told by sister Toby that they should have made better plans. Over the years, some things have remained constant. There is so much laughter and talk. And, the babies keep coming! Toby counts 45 as a small crowd.

There is an early meal--12 Noon or 1 PM. I'm always late and my arrival has been a highlight for many years now. I always bring the scalloped oysters or seafood casserole, so I'm usually forgiven. Once we're all there,Bruce asks the blessing while Tom O'Rourke, Sr.& Jr, Margo, and Johnny act mischievous. Then the feast begins. We've grown to more than 60 present at most Thanksgivings.

Sometimes Aunt Ora, Wonnell and Garland show up from Daddy's side. Sometimes Bill & Nancy Bussey, which is such a treat. Sometimes, Jimmy,Valerie and Shirley show up from Mother's side. Recently mother's only living sibling, Aunt Olga Trusty, showed up with son John Richard and daughter, Debbie Trimble. My five siblings, myself, and our descendants account for everyone else. Toby and Bruce alone, now have 24 descendants.

The food is southern/mountain traditional. Brother Johnny & wife Eda have recently hosted some Thanksgivings to help Toby out. She had a tough job for many years and never complained. She just wanted to make sure everyone came and brought any friends they wanted. Over the years all of us have brought someone to share in the day. We have baked turkey, smoked turkey, smoked pork, dressing, shuck beans (no one could cook shuck beans like Peggy), sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, macaroni salad, fruit salad, rolls, cranberry salad, deviled eggs, kushaw or squash, gravy,oyster stuffing, and so many desserts I can't even list them. The standards are frozen fruit salad, pumpkin rolls, jam cake, and apple pie (United Baptist style), pumpkin pie. Then, there were the touch football games, the hikes into the hills and up to the cemetery, and the naps.

Since the first round of eating begins by 1 PM, we have another meal around 6 PM.Don't you love left-over dressing and gravy? Going "to" Thanksgiving is a great memory for all of our children. Toby and Bruce let everyone do just exactly what they want to do. If the kids want to eat on the new sofa, that's ok. If the kids want to ride their trikes and bikes down cemetery hill, that's ok too. If the kids--or adults--spill pop or coffee on the furniture, Toby doesn't mind at all. They set up tables in the family room where the kids later play games, Karen and I sang "Sincerely" and children performed. We always danced a little to the old rock and roll music, when we could pull the guys away from the football on TV. I have it recorded all on my first edition back-pack video films. Pure madness, pure fun! That's why all the kids loved going to Thanksgiving at Tutor Key, Kentucky.

Friday was always Italian day. Karen married Irish-Italian and we have Giganti Sicilian cousins so Friday was the day to celebrate our diversity. Karen cooked her famous spaghetti and meatballs. Rose Burnosi O'Rourke, Karen's beloved mother-in-law brought her homemade ravioli from Latrobe, Pennshyvania to add to the feast. The past 5-10 years, brother Johnny tries to invade the Italian kitchen so we watch him carefully so Karen can cook the way she wants to. There's always a little steam brewing when Johnny and Karen meet at the stove on Italian day.

Saturday is soupbean and cornbread day. God, it's good to get back to basics.

One of my favorite Thanksgiving memories was at Toby and Bruce's house on Davis Branch around 1969. My son Tommy was only 5 years old and had never been able to say his "r"s. That day he charged into the kitchen happily yelling, "MotheRRR, I shot a BiRRd!" I can hear him now.

Then, there was a special hike to the top of the hill behind our house on Wiley Branch. I was backpacking my famous huge video camera and have films of the whole day. As Rose O'Rourke and I went up the path, we came across 2 of Hershell Pack's horses. I was afraid to walk past them, so Rose and I climbed straight up the steep hill instead of the beaten path that wound its way to the top. I kept my camera on. We struggled for breath and laughed all the way. coming back down, I captured the sound of my creek rambling on to Georges Creek and towards the Levisa Fork of the Big Sandy. A wonderful sound.

Uncle Johnny would always take the young'ens on hikes. He taught them the names of trees, which bark to chew, and how to track certain animals. He showed them how to dig in the earth, until water surfaced for a fresh drink--just as the Native Americans had done. Over the years, I hear that Johnny made a few of the kids chew tobacco. They'd do anything for Uncle Johnny and he just laughed when they turned green.

Our memories are fully entrenched in each of us, each in our own way. I know we will all remember going "to" Thanksgiving over the past half century. I appreciate Toby and Bruce, and more recently, Johnny and Eda for hosting our group.

As for Thanksgiving in the coalcamp, I have few memories. I know we had turkey, cornbread dressing,gravy, potatoes, and probably baked sweet potatoes,and shuck beans. Mother's dressing was all homemade, starting with cornbread. The finished product was rich and greasy and delicious. Others will have to help me with this memory. Was this day a disaster like other holidays, when tempers clouded all festivities? Did we visit Granny and Pap. I'm stuck here.

The celebration of Thanksgiving was certainly a big event at school. We painted beautiful turkeys, pilgrims, & pumpkins, in tempra paint on the school windows. And, every year, the big event was the Thanksgiving Play. We dressed as pilgrims in black dresses and white bonnets and aprons. The boys were some kind of stack hat. The girls had names like "Prudence" and "Patience". One of the famous lines was, "Speak for yourself, John".

Mother couldn't sew a lick and God only knows how she got our costumes made. Layman Shepherd built us a stage in the gym and put folding chairs out for the audience. Everyone in the camp would come. We hid when the Indians attacked then, over time, befriended the Indians and celebrated and gave thanks with a huge feast of turkey & corn & bread & onions. I'm sure this was the beginning of cornbread stuffing.Our program always ended in the song, "We gather together to ask the Lord's blessing...". David Grade School was big on plays. There was always some form of propriety placed among our crude celebrations.

I hope everyone has a memorable Thanksgiving this year. It seems fitting and proper that we chose to change our tradition this year--the same year we lost our eldest sibling, Peggy. Her spirit will be with each of us wherever we are.

I wish you a good day of thanksgiving for whatever love, nourishment, and moments of peace you are offered. I'm thankful for all I receive.

Peace
Judy

Memories of Smoke and Ponds Cold Cream

2009-11-03T10:15:00.005-05:00

My sister Karen commented:

"Judy's my sister and I want to reminisce with her a bit....Preacher Durham also told Brer Rabbit stories [Uncle Remus] by Joel Chandler Harris. Remember the rabbit, "please don't throw me in the briar [Blar--as we said) patch"
We had easter parades and hunts and smacked the tar baby. We wore a red rose on mother's day if she was alive and white if she had passed. We usually picked ours on the way to church.. We sang..."Deep and Wide, Deep and Wide..there' s a fountain flowing Deep and Wide. Ummp and Wide Ummmp and Wide..." We would act out the silent part. Who will ever forget "John 3:16",sung to the tune of "Love Lifted Me". "This little Light of Mine". "Amster, Amster shh shh shh." "You must not say that naughty word". What memories we have, and Preacher Durham was a big part of our childhood.
Karen Bussey O'Rourke

And, big brother Rod just added this commment about Preacher Durham:

"and......... ......... ......... Preacher Durham was a smoker .....some adults told us that was sinful....maybe that is why most of us tried smoking corn silk.......rod"

All I need is a little feedback to get me writing again....

Yes, Mother talked of smoking "rabbit tobacco" (anyone know what this is?)and cornsilk as a young girl in Knott County. I'm sure Rod snuck into the hills to try some of this stuff. We never knew it though, because Rod was the most perfect Bussey child. Next, I'm going to write about him breaking out the company store window and killing a bird. He had his moments.

Karen and I tried Salems once, then we had to fall across the bed and and hold down each other's legs since they kept floating away. We were so sick. We learned, however, to light a cigarette to quickly hand to Daddy when he began one of his regular, severe coughing attacks. Without that cigarette we knew he would never have breathed again.Cool Salems were a life-saver--or so we thought, back then. How did he work in the deep coal mines with that constant shortness of breath?

We knew smoking wasn't a sin though because our mother smoked like a movie star and told us there were far worse things we could do...like gossip, lie, be selfish, (Mother gave away everything we ever had), hurt someone's feelings--I got whipped more than once for this transgression. Kissing boys and smoking were not as nearly as bad as the real hurtful stuff.

"Now Judy", she'd say, "that doesn't mean you should kiss every boy you see--but every now and then, you can kiss one". She even smoked in public, which was pretty scandalous in the 50s in our perfect prototype coal camp. I dreamed of being grown, tilting my head back to blow a smoke ring, then smiling to offset my brilliant red lipstick, just like Mother.

Now, back to Preacher Durham, he was a genuine hard core smoker. I don't believe he smoked in public,though. I may be telling a family secret, but he loved to come to our house and smoke with Mother. She loved a good conversation and he was a truly brilliant man full of interesting compelling stories. They smoked and talked and laughed and cried. She craved discussion of politics, sports, Literature, and more. He was a literate, surely educated, person (he printed the bulletin, didn't he?)and Mother was the consummate student.

Mother recalled every line of every classical poem she had learned in school. She recited them to us regularly--whether or not we wanted to listen. She was so expressive and acted out some of the parts, like, "I'm sorry that I spelt the word. I hate to go above you, because, her brown eyes lower fell, because you see, I love you."

It was pure drama to watch mother place her burning cigarette on the window sill--to burn yet another brown stripe--while she lowered her own brown eyes and began to explain the moral of the famous John Greenleaf Whittier poem, School Days.
"How often are people caring enough to place our own success above theirs"?

How on earth did cigarette smoking conjure up so many long lost images for me?

I am very anti-smoking today and didn't allow smoking in my business or my home way before it was common practice. Mother used to say when I'd visit, "You can go home now Judy. I'm going to smoke".

In closing, let me pay tribute to the pure catharsis I experienced while washing the brown stain from mother's "what-nots" after she died. I watched tearfully as the liquified brown stain from many cigarettes left smoldering one after another in her ashtray, wash down the drain with the soapy water. It was sad to let every part of her go. Sometimes I crave to smell the aroma of smoky dress competing with the everpresent fragrance of Ponds Cold Cream.

I love you Mother and I'm glad you and Preacher Durham were friends.
Judy

Memorable People from my Childhood in David, Kentucky

2009-10-31T21:08:00.005-04:00

Sometimes I don't know what to write about and think I should be more sophisticated, but today, I'm on a binge of just writing.

Now, I'm thinking of our David Grade School and the special visits we had--in addition to the dreaded nurse visits.

Preacher Durham, local minister and renowned story teller, Sister Ruth and Sister Mary--I assume Catholic nuns who taught us bible stories--and Mr. Ellliott, our traveling music teacher, from whom we learned folk music, western music, and then-- Pomp and Circumstance.

Imagine living far out in the county without access to music lessons, story tellers, and inspirational speakers. We had them all, but I doubt we realized it at the time.

Does anyone know how to locate Sister Mary and Sister Ruth? I have no idea where they came from, but they showed up regularly at our school. They had a felt board with multiple and colorful characters to post as they told remarkable stories from the Bible. They had Joseph and Mary and a little baby Jesus. They had shepherds, sheep and angels. Sometimes they added a prodigal son and a fatted calf to remind us that, "but you were always with me, my son". The images have led me to many an epiphany in my adult life. Moses in a basket, his life hanging in the balance, only to be found and loved by the Kings daughter. The nuns didn't preach Catholicism, they only told stories. I don't remember any protests from the PTA. Sister Mary and Sister Ruth worked very hard to bring us the stories in living color.

"My foot's in the stirrup, my pony won't stand.I'm off for Montan', I'm a leavin' Cheyenne. Goodbye Old Paint, I'm a leavin' Cheyenne. Goodbye Old Paint, I'm off to Montan'".

"Oh my darlin, Oh my darlin, Oh my darlin Clemintine......."

"From this valley they say you are goin". I will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile. Just remember the Red River Valley and the Cowboy who loved you so true."

In addition to all the songs, Mr. Elliott would show up in each spring and introduce the 8th graders to " Pomp and Circumstance"--the annual choice for the graduation march.

We learned the music and we also learned how to march in sync with the slow, classical beat. Step, forward slide, step, forward slide--and on and on. One had to be respectful in such a ceremonious atmosphere. We knew no other way that graduation marches were done. The girls wore white dresses, the boys wore jackets (I think) and we all took it very seriously.

My class sang, "God of our fathers,whose almighty hand. Brings forth in beauty all the starry band. Be thou our ruler, guardian guide and stay. Thy word our law, Thy path our chosen way." Bom, Pa, Pa, Pa, Bom Pa. Mr Elliott used his baton to measure out each beat. I will never forget him and this eloquent ceremony.

The only thing I didnt' like about my 8th grade graduation was my homemade dress and the "permanent" wave mother had the neighbor beautician put into my ever so straight hair. I was honored to give the Salutatorian speech. Mother wrote it for me. She was a great speech writer.

Why did I hate the dress and how I looked? I did housework, ironed white shirts, and baby sat 4 children in return for having my dress handmade by Ila willis. The buttons were hand-covered in the white pique of the dress. The belt was handcovered too. It was perfectly fitted and probably beautiful, but I hated it. I just didnt' see the quality involved at that time. Ila was a great seamstress, but I didht' know it at the time. All I knew was that I worked very hard just to recieve the dress.

The permanent wave was the crowning glory, and, somehow, Mother got me a corsaage. I have horrid pictures that mark the day, but, maybe to my Mother, I was beautiful. And now, other memories...

How on earth can I describe the story-telling powers of Preacher Durham? We heard him each Sunday in church, so it was a special pleasure to hear him as the guest speaker in our special meeitngs in the gym.He didn't preach, but captivated us with his thrilling stories.

We'd march in and take our seats on the wooden bleachers. Quite modern at that time, actually, since many grade schools in the day didn't have a gymasium.

We would be quiet-we knew any disrepectful noise would warrant a whipping. Preacher Durham would finally step up to the podium. The story would begin in a quiet tone, as he told of the boy from Galileee and his predisposition to comapassion and honesty. Then the story would crescendo as he talked of the road to Damascus and the robbers that lurked around every curve in the road.

Our anticipation grew and finally, when the robbers attacked, Preacher Durham made such an explosive sound we all gasped. The good Samaritan often saved the day--much like Spiderman or Batman do today. We must have heroes, right?

He was a master. To this day, I've never forgotten the little boy from Galilee and the miracles he performed from Bethlehem to Damascus. I'm amazed today when I hear of the struggles in the middle east and how much we learned from the stories.

Preacher Durham also printed a weekly bulletin from a back room in his home. He used ink and a roller press to create the Bulletin. Sometimes we would go hang out in his press room and watch the news being printed. It was a privilege to be selected to eliver the "Bulletin".

Sometimes the news was as simple as, "Nova and Dawson Bussey are the proud grandparents of a little grirl, Jerra Rae Collins." Or, "Mary Frances Stambaugh won the award for best porch decorations during the Christmas Holiday".

Preacher Durham knew how to win us over. He gave "grab-bags" regularly after his church services. They were great. I remember leaving services one day and asking if I could take a bag to my brother Rodney who couldn't come that day. He gave me a bag and one for Rodney too. The treats were from his own pocket, I'm sure. But his messages were memorable.

"Just like a tree, tha stands beside the water....I shall not be moved. I shall not be, I shall not be moved....."

Who can fill in my blanks? The words echo in my mind and heart.
Love and Peace
Judy

2009-10-31T20:31:00.004-04:00

Recently I heard from Billy Bartley, the sweetest and meanest little boy you ever saw. His sister, Tudy was one of my dear friends. I didn't have many friends, Mother told me more than once she had to bribe the kids to play with me, but as friends go, Tudy was right up there with the best of them. I used to spend the night with her. She had this way of making her short bangs stick straight out. I was so envious. My hair was straight too, but I couldn't enliven my bangs at all.

My little brother was Johnny and her little brother was Billy---the cute kid that would throw rocks at us as we passed his house. I didn't care how mean Billy was, I loved spending the night with Tudy. She had her own room, which none of the Bussey kids had. We felt privileged when we only had 2 to a bed. Rodney loved it when he got his own bedroom when Mother put a "day-bed"in the dining room for him.

Tudy had privacy. Her own room. She was the oldest at home since her two older sisters were married and had moved away. She had her own lipstick, her own closet, and her own special hair tricks. I loved Tudy. She was a champion Jacks player. I never could beat her and was forever frustrated at the game. We had so many versions of the game and she was master of all: The beginning hand toss, put 'em in the pigpen, put 'em in the basket, kiss the baby, spank the baby, poison, round the world, and other challenges that were so difficult.

Of course, I've taught my grandchildren some Jacks games, and I told them I was really good at all of them. They don't know that Tudy Bartley always beat me.

Mother loved Ethel Bartley and always knew she had a friend whenever needed. Tandy Bartley was a good looking man who mined coal with Daddy. God only knows how their wives made it through those tough days. But they did.

My little brother Johnny was mean too, although we never called him mean. He was courageous, athletic, strong, and cute as could be. He and Billy had their share of fights and now, I know, are both very good men.They just gave us all a lot to worry about in the coal camp.

Billy sent a picture of Tudy, me, my little sister, Karen, and him. I have posted it here for your enjoyment. I guess the picture was made around 1950.

I saw "Pag" Bartley Ousley this summer. She is as pretty as ever and still married to that handsome Ed Ousley. It's so good to know someone is still on Middle Creek taking care of our heritage.

Hope to hear more from our David friends,
Peace,
Judy

2009-09-13T00:53:00.002-04:00

I'm teaching and not writing. I have some ideas, but haven't yet learned how to express them. I just realized that my attempt at fiction (Star: A Rich Life) needs a total rewrite of the first two episodes. My granddaughter is taking a course in creative writing and, based on her feedback, I realize that I'm such a beginner.

So, I plan to rewrite and post some drafts for those of you who actually read this site. My friend Jawahara reads, so I hope she contacts me at cjtjudy@yahoo.com with her constructive critique.

I also plan an update on Cherokee Bill, one of my most vivid childhood memories. A reader supplied me with several pictures and stories to confirm my fantasy of this great persona.

Please stay in touch, I will,
Jujy

Fresh Pole Beans, and more...

2009-08-12T20:16:00.006-04:00

Someone gave me a few pounds of fresh pole beans. The beans are fresh from the garden. Beautiful, green and lushly full. They require preparation before cooking. I string them, they have lots of strings to contend with-more than half-runners. I break them into little pieces. Some must be shelled and I think of the term "Shellie beans".

As they cook, they are browner than half-runners and I, in my ignorance, wonder if they are the beans that when dried become pinto--or soup beans. I added some bacon fat, in spite of my acclaimed vegetarianism, and simmer them down low in the pot, just the way Mother taught me.

How delicious they are. How much work! I begin to think about the people who sow the seeds, nourish the plants, weed the gardens, pray for rain, pray for the floods to wait, harvest the beans at just the right time, string them, clean them, then can or cook them for our pleasure. Sometimes, if we're lucky, they just share the bounty with us. Would you do it? Would I?

I worked on this one batch because I felt it would be sacrilegious to not prepare the beans after someone else had done all the work to bring them to life. I admire farmers so much. I love their attention to every plant and the hard work required for every bit of food we have.

A student brought me tomatoes and green peppers and I made it a personal quest to create something original and tasty that would honor his labor. I used couscous, olive oil, and garlic to blend the tomatoes and peppers into a gourmet delight. I also made some very delicious vegetable soup with regular and purple cabbage, onions, basil, oregano, assorted sweet and hot green peppers, tomatoes, with some V-8 Juice for liquid.

At a party recently, I dumped 3 quarts of Johnny and Eda's canned green beans in a pot and added a small amount of bacon grease as they "cooked down". No salt. They were such a hit that everyone asked, "How'd you make these"? Maybe it was a unique offering in today's world--but commonplace on my childhood table.

Paul brought beans, peppers, purple cabbage, and tomatoes from his garden. We piled them in an old garden basket and the "centerpiece" received rave reviews.

Fresh cucumbers were perfect in our fresh pasta salad with veggies and in sister Peggy's famous macaroni salad. I have used the last of the squash, but must admit a few large zucchinis are sitting in my kitchen with no immediate use in mind. I ripened the last of the tomatoes in the sunshine on the kitchen window sill. Now they're gone. Ripened before I found the time to fry the green ones--and eaten with great sensual gastronomic pleasure.

Everyday I clip leaves from my herb garden planters laden with kale, basil, oregano, kushaw, lemon balm, and chives. A thoughtful gift of labor and love from dear friends and family. Someone sent me a few pods of okra--or "Okrie" as we always called it. I cannot wait to cut them up, coat them in meal and fry them to a delicious crisp.

I do no take these bounties for granted.
I don't think I'd like to farm, but I sure do love farmers and respect every ounce of the labor they give to our well being....

To brother John and wife, Eda,
To David and wife Tammy,
To Red,
To Maryam and Fatima,
To Sherry,
To Sandy (Who, I hope will make more pesto this year!)

Peace,
Judy

Changes, Oh The Changes

2009-08-09T23:26:00.020-04:00

Hello all,
I read writer, Jawahara Saidullah's work and realize I am still struggling to become "me". She would probably say she also struggles, but I see her various identities and they all seem to mesh. She is really all those things, whether a writer of fiction or a writer who speaks truth to reality, as Angela Dworkin used to say.

A favorite verse from 70's U.S. Feminist prose:

"Twice I was a mother. Once I was a wife. Tore out all the pages, now all that's left is life.The changes, oh the changes, I wonder who I'll be.Got a scrap book filled with photographs, and none of them, not one of them
is me"

Are all women meant to be mothers and wives? Many of us were changing identities then, maybe we still are. Traditional homemakers are less prevalent now, career women--working women, more so. Although Feminists worked for the rights of the homemaker and mother, they were stereotyped as "home-wreckers" and destroyers of the family unit. We wanted , however, to dignify the role of homemakers and advocated for them to earn social security benefits on the basis of their contribution to the GNP, which we highly valued. Actually, most people value the role of homemaking, but the word "feminist" often carries a negative connotation, ergo the misunderstanding of our efforts. True Feminists praised the role of homemakers in sustaining a solid U.S. economy.

Now, it seems, women are free to make a living in the commerical world, albeit without equal pay, but they still assume primary responsibility for home and child care--many as single parents. Have we progressed? Or, are we just following the yellow brick road?

Somehow, each change in my life has brought a new identity challenge. Sometimes I have fit the mold, other times not. I fit the career mold for a long while, although it was not fulfilling. I have always fit the homemaker role, but not with the panache of others around me. I have fit the lover & friend role, but usually in a compartmentilized way where things and people don't mesh. The literary, intellectual me is perpetually frustrated.

We seem trapped by the drive to earn more, borrow more, pressure our children to excel more (which leads them to a frustrating, debilitating perfectionistic state) than any previous U.S. generation. It is somewhat comforting to know this phenomenon is occuring globally. Are we missing the point of individual evolution?

As feminists, we raised the questions and are still trying to answer them. I was a wife, I am a mother, I am a friend, I was a career woman, men have loved me and I have loved them. But, who am I? What is next? Who will I be? Can I be more than the tiny role into which I was cast?

My identity is everchanging, evolving and that's good, isn't it? At times, I wonder if the resurgence of the U.S. women's movement in the 60's has had the intended impact. We marched for the right to change identities by choice--not by decree of legislation. We fought to control our own bodies--as a long ago feminist proclaimed--we earned the right to say "yes", along with our right to say "no"--which has become a difficult issue to sell.

Legislation won out, however, and while more of our rights are recognized, I sense an emptiness among young women who don't realize how diligently others fought for them to be able to make choices--cognitive choices--based on their needs, dreams, and wants.

I wonder about the contemporary, but still stereotypical norm for women who must fight social expectations. Men struggle too, I'll admit, so how can we evolve together? We are fighting the social stigma of re-identifying ourselves and what we can be.

Can we understand the power of indvidual awareness and enlightenment and recognize what we, ourselves, need to do in order to live to our fullest potential? It's still a challenge, even with all the rights we have earned.

Men and women alike are challenged. I delete all politcal emails and actually get a little pissed that some friends assume I agree with them. I'd rather focus on individuality and the power of people, not blaming current leaders for their bad judgment. We have individual power within ourselves. Can we choose how to live? All people in power are people in power--with many similarities. So, we need to listen to ourselves, follow the principles that have worked in life--for those we admire and respect--and quit trying to satisfy some religious or political majority.

The feminists had a good point. Why does my identity not fit? Who have I been? Who will I be? Is it OK to evolve? Will others allow me to evolve? Do I have the strength and determination to evolve in spite of others? Some women are not allowed any choices.

I cannot even imagine the frustration of abused , controlled, and demoralized women and girls living in countries where they have not even a minutia of the opportunity and protection I have. At least legislation has brought us this far--we can still dream and work towards becoming whatever we want, although many US citizens still aren't heard.

Can we unite to raise our voices for other women and girls and others who cannot be heard? How can we give them voice? How can we speak truth to their reality? What Hillary say? Will she give us a platform? Will we use it?

All that's left is life,

Peace,

Judy

So Much Wasted Time

2009-07-14T21:20:00.007-04:00

Dear Reader,
One of my East Kentucky elders once told me, "Never be somewhere and wish you were somewhere else". Now, I've been studying for years on how to become aware- to be more present and conscious of myself and my environment at any given time. She said it so well, though, didn't she? Being in one place and wishing for another is an example of imagination overriding reality and is sure to cause us to miss some precious truths along the way.

I spent my youth wishing to be anywhere except in the coal camp of David, Kentucky. Even Daniel Boone commented in his diary, after wintering in that lonely hollow, that it was too bitter for human habitation. As it turns out, the Licking River, just over my hill, was a new gateway to the west. They never taught us such glamorous things in school . No one ever told me a pivotal battle in the Civil War was fought about 3 miles from my home on Middle Creek. One year, though, we were taught Kentucky History and it was my favorite subject. That's all I heard, though, except for what my mother taught me.--and what I've been learning since. So, I lost much while in the imagination process. I read Russian literature and wanted to be there among the Bolsheviks when they overturned the Czar, yet, I mourned for the loss of the aristocracy, which I would have liked to experience.

Did you know Gandhi corresponded with Tolstoy? Two of my favorite people and I wanted to be where they were--wherever that was.

British literature was also a great influence and I used to pretend I had china cups and tea biscuits. I also dreamed of dressing for dinner and having civilized conversation among a group of interesting, educated individuals. Even though the occasional promiscuity occurred in those books, and always challenged propriety, the books were enticing to my young mind. I felt crude in my environment where none of our plates matched and real conversation among 8-10 people at the supper table was, ostensibly, impossible. I

I wanted to dip crusty bread into red wine and know it wasn't a sin. I read the Bronte sisters and felt the passion and struggle they experienced in their searches for "more". I knew life had more waiting for me. Madame Bovary helplessly fought as well, and we all know what happened to her. Poor Anna Karenina just couldn't bear it any more, so we understand her final decision.

Hope was always around the corner though with heroes--like Hank Reardon in Atlas Shrugged. I could be his Dagne and we would astonish the world by not compromising our principles. I was never there--not really there--in the coal camp. I was always in my imagination, so I missed a lot. I'm now beginning to understand why memories are so variable between me and my 5 siblings . Now, I write to understand why I fought the reality of my own heritage--of which I am now, so very proud. A child doesn't realize they are living in surroundings that will determine their very core attitudes and values. "For better or for worse." is not just a promise, it is a fact. We grow by what we experience--good or bad.

It was all very frustrating to say the least. I had to face reality.

My world was parochial. My world had boundaries. My world was difficult at times. My world was unique and irreplaceable, but I didn't realize it at the time. While dreaming of what "might be", I lost much of "what was".

Now I try to recapture the essence of my life by re-telling stories from my formative years. Each of us is different and each of us has a different story to tell. Even of the same event. None of us reconstruct our realities in true alignment.

My stories come from the frustrations of a little girl, wanting more, but not knowing how to go about it and in the process she was depreciating what she really had. I've wondered why my memories are different from others in my family. Now, I know it was my inability to accept truth--or to accept the feelings I had from seeing the truth. I usually embellished truth to some state of non-recognition, just to make myself happy and life more bearable.

Now, back to my original thought from the elder mountain woman. It makes so much sense, given the spiritual path I've chosen, to make an effort to be present to what really is. Of course it's a challenge, but anything less diminishes my accurate impressions of my life. I hope we can learn to teach our young ones to appreciate their formative culture, whatever it is, because it is real. Culture influences our attitudes, beliefs, and values and contributes to our self concept and our identity. Many of us spend years seeking answers to our inner state of being, when it was right before our eyes all the time.

Didn't Thoreau say he learned all he needed to know without leaving Walden Pond? What was Siddhartha's ultimate discovery? Sometimes the most difficult ideas are the simplest.

Peace,
Judy

Peggy Jean Bussey Collins Obituary

2009-07-07T16:09:00.011-04:00

Peggy and Children: Margo Collins, Peggy Bussey Collins, Jerra Collins Campbell

The Dawson and Nova Hicks Bussey children Nov 25, 2008, in our last photo together. Seated from left: Peggy Bussey, Karen Bussey O'Rourke, Rodney C. Bussey, Toby Bussey Howard; Standing, Judy Bussey and John R. Bussey

I've had requests to post my sister, Peggy's obituary once more. Today's blog is to once again honor my sister and note her passing. The 5 remaining Bussey siblings feel the presence of her absence in all we do--as do her beloved daughters, Jerra and Margo.

Peggy Jean Bussey Collins was born May 6, 1937 and died Monday, July 6, 2009 after a long illness. She passed away in Morehead, Kentucky were she had resided for 15 years.

Peggy was the daughter of Dawson and Nova Hicks Bussey of David, Kentucky, both of whom preceded her in death.

Peggy is survived by two daughters from her marriage to Bill Ray Collins, Prestonsburg, Kentucky. They are Jerra Collins Campbell of West Liberty, Kentucky and Margaret Elizabeth Collins of Morehead.

She leaves 3 grandchildren, Lorie Rae Campbell, David M. Campbell, II and his wife Rebecca Miller, all of West Liberty, and Nova Hyden Carey of Morehead. Peggy also leaves 2 great-grandchildren, Morgan and Madison Carey of Morehead.

Peggy has five surviving brothers and sisters: Toby Howard and husband Bruce of Tutor Key, Kentucky; Rodney C. Bussey and wife Helen of Berea, Kentucky. Judy Bussey of Lexington, Kentucky; Karen Bussey O’Rourke and husband Thomas of Atlanta, Georgia; and John R. Bussey and wife Eda Dean, of Wiley Branch, Johnson County, Kentucky.

We must also mention other beloved elders that survive Peggy. She leaves one maternal and three paternal aunts. They are:
Olga Hicks Trusty of Stonecoal, Kentucky; Ora Bussey of Prestonsburg, Kentucky; Sue Bussey Giganti and Gwen Bussey Wynn, both of Cleveland Ohio.

Peggy leaves many nieces and nephews, grand and great-grand nieces and nephews, and cousins who will also grieve her absence.

Peggy most recently had worked several years in the coal industry in Johnson County, followed by 15 years of service, to the Johnson County School System, from which she retired around 1994.

She was a joy to know and love and will be sorely and sadly missed by many additional friends and relatives.

Peggy was well known for her original handmade crafts and artistic expression and was creative until her last day.

Peggy’s favorite hymn was “Beulah Land” and, because she had suffered so much, she had started looking forward to the time she could go. While we grieve her absence we are joyous for her journey.

Beulah Land
Verse 1
I’m kind of homesick for a country
To which I’ve never been before
No sad goodbyes will there be spoken
For time won’t matter anymore
Chorus
Beulah Land, I’m longing for you
And some day on thee I’ll stand.
There my home shall be eternal
Beulah Land—Sweet Beulah Land
Verse 2
I’m looking now across the river
Where my faith will end in sight
There’s just a few more days to labor
Then I will take my heavenly flight.

Looking the Beans

2009-06-19T12:01:00.006-04:00

Today as I looked a 2# bag of dry pinto beans, I was pleased to find a few stones and bad beans in the mix. Fortunately, I know how to look beans so this wasn't a problem. It brought back many memories of looking beans for Mother. Soup beans were a staple in our suppers and seems like we had them almost everyday.

There was always something else added to the meal--macaroni and tomatoes, wieners and kraut, fried potatoes, sliced tomato and onion, the ever present cornbread, and things like that.Sometimes we had butter beans, sometimes navy beans, sometimes black-eyed peas, but soup beans were most often the main course.

At night, (if there were beans left over) some of us liked a soup bean sandwich as a late snack. The beans would have thickened and went quite well on a slice of light bread (if we had any).Daddy and Peggy always added hot sauce and maybe onion to theirs. Hey, ever had frijoles and hot sauce with a corn tortilla? Same concept.

Of course another favorite snack was cornbread and sweet milk--if we had any cornbread left over and if there was enough milk. We were daresome to use the last milk because it was a requirement for the thermos of coffee Daddy took underground each day. The child who drank the last milk would be awakened before 5 AM and sent to a neighbors to borrow--or "borry"--milk.

I've been on a cornbread spree lately and we've really enjoyed it. One day, with polish sausage, kraut, and butter beans. Another day with goulash, and today with soup beans, carrots and potatoes (maybe I'll just fry to potatoes instead), and a little killed lettuce. As a child fried potatoes was my favorite dish. I loved the ones that turned brown and stuck just a little in the bacon grease.

The inspiration for this piece was the pinto beans I just finished looking in the kitchen. I wondered what other people called "looking" the beans and found this direction on the side of the bag,"examine and sort the beans removing any residual material". So there my friends lies the definition of "looking" as related to beans.

Then I got worried the beans were imported from China, which would be a real heart breaker for me. I had torn the bag, so couldn't really read any thing but "St. Hilaire Bean Company". I hope and pray it's a US company. I found 6 little stones, 8 bad/black beans, and one small, but very sharp shard of wood. I appreciate that their beans aren't perfect and I can still have the pleasure of looking them as I ponder what I'm going to cook for supper and who will be eating with me. I never know.

But back then, we could count on 8-10 of us sitting around the same table, just as soon as Daddy came home from the mines passing the bowl of beans around.

Precious moments.

Love,
peace,
Judy
Footnote: I confirmed that St. Hilaire Bean Company is in Minnesota and is part of the North American Bean Growers Association. Look for their Valley Select lable!

PS: If I have cornbread left over I'll make my world acclaimed cornbread and gravy for breakfast. I never waste food and learned this recipe and how to be "savin" from my beloved mother in law, Ethel Blackburn Smith. I rarely give out my secret, but will sometimes share it with a true cornbread & gravy lover.

Comment from Reader, Paul Shepherd:

...you talk about soup beans a very catchy phrase you use I like that, First time I've heard it like that and at first I thought it was a typo.But as I read on sure that's what you do to soup beans.
Can you imagine seeing the look on your dad's face if he bit into one of those little stones with a mouth full of food he has longed for all day. Now that would have been a moment in time that would never been forgotten. Yes I have cleaned beans all my live and yet today I check and double check. Something so great as soup beans for food is worth the time and effort making sure they will be flawless when they enter your palate.

Rebecca Miller-Campbell Appalachian Poet and Artist

2009-05-07T11:02:00.013-04:00

Dear Reader,
See Rebecca Miller Campbell's original, handmade creations and learn of an Appalachian woman who brings pure intelligence, integrity, and talent to all she does. She integrates her original Kentucky Folk Art with an international savy and pride in her East Kentucky heritage.

I hope you visit Rebecca,
Judy

Guilty Pleasures in the Afternoon

2009-05-04T17:55:00.008-04:00

I've never been tagged before. I've never been tagged from Switzerland before. The international urgency is pushing me to respond. Ahhh, the topic "Guilty Pleasures in the Afternoon" is challenging. I have guilty pleasures all the time, but had never thought they were public material. Jawahara has such a way with words, I cannot compete, but I'll try to be honest and write of those things I would love to do more often--which would, of course make them even more pleasurable.

Try as I may, I remain at Mazlow's lowest level of human satisfaction. Actualization is a word New Agers use, but I am a survivor and relish even a glimpse of the higher order of things.

There is now a Bacchus Network to encourage safe and mature drinking, which makes me shiver. I am Bacchanalian in many ways. Sometimes I indulge, especially when my budget is low and I need a lift. I buy good tequila, maybe Patron and good wine. At the moment, I'm drinking cheap, but good, red wine. Big Red, an affordable Austrailian Shiraz. I'm staring longingly, though, at an empty bottle of Premium Chateau Du Crest from Geneva which I shared with a special friend one lazy winter afternoon. Guilty, no, but secret & pleasurable--yes.I work hard and have no guilt when I select a pretty crystal glass to accompany my afternoon drink.

Also Bacchanalian may be my love of the opposite sex. I thoroughly enjoy male companionship and wish I had more guilty pleasures to report. Right now, I only have 2-3 possibilities and it's mind boggling to figure it all out.It's satisfying, however, just to look for those pleasurable encounters, knowing they will occur sooner or later.

I love food, especially rich creamy food. I love whole cream and use it occasionally to give my cup of tea an indescribable richness. I'm so tired of skim milk and dont seem any healthier for giving up cream, so I indulge occasionally. Last night I had berry cobbler covered with whole cream. I now buy milk from a real dairy in East Kentucky. The milk is pasteurized but not homogenized, so the cream floats to the top. I love sipping the cream off the top instead of shaking it into the whole bottle for others to enjoy.I love good cheese and would kill for the swiss cheese Jawahara speaks of.

I love the afternooon sun. From 5-7 Pm, I love to just lie and look into the setting sun. I love the glow I feel afterwards and just the hint of bronze it gives to my skin. When we were students at UK and none of our offices had windodws, I would rush home and to the backyard just to catch a glimpse of the real sun and the real sky. Jawahara's walks in Switzerland and in the Himalayas are so enticing.

I love to dance and keep finding new places where I can disco, rock n roll, or dance with the young folks to the new rhythms. I guess I'm a little guilty since no one should have so much fun at my age, but I'm still doing it! Thursday nights at O'Neils in Lexington is Open Mic night and the Blues is king.

Fianlly, I'm a movie lover and have rented hundreds of films from Blockbuster. I always have at least 2 on hand so that I have emergency filler for my moments of underload. I would love to find a partner with all my same interests, so maybe this tag game will be better than e-harmony.com.

Finally, I love Elvis. I love to look at Elvis photos. He is so sexy. I take great pleasure in knowing that he was good to his mother.I play his music only at special times when I can maximize the pleasure.

Thanks for the tag,
Did I do OK???
To Bacchus,
Judy

Memorial Day Story: Karen's Virtual Vietnam Wall Story

2009-05-04T17:18:00.009-04:00

I wanted to write a more about my sister Karen. Those of you who have Viet Nam Veterans in your family, or lost loved ones in that infamous war will appreciate this story. This story is in heartfelt tribute to all United States Military Veterans.

FIRST, A LITTLE MORE ABOUT KAREN
My sister Karen was honored in the 1990s as one of the top 3 teachers in Georgia (including DeKalb County which is one of the largest school districts in the US).Karen teaches troubled children and students who will most likely fall through the cracks in spite of her diligent efforts. She never gives up on them and helps them as much as she possibly can. She even made unrequired home visits to some pretty rough neighborhoods.

When Karen's students were interviewed about her expertise, they reported such things as "She gives us clean t-shirts when we get dirty"; "She always has something for us in the locker"; "She laughs a lot"; "She makes us laugh";"She visited my family";"She wrote to my brother in jail"; "She listens to us".Many of these students, Karen fears, didn't survive the tough street life of Atlanta.

These beloved students didn't speak one word of her great intellect and academic accomplishments--but all about that humanistic side that must set great teachers apart. Karen uses personal experience to show how history touches us all.She involves her students in plays, visits, role plays and other interesting activities to teach them history. I say all this so you will know the type of person who told this story:

While teaching a class about the Viet Nam War in spring 2004, Karen took her class online to the "virtual Vietnam War Memorial Wall".She explained how the war affected her and that she had lost at least two friends in that war. At the virtual wall, you can see the names of the soldiers who gve their lives and leave messages at the virtual wall,just like peole do at the real wall.

Karen decided to leave a message in honor of a college classmate, Bobby.
"I knew Bobby in college at Morehead State University in Kentucky. Bobby always helped me with my books and helped me get to classes on time when I was lingering to flirt with my future husband, Tom. I'm sad that Bobby isn't able to enjoy beign a grandparent like we are. ...." and more.

In a few days, Karen got an email note from another Vietnam Veteran, let's call him Joe.

"Mrs. O'Rourke, Thank you so much for writing. I was with Bobby when he died, and for thirty years, I've been wanting to find someone to tell the story to." ..and Joe told the story of his dying buddy.

Then in a few days, a letter from a young woman, Susan.

"Mrs. O' Rourke. Thank you so much for posting a message. I never knew my father. My mother was pregnant with me when he left for Vietnam and she never told him. I looked for him for 29 years. Finally, I found his mother and she was so happy to know Bobby had a child. But, I don't know much about his life.Can you tell me anything else about my Daddy?"

So Karen told Susan some college stories about Bobby, and added more personal elements that would make Bobby's daughter and mother feel good.

Bobby's mother was so happy, Susan said, she copied and carries the emails with her and shows them to everyone in town with such pride.

The webmaster for the Virtual Wall, then wrote Karen thanking her for enabling these vital connections to be made.He wished more people would take the time, because the smallest message. Bobby's daughter then became the official connection for her father and more messages came in.

Another young woman, Kay, wrote that her father had been Bobby's high school coach. When the word of Bobby's death came, her father ran outside and cried like a baby. Seems that, unbeknownst to her, Bobby had promised the father to look out for Kay while she was at Morehead University. Bobby's daughter was so proud of him!

I think Karen triggered a series of events that allowed all these peices to come together and fill in the blanks for a family who never forgot Bobby. Bobby's mother was able to have a new surge of joy in having her son acknowledged. The grandson Bobby never knew now has stories of his grandfather that would have never happened if Karen hadn't taken her students to the Virtual Wall and told her small, humanistic story.

Karen, forgive me if I haven't told this accurately, but I believe it captures the essence of the story you told me, Rod, Helen, Elton, and Gordie last Memorial Day as we sat on the beach in Sarasota. We all agreed the story was a most appropriate way to honor our vets that memorial day.

I still think all the key players should be on the Oprah show! It would be a nice reunion, wouldn't it!

Remembering My Little Sister Karen: 50 Years Later on her 60th Birthday

2009-05-01T20:02:00.007-04:00

Karen Bussey O'Rourke is my little sister and I have no memory of a time without her. Karen has led a full rich life as wife, mother, and grandmother--not to mention earning a Teacher of the Year Award in Georgia. Her Special Ed students loved her so much, some of them got in trouble just to be sent to the compassionate Mrs. O'Rourke, whom they trusted to help them understand and cope with their situations.

The following essay is made of my memories from long ago and far away, when we were growing up in the coal camp of David, Kentucky, our childhood home. I have so many memories, but none that can capture her sincere essence, so I’ll just begin.

Once upon a time, or “oncie poncie” as Karen would say, she and I captured time in a bottle. We still try to do that in our treasured moments with children who still allow us to play. Back then, and far away, for a while in the lives of my little sister Karen and I, and our brothers and sisters—Peggy, Toby, Rodney, and Johnny—time stood still. Today, my memories all seem to be situated in or nearby our little coal camp house in David, Kentucky, where we played and grew up in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. Our mother cared for six children and a house in extremely difficult conditions, while our father worked his life away in an underground coal mine.

Our house sat on a hillside with the yards sloping up on both sides. It was a great yard for rolling down hill. The front steps led down close to the sidewalk and to a narrow paved road that ran all the way to the end of Official Hollow. We were proud to have concrete sidewalks and a paved road unlike many of the rougher hollows cut out in the mountains by the coal companies. Our road ended a few houses up the street at the Hagers’ house. I guess they ended the road there so they wouldn’t have to cut down the tree where the Hager men always hung, skinned, butchered, feathered, or otherwise treated their deer, hog, and turkey carcasses. (Or maybe they ended it there to avoid some struggle with the mountaineers who once owned the land) We were astonished at these annual “hangings”, though. We thought we were so sophisticated and bought all our meat at the company store, which was a real luxury for our mother, the child of pioneers who had made their living in those hills. We had no idea that we were witnessing a way of life that few people have had the privilege of experiencing.

Of course, we stayed as far away from that tree as possible until the snow was a few feet deep and the boys made big runs of packed ice for the sleds to jump as they sped off the hillside, past the deer tree and onto the paved road for the long joyride out of the hollow. Most of the big sled rides originated at the top of the Boy Scout cabin road, where there were always truck tires burning after a big snow. I think Karen and I observed this fun a little more than we participated because it was pretty rough and we only wanted to ride with the boys who promised not to be reckless and scare us.

Sometimes the pilot of the sled would lie on the sled face down, with one or two other kids lying flat on top of him. Sometimes, the boys on several sleds would “gravy train” by hooking their feet into the handles of the sled behind. We took pride in being allowed to gravy train. Only the best of the boys could navigate without hurtling everyone into the willow trees that lined the creek on the sharp right turn at the company store. Once Toby laughed so much she peed right through Pee Wee Capelli’s clothes while she lay on his back for the speedy trip down. I think Pee Wee laughed too.

We wore socks on our hands and kept warm the best way we knew how. Then we itched for hours when we tried to warm up too fast by the coal stove in the living room. What fun! What cold and wet fun!

Karen and I watched Peggy and Toby start to date and longed for the day when we could wear lipstick and maybe steal a kiss from a special boy. For now, the occasional game of post office would have to do. Mother was beautiful and full of beauty tips for us. Karen and I were blondes and mother loved when the sun beached our hair even whiter in the summer. Our hair would also show streaks of green from the chlorine in the coal company swimming pool.
Our brother Rod helped build that pool, known in that day as the only good public pool in the East Kentucky region. He worked with volunteer coal miners and earned free season tickets for the whole family. Little did he know his efforts would result in years of fun and a family of expert swimmers. Well, Toby wasn’t exactly expert, but did work a few summers as a very well tanned, pretty life guard. Karen and I played in our fantasy world at the pool and became mermaids with rich, tantalizing lives under the water. We would play for hours and hours. Then we knew it was time to go home for supper. We always ate as soon as Daddy got home from work. Then we’d wash dishes, sweep the dining room and kitchen and go back out to play. We’d play “hide and go seek”, “ go sheepy go”, “tin can alley”, “banner”, or “hop-scotch” until dark then come home and fall asleep in our bathing suits. No need to bathe, we’d be swimming again tomorrow, wouldn’t we?

We loved when the tar on the road melted and we could write on the sidewalks by dipping popsicle sticks or hedge twigs into the hot sticky stuff. Butter removes Tar.

Anther thing we loved to do was jump rope. Hot, Cold, double Dutch, all made better if we had one of those pliable whippersnapper black cables that served the pulleys on the conveyer belts in the mines. They were the best jump ropes, but stung fiercely if you “missed”. The mines supplied other toys, like big gobs of mercury that came from the ball bearings on the railroad cars. Sometimes the boys would find it and give us some. It would coagulate and roll around in the palms of our hands. What fun! We used to coat pennies to look like dimes. I guess we absorbed enough to kill us. Of course, today it’s illegal and considered poisonous. What did we know? In those days most things were harmless.

The yard of our little house in David ran uphill and seemed so big. We learned to turn cartwheels down hill, do back-bends uphill, which made them easier and to “skin the cat” while dangling from tree limbs just beyond Mother’s clothesline. The clothesline and row of dragon lilies edged the forest where all the Indians lived and came out at night with their hatchets. Karen and I would never walk too close to the hills after dark. We’d walk in the middle of the road then race up our front steps where danger lurked beneath I was never grabbed by the ankles by any of the monsters under there, but Karen swore one almost got her a few times. I guess the monsters and wild Indians still live in David, up official hollow.

We loved that yard and the beautiful hedges that surrounded it. In the spring we’d tie string on a June bug and thrill at its circular flight. I won’t tell you how we made diamond rings from lightening bugs. We broke sturdy limbs from the hedges, wrapped their ends in black tape from the mines and used them as homemade batons. The little willowy switches were great for mother’s whippings and the middle size were just right to sharpen and use for weenie roast sticks. We could chew the leaves for a burst of chlorophyll, before we ever knew about mouthwash. There was an opening worn through the hedges from years of taking a short cut to the neighbor’s house to trade funny books or borrow some sugar.

Karen and I would lie on our backs in the yard and looked up at the clouds. The dog my little sister saw looked like a tree to me until she made me look more closely at its eyes peeping out of a head full of shaggy fur. Clouds are what we think they are. We believed we could sit on the clouds like the angels do, and not fall through. We wondered if the air planes got too close to heaven, which was situated just above the clouds we were looking out. It was bad enough to worry about the communists, much less about heaven and all those planes that started flying over David. Again Rod reassured us he was an air ranger for the Boy Scouts and would keep us informed.

In the early 50s we learned that USA scientists and engineers had figured out how to break the sound barrier! It was amazing to lie on the hilly yard looking towards the patch of sky between the hills in front and back of our house, to see the thick white smoke trails made by the jets after they started breaking the sound barrier. It seems we would see the plane, then a trail of jet smoke, then—after a few excited moments of waiting—the sound of the jet engine followed, never again to catch up with the plane. The wonder of it all…

We watched out for crawdad holes, of course. We loved to see walking sticks and granddaddy longlegs. Pretty red snake flowers in the spring told us there was surely a snake lurking somewhere. Grapevines hanging down gave us the perfect setup for playing Nyoka and Judy the Jungle girl. The big flat rock back behind the Boy Scout cabin made a perfect table for playing house. Ever make paper bows? We made bunches and bunches then attached them to our hair—and our panties—with bobby pins. Times were innocent then and we could prance topless in the rain like little angels. We drank water from the spring across the road. Life was good.

We loved to play in the rain. Do children still do that? Did Mother warn us about getting struck by lightning? Probably not, she was terrified of lightning and probably hid until the storm was over. There was pleasant rain pretty often in those days. Rain that just pitter-pattered down, just like the story books said and it was so fun to get wet, build damns, and wash our hair in the clean water dripping off the roof of the front porch.

Karen and I believed in fairies. But of course, we had really seen them when several of our brothers and sisters hadn’t. What did they know? We first became acquainted with fairies at the home of a Dutch family, the Van Gelders, where we went to drink pearl tea and play in the raucous toy room with the 5 Van Gelder children. Our entire house was a raucous playroom, but we didn’t realize that at the time. The Van Gelder’s room had a special feel. Toys, cots, and kids all over the back room. Just like in some English novel. Looking back, I bet the Van Gelders envied our being able to skate all over our house, cut pictures out of encyclopedias. We could even cook fudge anytime we wanted to—that is, if we had some milk; and, if we had some cocoa or peanut butter. We did just what we wanted in some ways. Mother said when you have six children; you let them do what they want to do. She said that’s why we were so smart in school.

Back to the fairies. Is there is a difference in a fairy and a brownie? Karen did we believe in Brownies too? I remember leaving acorn halves filled with mashed peaches in Mama Bussey’s sewing machine drawer. The brownies didn’t find them though, and there were bugs everywhere inside the sewing machine. To this day, I can’t bear the thought of what I saw in those drawers. Fortunately, Mother couldn’t sew, so the machine was never used and we didn’t get caught. We were more worried about Toby finding out, though. She liked things clean. When we started hiding the Brownie food outside, we discovered they ate every bite—so they really did exist!

Karen and I raced to see what Daddy brought home in his sooty lunch box. There was always a little something. Usually a bite of his lunch cake—that’s what we called those little store-bought cakes back then. I know he must have wanted to eat it, back there under the mountain where he worked all day in the coal mines, but he saved it so some lucky kid would find it when he came home. Sometimes we’d unlace his work boots. Sometimes we’d just leave him alone to unburden the stress of another day without air and light. Sometimes he just couldn’t take it.

Imagine a family of 8—sometimes 10, counting the two beloved grandchildren—that sits down at the same table for supper each day. We actually did that—give or take a person or two during football practice, going off to college, or some other event that altered the Bussey family dynamic. There was no fast food. Just ten pound bags of potatoes to peel, beans to look, corn to shuck, tomatoes to slice, lard to melt, tea to brew, cabbage to grate, cornbread to mix, and salt bacon to fry—every day! Some version of this menu was prepared from scratch each day of my childhood by my mother. She also got up at 4 am to build a fire and spend some precious time alone with her poetry or art. She made coffee for Daddy and herself in the old Dripolator, packed his lunch, and saw him off every weekday and every other Saturday at 5:30 in the morning. She taught us to never watch him leave since this was believed to bring bad luck to the mines.

Mother sang songs that made us cry. One song was “Oh, Daddy don’t go to the mines today….for I couldn’t live without you”. I think this may have been traumatic for us, but mother didn’t mean it to be. That’s just how people sang back then. And, “Put my little shoes away”. Karen loved mother’s stories and was the sweetest of all the girls. Mother told me that so I know it’s true. She never made Mother feel bad about the state of our house, our clothes, and all the stuff we never had or could find even if we did have it. She just smiled at mother in a very special way and glanced up at her with those big brown eyes that I adore and Mother was happy again. Mother once said Rod had never hurt her feelings, I have a feeling that Karen never did, either. Mother needed attention and Karen gave it to her. She loved watching mother dress up and learned to use lipstick and jewelry very young. Once when Doc John came to our house in an emergency to see the very pale and feverish Karen, he lifted the cover to do his exam and a very sickly, but pretty, Karen displayed one of Mother’s flashy rhinestone bracelets proudly fastened around her ankle. You’d have to have been there to understand.

This story has to end, but you see, there is no ending. Karen is fixed in my mind as the most beautiful little blonde girl with big brown eyes and a smile that melts the heart. Just as our childhoods were filled with eternal lessons that continue to this day, Karen is filling the lives of yet another generation with hope and joy. We need more of that, don’t’ we! She will always be my little sister, and my role model. I just hope I have given her one-tenth of the wonderful memories she has given me. Happy 57th Karen….I love you, and I’m not dead. Judy
Memories I didn’t have time to include in this essay,
but which deserve mentioning

Saving warm spots for each other in bed
Fighting over warm spots in bed
Learning to pin-curl our hair
Hiding fearfully under the cover, sweating, but afraid to peep out
Skating down the sidewalk in our new polka dot pajamas
Playing with dolls—did we get one? Or two?
Making doll clothes out of old sox and scraps of material
Swinging on grapevines
Making mud pies
Getting carsick on the long dusty journey over creeks and hills to see Granny and Pap
Adoring baby brother John
Idolizing Big brother Rod
Helping carry buckets of coal
Getting homemade haircuts in our horribly straight hair
Sharing a hi-fi with the others
Being together the first time Dan Goble drove up to the coal camp with his big speaker on the top of his car to announce music, rock and roll, by newcomer, Elvis Presley
Dancing in the dining room and memorizing lots of steps
Sharing clothes, beds, and friends
Lining up when the school bell rang, saying the pledge to a flag with 48 stars
Adding “under God” to the pledge
Chewing gum at school was a daring thing to do
Waling across the hot company store parking lot in the hot summer without shoes
Walking the hot railroad tracks up Granny’s without shoes
The Easter Parade and Smack the Baby
Jacks, dolls, paper dolls (we never had enough but loved everything we had!)
Riding Rod’s bike, not knowing it was his
Rod riding our bike, not knowing it was ours
Soup bean sandwiches
Being the smartest kids in school
Scooters, skates, dolls, and jacks
Being nice to John L. Capelli
Taking care of our mother and our father
Leaning on each other and our siblings, all our lives
Learning to love, to be honest, to have character, to respect others……

This is only the beginning of a beautiful story of my life with my little sister Karen, the most thoughtful sister any girl could ever have!
I love you Karen,
Judy

Cherokee Bill Performs in David, Kentucky:Myth or Reality

2009-03-31T19:36:00.008-04:00

I sincerely hope someone does a search for "Cherokee Bill" and ends up on this site. As I think back, it's hard to believe he really existed and that we were allowed, not only to go to his performances, but, especially the boys--allowed to actually participate in his show. The audience watched breathlessly--if we dared watch at all, that is.

My memories of Cherokee Bill were unharvested until I watched Gangs of New York in 2004 with my son, Tom. We discussed "Bill the Butcher's" artistry with sharp knives and the way he never missed his target. Quite a character in the screen play, then I remembered such a character from my childhood.

I flooded Tom with my unbelievable stories of the wild west, one man show that came to David for a few seasons when I was a child. All the David children went to see the dangerous tricks of Cherokee Bill. My son was skeptical since I sometimes embellish the truth to make a good story. Surely children weren't allowed to participate in or to view such dangerous acts as I described seeing on the stage of the David Movie Theater.(Yes, The Company built a small theatre for the community; so no reason to leave, right?) Anyway, Tom wrote the following note to to my siblings seeking confirmation of my wild story.

Hello All,
A viewing of the movie GANGS OF NEW YORK and a
discussion of "Bill the Butcher"'s artistry with knife
throwing, led to a memory for Mother. I stated that
the obvious exaggeration of the movie characters
abilities with knives ruined the movie for me. Mom
disagreed, saying that "Cherokee Bill" could do all
that and more. He would throw knives at boys heads,
slicing off fractions of cigarettes . Play spoons on
children's heads? He would come into town with his big
dog, school would be let out for the big show. She
says her brothers Rodney & Johnny probably got on stage with him, and Bruce
probably hung out at Bills trailer and smoked with his
buddies. "Surely Mother(Nova) didn't know he threw
knives at children" Mom(Judy) says. Though I say I
doubt there is much that went on around David that
Nanny didn't know about.
Anyway, My mother is now requesting "Cherokee Bill"
memories from her family. We look forward to hearing
from you all.
Love,
Tom

Sister Karen (who never embellishes) responded:

Yes, I do remember Cherokee Bill, and he did ALL those things. Remember him balancing a ladder or chairs on his chin? Probably Roger Waugh, Donnie Ray Mollett, Wild Bill Hammond, or Bruce, had cigarettes in their mouths cut in half with a perfect snap of Cherokee Bill's whip. He was ledengary, and all the stories Judy told you are true!
I also remember that we used to play with knives out in the yard. We would stand apart and throw at the other person's feet. If it stuck in the ground, we had to put one leg on that spot. If you fell down, you lost. I never got stuck with the knife. Did we ask permission to throw knives at each other?

Sisters Toby, Peggy, and Karen confirmed just this past weekend that Cherokee Bill strapped willing participants to a large wheel, then as it spun around, threw knives to outline the victim.

We had some colorful friends in David, didn't we? We, of course, are learning that we were also colorful. Wonder how many people from David are writing about those Bussey children. You know, "they went to Cherokee Bill shows" and their mother let them play with knives....." I wonder if Deanna Wicker, Tudy Bartley, Brenda Patton,Sue Dawson, Brenda Clay, Vivian Music, or Betty Mae Clark went to these shows. I would love to hear their stories. The rules for entertainment were never mentioned. It all seems so risky in retrospect.Just, please don't tell me Cherokee Bill was a fake.

Funny that the boys at school weren't allowed to shoot marbles "for keeps" because it was gambling. But, there were no holds barred on the Cherokee Bill show.

Hope to hear from some old David frriends,
Peace,
Judy

The Scent of Memories

2009-03-29T12:11:00.011-04:00

I just returned from a southern vacation with sister Karen at her St. Simon's Island, Georgia residence then on to brother Rod's beach house at Anna Maria Island, Florida. We three siblings enjoyed the luxurious ocean settings where everything smelled so pure. There, we reminisced about the smells we remember from our lives in David, Kentucky, our coal camp home, owned by Princess Elkhorn Coal Company Organization.David is remembered by many as a very progressive coal camp with many amenities.

We could almost smell the melted tar as we talked. Pools of the black, thick melted paste were a side benefit of having "black top" roads. We loved when they tarred the road up our hollow. In the summer, The melting wonder emerged from sides of the road onto the edge in perfect puddles for playing. We used twigs and Popsicle sticks to paint and write on the sidewalks with the sticky ink. Karen and I wondered if the large heart,with "1952" spelled out in tribute to our grandfather's death, still exists there somewhere on the broken concrete in front of the vacant hillside where our house once stood. Next time I visit David, I'll look for it.

Tar drawings rarely fade away.

Butter, lard, or bacon grease have unique smells too as when they are rubbed all over the body to help remove the tar we got all over us. Nothing would get it out of our hair, though. I can feel Mother jerking my hair and fussing as she tried to make me look "half way decent" again. I don't think she jerked Karen. Karen was too sweet. I always blamed Mother for my horrible haircuts and the gaps in my straight bangs. but maybe that was her only choice. We usually did just what we wanted to and never quit playing in tar. Mother said, "When you have six children, you let them do pretty much what they want to do". So she was liberal with our fun, but we (especially myself)got whippings for more serious things like lying, talking back, or being disrespectful to others.

We remembered Mrs. Saunders, our first grade teacher and her wonderful scent. We wondered what she wore, maybe an old-fashioned talcum? We knew it wasn't Evening In Paris cologne.

Pond's Cold Cream--mother's beauty secret, which most of us continue to use (even Rod) to this day. I yearned to grow up and someday, smooth the precious cream to my throat while looking into the mirror like my beautiful mother.

'Under the floor", the packed earthen space under our house, had a musty smell all its own. We played endless games, did "plays", found old, interesting clothes and things that were as much fun as toys, to us. We were fortunate that our house was on the hillside and required 9 steps to reach the front porch, which meant we could stand up in many spaces under the foundation. Our damp, dusky playground narrowed as it met the slope of the hillside backyard.

All the company houses were alike, and aligned in perfect rows. The number of steps up to the porch varied though--back then, they didn't level the hillside to build houses like they do today. Once we lived in a house with only 5 steps and playing "under the floor" was not nearly as adventurous as under the floor with 9 steps. We mostly crawled around and hid down there.Our hilly yards were as natural as the unmined terrain.

Uncle Otis had built a shower room under "the seventh house on the right" our primary address for most of our life in David. It's the house that had nine steps. We moved in when Uncle Otis and Aunt Ora moved to town, Prestonsburg. We considered the shower a real luxury. In the summer, Daddy showered there after work. How nice is that! Once he yelled,"Peggy, bring the Twenty-Two! Peggy ran down under the floor and shot a blacksnake that was in Daddy's shower room. We were all proud of her marksmanship and surprised that Daddy was so startled.

Mentioning Daddy's shower, brings up the smell of Lava soap. A rough grained bar that smelled terrible, but removed more of the ingrained coal dust than milder soaps. Sometimes, we had to use Lava, too. I hated it.

Daddy was a gorgeous young man and I remember how clean he was and how good he smelled on weekends when he dressed up in a starched white shirt, perfectly ironed handkerchief, suit, hat, the whole works. He smelled so good. Did he use Old Spice or Mennen After-Shave lotion? I'm sure it was one of those standards.

We remembered the smell of Daddy's lunch box, laden with coal dust and a bit of leftover lunch cake for us. Daddy's work clothes were always the last load and we remembered the smell of them sloshing in the gray scummy wash water.

We remembered the aroma of fresh strawberries we picked over the new-road hill at Quemine's old mountain home.

We remembered the odor of Daddy and Mother's cigarettes--menthol Kools and Salems, which had just been invented to soothe the throat. We learned to hand Daddy a lighted Kool when he had an black-lung or asthmatic coughing spell. Cigarettes weren't unhealthy back then--at least there was never any news that they were bad. I loved the way Mother looked when she tilted her head exhaled into the air just like the movie stars we had seen magazines and movies. Very sexy. Not so pretty was the way a cigarette would hang from her lower lip while she did the household chores. She didn't bother looking for an ashtray, but often laid her burning cigarette on a window ledge. Our white enamel window sills were always laced with burnt brown stripes.None of the Bussey children smoked, except for the occasional rebellious experiment.

Ahh, the fresh pine that Mother cut from trees in the hills, filled our house with the aroma of a forest as she nailed the branches and placed pine cones all over the book shelves and onto the front porch--with blue Christmas lights, if she had them. All our Christmas trees were real, too, but were often collateral damage, turned over during the big fight Mother and Daddy were sure to have. Christmases, even today, are not the best of Holidays for me.

We remembered Mother, always creative, picking weeds from the hill and transforming them into beautiful arrangements with the magical gold and silver aerosol paint recently invented, and finally stocked at the Company store in the early 50's. The company store itself had a smell of ceosote and oil, used to reduce the dust on the wide hardwood board flooring. Progress, I suppose. Oh yes, Mother also spray painted almost all of the few dishes we had, and even drew on the curtains with spray paint. Her creative urges just couldn't be contained, even in her suffocating environment.

Sometimes we ate lunch at the fountain and still remember the smell of those wonderful hot dogs wrapped in waxed paper and the smell of the ice-cream freezer when we dug deep to find Popsicles, Fudgesicles, "Imps", Push-ups, Creamsicles, and other frozen treats. We charged these luxuries to Daddy's check, of course, and often caused him "go in the hole" on payday, when another fight was sure to break out at home. Of course we saved all the ice cream sticks for playing in tar, etc.Some days we went home for a lunch of fried Balogna sandwiches or Pork n Beans with a cold cheese sandwich and a sweet pickle. The lunches at the fountain were special, though, and we often broke the rules to eat there.

The creeks smelled of sulphur until the Company enclosed them with huge (I guess, about 4 ft diameter) concrete tiles and covered them with earth. We observed this miraculous construction and loved playing "Banner" and making risky jumps from tile to tile. When a bigger boy was our "Banner Man", the leaps became longer and more dangerous. We had small injuries from time to time, but no one ever told us to quit playing on the tiles. We never called this game the fancy name of "Follow the Leader", but it's the same game.

The Company built us a swimming pool using coal miner labor, which earned the miners' families punch cards for free swimming. Brother Rod also worked on the pool and earned a period of free swimming for all of us. People came from all over Floyd County to swim in the David pool. It may have been the only public pool for several years. We got to meet town people, see some of our P-burg high school teachers there, and especially cute boys from Prestonsburg.Yes, we lived in a progressive coal camp and we all fell in love at one time or another at the pool.Sister Peggy was friends with Johnny Dep's mother, Betty Goble, and has a great photo of them and their friends around the David Pool.

All the Bussey children, (except Toby) became expert swimmers.Toby worked as a lifeguard, anyway, and got a perfect tan using baby oil laced with iodine,or at times with butter alone, while we swam our summers away. Baby brother Johnny could swim like a fish by age 3 and got really dark in summers. Mother let us go there alone, trusting the good lifeguards to look after us. Besides Toby, the pool hired some David athletes and qualified swimmers to help patrol the pool.

Karen and I had snow white hair that smelled of chlorine and was tinted green all summer long, every year. I don't think we had summer sandals back then and the blacktop was so hot we had to run to cross the scalding roads to get home in time for supper. The rule was supper on the table by 4:30, but no eating until Daddy was ready. Whenever he was ready, the food had to be hot. Eight to Ten of us would sit around the dining room table. There were 10 people in our house when 2 beloved nieces came to live with us for 3 years.

After supper, the girls had to clean the dining room and wash and scald the dishes. It was a hated job, but we had to get it done everyday--as we became old enough. Then we'd run outside to play "Round-Town", "Go Sheepie Go" , "Tin Can Alley", "Needles-Eye Doth Supply", jump rope, or hop-scotch, on the road in front of the house. Sometimes, we just went into the hills and played until dark--swinging grapevines, climbing trees, playing jungle girl, cowboys and Indians, or another of the endless games we loved. The rule was to be home by dark, and we were dared to make noise because Daddy would be trying to sleep for another hard day at the mines tomorrow.

Fortunately, after 1952, we had television so had some way to entertain ourselves without disturbing Daddy. We kept the volume way down.

I didn't mind going in before dark. There was a large Tulip Popular I had to pass on the way home and after dark, it cast a fearsome shadow that I had to run through to get home safely. As if the Indians lurking in the hills weren't enough to worry about. I wish someone had told me back then, that no Indian Tribe ever made their home in Kentucky. It was good hunting ground and good for forays into the settlements, but the tribes always returned to their real homes. This knowledge would have greatly alleviated my nights of fear way up my hollow in David.

In summers, at night, we were already clean from our day in the pool, of course, and from sliding on soap in the shower rooms, so I doubt we ever took a real bath in summertime. We'd come in at dark, play or read awhile, listen to music on the radio, then fall asleep in our bathing suits. Can this really be true?

I won't mention the smell of burning tires for warmth while we played outside in winter. I must stop this flooding of memories and give you a break, if you're still reading. These memories flood my heart at times and represent part of the double-edged sword of life in a small coal camp on the left fork of Middle Creek in David, Floyd County, Kentucky.

Peace,
Judy

Nova and Dawson: The Union of North and South (2)

2009-02-09T22:17:00.005-05:00

Hello Dear Reader,

My father's family migrated from Alabama to Kentucky in 1931. Alabama felt the sting of the Depression a decade before it was officially declared nation-wide in 1929. Daddy and his older brother, Otis, had worked as young teenagers in the Alabama coal mines and had picked cotton to help the family survive. Uncle Otis Bussey, not yet 20 years of age, paved the way for his family to leave Alabama in search of a better life. He found work in Kentucky at the Carr Fork mines, which also promised work to his father, my Papa Rufus Bussey, and to any of his brothers he brought to Kentucky. Otis returned to Dora, Alabama and brought the entire family and all their belongings to Kentucky.

Even though they brought Mama and Papa Bussey to Kentucky, Otis' new bride, Ora Sanford, would, from that day on, become the matriarch of the newly displaced family. Four brothers and five sisters made the trip. The older brothers worked a while at Carr Creek, then moved to the coal mining town of Wayland. Papa Bussey shoveled coal with the young men. The 16-ton song is true in that the men needed to average shoveling, by hand, 16 tons per day. Mother's brothers, who also worked in the Wayland mine, bragged on Rufus T. Bussey's work...said he "shoveled like a young man".

It was in Wayland that Dawson fell in love with my beautiful mother, Nova Hicks. He would never reach his youthful dreams of theatre life with music and dancing and good money. He hated the East Kentucky hills, but never left. He stayed and worked underground 34 years to provide for his beloved wife, Nova, and their six children.

In Wayland the men didn't earn real money. They worked in exchange for scrip. Scrip is a "temporary U.S. paper currency issued for temporary emergency use, e.g. by an occupying force" which could be traded at the company owned store. The miners were living in bondage to the Company. Mother said they were trapped.

Once again, Uncle Otis paved the way to better jobs working for Princess Elkhorn Coal Company Organization (PECCO), which promised real money in exchange for mine labor. PECCO was building a large mining operation in a remote area in Floyd County and needed men. In a highly controversial and progressive move, Uncle Otis persuaded Daddy and 5 other men from Wayland to go into the new camp.

Dirt roads had been cut, camp houses had been built--almost--there was still sawdust on the raw lumber floors in 1941, when Mother and Daddy moved in. It was just before the disruption of WWII and the young workers found pleasure and relief from their hard work on Saturday night. They played cards, drank a little, danced and enjoyed the promise of something better. Most of the miners stayed home to work during WWII to provide the vast amount of coal needed to fuel America's defense industries and the steel plants.

The community of David quickly grew into a community of more than 500 residents and also employed people from the rural farmlands. When fully developed, there was a company store, a fountain, a movie theatre, a church, a grade school, a playground, a Boy Scout cabin, a Girl Scout cabin, a Club House, where international coal buyers were entertained. PECCO built upgraded homes for the engineers and mine managers. Finally, to our delight, the company built a tennis court and swimming pool.
It was a double-edged sword. There was no need for the residents to leave the community. The adults were trapped but wanted their children to have these privileges, provided by David Francis, the benevolent president of Princess Elkhorn.

Because PECCO gave annual scholarships to the miner's children, I and several of my siblings were able to attend college. Daddy worked endlessly and mother stayed in the depressing environment to provide opportunity for their children. Mother used to say when asked why she didn't go away, "where do you go with six little children"?

Both my parents were born only 50 years after the end of the Civil War. Sentiments were--and still are--strong in Kentucky and Southern states regarding that War. Daddy was born in Alabama, a confederate state and Mother in Kentucky, a border state, Kentucky. Most of her family was Union but, there was also the “brother against brother” phenomenon.

Mother talked so often about the Civil War and the stance her family had taken. Daddy didn’t talk at all. My greatest influence was my mother and her greatest influence was her father. Her father's primary political influence was the impact of the War upon his family and the legacy of President Abraham Lincoln.

I study the significance of my parents’ cultural differences in order to understand the tragedies their union fostered. I find it important to ponder their lives.

Kentucky was an agrarian state before the war, but afterward the land had been so redistributed that few people retained the acreage critical for a farming economy. The education infrastructure, which had a promising status, was all but destroyed by the war. Many East Kentuckians opposed the mine barons who came into the area at the beginning of the 20th century, others welcomed the opportunity to make money.

The tension is still present in the coalfields 150 years later. My great-grandfather, Caleb Hicks, was a land owner and helped build schools in the remote areas. He ended up with little material wealth, but retained his high principles and values. All Mother's brothers would end up working in the mines. It was a tough choice--work for the coal barons, or go hungry.

I've often said the Depression in Alabama must have been horrible if Daddy's family came to Kentucky to find a better life working in the coal mines. The Depression was bad everywhere, but Alabama was one of the hardest hit areas. My father lived just south of Birmingham, the economic center of the state. Alabama was, by all accounts, the most economically depressed state during the 1920s.Many tenant farmers were reduced to picking cotton in exchange for molasses.

Hundreds of thousands of people, including large numbers of African Americans, migrated north. It's a sad irony to note that during the mass migration into Kentucky, hundreds of thousands of rural Kentuckians were migrating north to find work in the automobile, steel, and other related industries. There are still large Appalachian populations in both states, though many are trying to "get back home".

During early stages of the national Depression (1929-1933), both private charity and state relief were overwhelmed by the magnitude of suffering in Alabama. Families were disrupted. Poverty is relative, so it appears the Appalachian Coalfields looked good to Alabamians.

"It was the best of times. It was the worst of times".

And that’s where my life begins.

Peace,
Judy

Brown Sop

2009-02-09T21:29:00.002-05:00

Ok. This is my effort at a short blog. Ever heard of "Brown Sop"?

In our house brown-sop was a delicacy. I'm going to share Mother's secret ingredient:

After fying bacon or porkchops, or other breakfast meat, let the grease stay smoking hot. Throw in a hearty splash of black coffee. When the sizzling is done, pour the brown-sop over the meat. The delicious sop will settle to the bottom of the serving plate.To serve it to oneself, you must quickly scoop, scoop, scoop the spoon until you have brought the brown-sop to the top and can drizzle a bit over your eggs and gravy.

I have a feeling brown-sop is the poor man's version of red-eye gravy. Really, any kind of grease will do.

I just had to write this,

Peace,
Judy

Nova's Primitives: Comments from Sayed

2009-02-08T19:45:00.005-05:00

Hello everyone,

Here in Kentucky, we have just dug out of a record-breaking ice storm and things are almost back to normal. Internet is restored, cable is working, sun is shining. Yesterday, I was able to hike and enjoy the sites and serenity of the Kentucky River. Have you ever listened to the silence? Life is good.

Today, I'd like to remind you of Nova's Primitives, which are the creations of my mother, Nova Hicks Bussey, who was the daughter of Appalachian Kentucky pioneers, the wife of an East Kentucky coal miner, mother of six children, and a dreamer of better days than the harshness she came to know in the coal camp.

Today, I'm posting new Nova's and hope you enjoy seeing them.

A dear friend, Sayed, viewed the pictures and sent me this message that helps me articulate what I want you to know about Nova's art.

He said:

"I liked your mother's [Nova's Primitives] paintings...I felt she had the gift of an artist -- her paintings show so much of her essence, an ingredient for a real artist. I experienced a few times to be there in places in her paintings which I think was remarkable given her paintings are so simple."

Yes, Nova was truly an untrained primitive artist. She was painting to express, not impress. Maybe she accomplished her goal.

Thank you Sayed,
Peace,
Judy

I'm back, and Inspired

2009-01-21T12:39:00.003-05:00

Hello to all,

I'm trying to learn how to guide more people to my site and will begin posting again today.

I just returned from a 5-day trip to Birmingham, Alabama, where I spent quality, spiritual time with the Gurdjieff Group there. They always welcome my visit and the harmony resulting from our spiritual efforts provides some good energy for me to begin again.Our physical, intellectual, and emotional efforts are hard work, but pay off in "hope" for a life more honestly lived.

I will soon try to re-build a Lexington group, since steady effort is important to any progress I hope to make. Elder students from the New York Institute honored us with a visit and helped guide our efforts. I appreciate them so much.

Back to teaching today, inspired to be more "with" my students and more aware of the ideas I'm really facilitating in class.

Won't talk about the inauguration yet, but am inspired and hopeful for progress in Human Rights, worldwide.

Peace,
Judy

Quilts, Coal buckets, and Rocking Chairs

2009-01-15T10:42:00.009-05:00

Dear Reader,

The “Appalachian Museum” sign, hanging below street level, catches my eye as I wander through the hustle of downtown New York City. I am drawn several steps down to a little shop tucked underneath the bigger stores. Being from Appalachian Kentucky, I’m reminded that the mountain range of my home place also flows through New York State. It seems strange to be drawn into something mountain on my first theatre trip to the big city. The entrance is ordinary with no fancy adornment. I open the door to three small rooms filled with familiar artifacts that which stirred my memory.

The outside view of oneself is educational. I’d never seen my Appalachian culture as primitive, but as smart. We are a resourceful people who can find a use for almost everything. And things can be reused in interesting ways. Lard buckets, for example, become functional, if not pretty, chamber pots. Not everyone can afford porcelain. Problem with lard buckets is that they can make reverberating, ringing sound when splashed with liquid, especially in the middle of the night. Along another line of resourceful reasoning, I remember being told that even “scrappy tomatoes can be cut away to the firm inside and canned for a fresh meal in the winter. Why such things are perceived as primitive instead of smart nags at me. I must return to my story of the Appalachian Museum.

In a corner on a polished log table is a collection of wooden utensils. I love the small wooden coffee grinder that appears more functional that fancy with its sturdy black iron handle. I notice because I have my grandmother’s grinder, which is similar. On a table with hand-hewn wooden bowls and spoons is a solid hardwood rolling pin. Easy grip, no nonsense handles extend from both ends and they turn easily as I give the heavy pin a trial push. More weight to the wood means less elbow grease to roll out pie crust, dumplings, or biscuit dough. I treasure a similar pin that was carved by a great-grandfather at the turn of the 20th century. My newest, homemade rolling pin may also become a collector’s item some day. It was fashioned by my brother, John, from the trunk of a hardwood tree he had recently dug out his hillside farm. He had the luxury of modern electrical tools and made pins for his wife and each of his four sisters.

I see some folk art including homemade dolls, carved pull toys, and a collection of paintings. I like my mother’s primitive art better. Her work is elementary and I’m struck by the idea it could be shown in museums, like the one I’m looking at right now. Primitive art is not refined and is found in all cultures. Refined art is a different genre, I suppose.Do we want to refine the primitive nature out of an untrained artist or try to see its unpolished unreal reality?

I turn to see a traditional front porch rocking chair. Everyone has rocking chairs, don’t they? I ponder this question as I approach the chair, which is similar to those we used both on the front porch and also inside the house. Rocking in a chair is almost an art form in itself, isn’t it? There’s one way to relax and rock and watch what’s going on up and down the road, another way to rock and sing hymns or hit parade songs, or listen to the latest on an I-Pod, too. There's also a special way to rock before a warm fire as bedtime nears, and yet another way to rock the babies to sleep.

Babies like to be rocked at first in bold moves, which means the rocker will lift both feet off the floor in the beginning and push back with forward landing. The bold rocking is usually accompanied by bold singing. At our house, the singing style was ByeeOBaaabeeGotooo sleep, OoObaybeeegoootoooo sleep, sung to the tune of Amazing Grace. I have strong memories of Mother singing “don’t slam that door or I’ll give you a whipping, go get me a cigarette and a blanket right now”, also to the tune of Amazing Grace. We listened and followed each melodic order. As the bold rocking continues, the baby is comforted and begins to relax, the rocker slows down and listens for the particular nuance of sound specific to that chair—each chair is different.

The homemade chair may squeak with each forward move or the floor may groan on the back swing as the rocker pushes off again with both feet. One may hear a quiet screech as a chair arms is strained from its attachment to the chair back and its position is forced to change by the weight of the rocker, creating a sound that goes against its natural sound. A good rocker knows each sound and knows how to blend it in with the singing so the lullaby movement is consistent and predictable with no sudden unexpected sounds to disturb the baby.

The baby’s increasingly heavy eyes stay shut longer, and open ever more slowly to make sure they are still held in safe, loving arms. The rocker slows incrementally until the baby and rocker are still moving although the chair is quiet. Caregivers master the art of walking the baby to its bed and gently laying them down while maintaining a gentle version of the rhythmic dance of the rocking chair. Each chair has its own squeak that builds into a unique style of rocking. Babies must be weaned from the chair just as they had been weaned from the breast. I helped care for my grandchildren just this way, in a modern home in which the rustic rocking chair was a little out of place. I loved it.

I snap out of my reverie and pay attention to the old quilt displayed over the back of the rocking chair. The hand-stitched quilt is old and quite frayed and I wonder why on earth a better quilt wasn't selected for an exhibit right in the middle of New York City. The quilt is soft and tattered and reminds me of our quilts at home--the ones I was ashamed of when I was a girl growing up in the coal camp.

I remember Mother as more of a poet and artist at heart, never interested in domestic crafts. She always did the brutal chores she had to do to keep a family of 8-10 fed,clothed, clean, and educated. However, she much preferred a good conversation and a cigarette during her few leisure moments. I suppose she bought our quilts from the rural women who lived over the hill from us, and maybe they had also given her a few, since they all seemed to love her. The culture of the rural neighbors reminded her of own beloved parents and the richness of their simple lives.

Some of our quilts were scratchy with pure wool patches made from old coats and army blankets.They were warm, though, and when a house only has heat in the living room and none in the bedrooms, retaining the warmth is the key to making it through the winter. During the cold, wet winters, Mother would hang quilts over the door between the living room and dining room to keep whatever heat was generated moving towards the bedrooms. Usually, our windows would freeze on the inside, just as on the outside.

Now, I know Mother got up early, probably around 4 AM, stoked the fire, took down the quilt insulation, started boiling water for coffee, and the house warmed up a little she before she woke Daddy for work in the mines and us, to wake up and get ready for school. She endured the cold, as always with no complaint, as she did those early chores, and, as she told me years later, found a minute or two to have a cigarette and write a poem.

When it was really cold, we sat in the corner behind the Warm Morning coal stove eating our breakfast while we pulled on shoes and socks that had been warming there. Gravy and biscuits were standard fare. Sometimes left over cornbread took the place of the biscuits. Once in a while fried bologna was added for a special touch. At times,Mother would warm a quilt by holding it close to the coal heater, and then throw it over us to help us adjust to the day. I can feel that warm comforting heat right now.

Quilts are heavy, especially when several are stacked. People talk about how they loved a cold room with lots of heavy quilts. I wonder if that's really true, or if it was just the way it was--and we like what "was". I only know we never had blankets—such as the ones with satin borders that I yearned for.

I so identified with our old frayed quilts that I coveted the soft blankets with satin edges that a few of my "town" friends had. It was years before I would appreciate the resourcefulness of the women whose resourcefulness, work, handicraft transformed old army blankets, coats, and other clothes into the beautiful quilts we were fortunate and blessed to have.

I had never seen quilts as an art form until that day in the little "Appalachian Museum" under the street in New York City. The old frayed quilt on display was priced at $1000.00. I was astonished.

Since that day, many years ago, I have considered not using my quilts, but we use them anyway. They are truly so warm--especially my two pure velvet "patchwork" quilts that are not really quilted, but "tacked" with red yarn to a backing of red flannel. We're starting to tear some of the patchwork stitching, and I so wish I knew how to mend them. Maybe I'll learn quilting before it's too late.

My daughter took her custom made quilt to college and with her all over the US during her acting years. It's now quite ragged, but used and loved more than ever. I think her daughter will take it to college this year, too. In the 1980s a group of coal trucker wives made me a quilt of polyester—the leading fabric of the day! I bet that quilt will never wear out.

When I left the trucking company, the staff gave me a quilt that had been hand stitched by David Crafts Center Artisans. The Center is located in the very coal camp where I grew up. I recently learned that my king size "Double Wedding Band" quilt is worth $1400! I won't sell it, but am really happy for the David, Kentucky artisans who are generating a good market for their handiwork.

I've heard that some people decorate with quilts and coal buckets, but I saw enough of these items in my youth, I simply don’t see them as decor, but as functional objects. When you've carried as many buckets full of coal as we did as children—especially my brother, Rod, who was in charge of this task from the age of 7 on—the site of a coal bucket as a magazine is not particularly appealing to me. Maybe, though, those who have left Appalachia to live elsewhere might see such a memento as a possibility.

Last week in Birmingham, I was the house guest of a dear friend. There had been a sudden winter blast into the south so Betty was prepared. Being from Appalachian Tennessee, Betty did what comes naturally and laid out quilts on the top of my bed in case I got cold. Of course we had the "quilt" discussion and she showed me her collection of frayed "used" quilts. It was totally wonderful to be reminded of the beauty of a piece of my childhood that I didn't notice as a child.

Betty also pulled a black iron skillet of steaming cornbread out of the oven just as I arrived. Life is good! I wish I had been more conscious of my childhood while I was there.

As far as quilts go, I have come full circle.

*Quilt comments from my facebook friends will be posted soon.*

All in a Day's Work

2009-01-12T21:20:00.003-05:00

Dear Reader,
I came here tonight to write about my day, but had to look twice, then look again, at my Elvis of the Day photo. Hope you like my Elvis photos.

Today, my semester began and I'm teaching 2 classes. One of my sessions deals with intercultural differences and the concept of perspective. I told my class I was learning the modern language through my students and grandchildren. For example, I asked my 14 year-old grandson, Dawson, if he had any "lessons" to do? "What do you mean?", he asked. I said "homework" and he understood. One international student (From Ghana) remarked that she found it difficult to address people by their first names, especially if they were teachers, doctors, elders, etc. I totally agreed with her and credit my cultural upbringing and my respect for elders and authority figures with my persistent habit of honoring them with titles.

Most of the younger, American students, preferred and felt comfortable with first names as opposed to titles. Some authoritative people are insulted by first names, others think it's OK. So we add the element of inter-generational perspectives to the intercultural perspective.

Today, none of my students were familiar with the expression, "throw the carriage" when referring to an old fashioned typewriter function.I learned, painfully, to type well enough to please Ms. Nelva Hunt, our high school typing teacher. Actually, most of my students have taught themselves keyboarding (new term) and are pretty fast with the "hunt and peck, two- finger" style. I told them smugly, "But my fingers are on the right keys". It's a non-issue with today's students. They are on top of technological practices.

Tonight I took my class documents on a "zip" or "flash" drive. My students informed me that the current phrase is "jump" drive. I'm willing to learn and adapt my speech to others, so "jump drive" it is.

I will pass along some insights I learn as I teach my sections on perspective, intercultural communication, and other variables that influence the quality of our relationships.

I love teaching and the bottom line of my teaching philosophy is "Love them into Learning". I get excited when I feel I'm taking a student to a higher level of intellectual and social development.

I am the eternal student and willing to learn from the young ones,
Peace,
Judy

If You Want to Write: Write!

2009-01-11T10:44:00.010-05:00

Dear Reader,
Today my online essay won't be about my heritage, but about my personal goal of publishing my short stories, which are in the creative non-fiction genre. All my stories, I call them vignettes, are drawn from my history. and the lives of my pioneer ancestors. When I'm writing about my life, drawing from my own memories, I'm confident. When I'm trying to write a portrayal of Mother, for example, I am not so sure I'm capturing Nova's state of mind, as I'd like. Her married life was full of heartaches and struggle which I try to juxtapose, not only to her happy childhood, but also to her beauty, great personality, quick intelligent wit, and unfailing optimism. I've discovered that to write the heart of someone, even myself', is most challenging. Maybe I set my self up to fail since I would like to write like Silas House, my favorite contemporary Appalachian writer. I asked him a question at his last reading and his response was worth a whole writing workshop.

What about the legendary Gurney Norman! I have a first edition of Divine Rights Trip, saw his Wilgus Stories on film, starring Ned Beatty, I've read his entries in Appalachian Heritage, and have heard him read his work several times. I've even talked to Gurney at Appalachian events, but with such little confidence, I'm quite sure he won't recall me. But, then again, maybe he would.

Isn't Harriet Arnow a master? Dare we aspire to such heights?

Perfectionism is a debilitating emotion and I'm learning that I just need to be my best, discover my own voice, write from my own experiences.

I wonder if any of my 5 siblings disagree with my blog comments. I hope they will add commentary if they do. We all have unique memories and often discuss the differences. Karen Rae says that I don't lie, but I embellish. Maybe that's what a storyteller does.

One of my writing inspirations, who is always critically constructive, is my dear friend, Jawahara Saidulla, a published author who has published a novel and numerous short stories. She recently submitted her second novel to the agents and says the publishing process is painful too, but she keeps submitting work. Visit her and a list of her work at Writing Life .

At a recent reading of his play, The Hurting Part, Silas House told us that his dream, and subsequent decision, to be a writer led to a difficult journey. He is committed, though, never gave up on writing his life in a dignified, interesting manner.

Brenda Ueland, said, "So you see, imagination needs moodlein--long, inefficient, happy idling, dawdling and puttering." I believe my blogging serves this purpose. In her book, If you Want to Write Ueland describes her counsel to writers like Ernest Hemingway. She admonished those who want to be writers, that "Writers write! They don't want to write!

Here's a blurb about Ueland on Amazon:

"In her 93 remarkable years, veteran freelance writer, memoirist, and writing teacher Brenda Ueland published some six million words. She once said there were two simple rules that she followed absolutely: to tell the truth, and not do anything she didn't want to do. Such integrity both distinguishes and defines If You Want to Write, her bestselling classic that first appeared in the late 1930s and has inspired thousands to find their own creative center. As Carl Sandburg once remarked, Ueland's primer is "the best book ever written on how to write."

So, I'm writing because Brenda Ueland says I am unique and I must tell my story.

I appreciate this opportunity,
Peace,
Judy

My Mother's Name is Nova

2009-01-10T11:05:00.011-05:00

My mother's name is Nova. Today I decided to randomly upload one of Nova's Primitives and see what memories it brought to mind. The painting you see is "Life on the Creeks". She struggled to learn perspective and found pleasure at each little advance in her style. As you can see, these creeks are running uphill, but that's not the point in my mother's art.

The point is that she had dreams and memories that signified or promised a better place and time. Her childhood was somewhat blissful according to her stories. Even though they had to eat mush during the depression, she recalled it fondly. Once, when I thought Mother was dying, I spoon-fed her homemade mush just so she could enjoy the taste once more. They ate parched corn, too. But poverty is relevant, isn't it. Even with the normal heartaches like death, illness, WWI and WWII War injuries, the joy of her youth always shone through. She was an optimist and always saw the good possibilities in life.

Granny and Pap had moved from the farm on Beaver Creek to Stonecoal, just in time for Nova's birth in 1919, and baby sister Olga's birth in 1921.They were the last of 13 children . Granny, Lizabeth Gunnels Hicks, was 42 when mother was born and 44 when baby girl, Olga was born. Her age fully embarrassed the older children, who were teenagers by that time, but Pap and Granny unashamedly loved and petted those little ones and the whole family adored them. No one argued or fought in Mother's childhood home.
Pap brought them water at night, sat by their bedside during chickenpox and measles, took a mule to pick them up at school if it was snowing. He read to them regularly and also told wonderful, funny stories. When Granny tried to make them "be good" or help with the housework, he'd just flirt with Granny and say, "Let'em have some fun, Lizzie". He'd give her a big hug and she always gave in to him.

When they were little girls, my Uncle Rob, put electricity in their house, which was very special. Pap and Granny had both grown up in a log cabins where pine branches were placed in chinks in the wall and set on fire to provide light. Uncle Rob had a good job as underground miner in Wayland and prestigious position of president of the local UMWA. I still have his gavel, given to me by Aunt Olga.The Union was much needed in those days, when the mine operators weren't required to comply with safety regulations. But, that's another story.

Pap was a scholar of the Bible, as we say back home, and questioned some of the fundamentalist interpretations, much to Granny's dismay. "Be quiet, Johnny. Don't say a word in church today," she'd plea. The Old Regular Baptist Church, with its regular "dinner on the ground" was also an outlet for Granny, who probably enjoyed the socializing more than the sermon.

But Pap would always speak up when someone misinterpreted something or when he disagreed. He was "churched" (excommunicated) more than once for voicing his opinions. I believed in his assertion that there is "no burning hell" and that we should do right because it's right, not for fear of hell. Mother and I used to laugh and say, "If there is a hell, I guess we'll be there". This is a highly controversial view for most religions, so, I'm glad I learned it through my grandfather, who had more wisdom than most preachers I've ever known.

Pap's ancestors had come into from Scotland, England, and Ireland through Virginia to Kentucky, in the mid 1700s, when it was still frontier country. Before the Civil War education was emphasized in East Kentucky with records of 2 or 3,000 children being enrolled. After the war, with the total displacement of families and farms, only a few hundred were enrolled. (Johnson County Judge , John David Preston's book The Civil War in the Big Sandy is an excellent reference for true historians.) I work by memory and some of my memories are reinforced from Preston's first book.

Since so many people doubt the interest of East Kentuckians in providing education, I find it significant that Pap and a crew of men cut a six-foot path 4 miles long, through virgin timber so the children could walk to school through the forest. Pap and Granny emphasized education and scolded the boys if they stopped in the woods to chase animals or just have fun. They always obeyed Pap. He was our Abraham Lincoln, a man of honor and principle, who always stood for what was right--even if not the popular opinion. For example, Pap spoke out openly against the charges a black man faced for beating a white man who was calling him names. The man was lynched and Pap and his brother, my Uncle Jonah, never, ever recovered from the horrible emotions caused by this atrocity of justice. The last lynching (maybe this one?)in East Kentucky was in 1931. I'm proud that Pap and Uncle Jonah stood against discrimination and these heinous acts.

Pap, John A. Hicks, wrote his life and excerpts were published in Appalachian Heritage Magazine in the 1970s. That will also be a story for another day.

Nova's Primitives are true primitives according to art professors I have spoken with. Tom Whitaker, a renowned American Heritage Artist is from Magoffin County in Appalachian Kentucky. He advised me to let Mother paint in her original style, lessons would refine out the purity.Artists learn and grow, he said, by losing, then gaining something, as they are enlightened by a new style of expression.

Nova's life in the coal camps was rugged and hard. Knowing her struggles first hand, I'm always amazed to see the life, color, and optimism reflected in her art.

Thanks for reading more of my Appalachian roots.

As I go along, I will probably learn to shorten my stories.
Please share yours,
Peace,
Judy

Cornbread: For Body and Soul

2009-01-08T18:51:00.009-05:00

Today I received a card from a friend in DC. I was reminded of our conversations about cornbread.How can cornbread be a topic of conversation? Probably because we had hot cornbread on our supper table every week-day of my life, but usually biscuits on Sunday, as I remember. Mother made cornbread perfect of course, lots of bacon grease smoking hot, which made a good crust and her cornbread was thin like Daddy liked it. I remember making it a few times and Daddy complained it was "like cake", too thick and no crust. I still make it from scratch and it's never perfect, but always pretty good.

At night, we didn't have snack food like kids have today, but leftover cornbread and milk was a wonderful treat-if we had any leftover cornbread, and if we had enough "sweet" milk. Some families liked butter-milk and cornbread; we loved sweet-milk (regular whole milk) and cornbread. We knew better than to drink all the milk since Daddy expected milk in the thermos of coffee he took underground each day. One of my two brothers credits lack of milk for his shorter stature. He always smiles, though. Mother wouldn't hesitate waking us at 4:30 AM to go borrow milk from a neighbor, if there wasn't enough left for Daddy. This was a difficult charge with 6-8 children, who loved milk, living there most of the time and was a "whippin" offense. As selfish as it may seem to today's children, our father deserved the best since he labored miles under the mountain, in 36" height coal, so he burned way more calories than we did. Every day though, Daddy brought at least 1/2 of his "lunch cake" back home to those of us young ones who were eagerly waiting to open his bucket.I'm sure every child of Southern Appalachia has a cornbread story--and, I guess, a lunchbox story.

My D.C. friend, for example, is a life-long friend who has lived in D.C. since his graduation from Berea College in 1963. He grew up in Letcher County and had a life, similar to mine, but he lived in town.One of his earliest and best memories, he has often told me, was dropping by the local hotel where his mother was the cook. She would give him cornbread and milk. He was able to spend some precious time sitting on a little stool, in the hotel kitchen, eating cornbread, and being with his mother. As I listened to him over the years, this story always stood out as very significant in his childhood memories of his mother, who, sadly, died young.

I never heard of sugar in cornbread until much later in life when I'd visit restaurants who used sugar and the bread tasted more like dessert. We just roughed it with corn meal, a little flour, salt, baking powder and grease. The cornbread was better or worse depending on whether Mother had salt bacon to fry for the grease. She fried the bacon and left the grease to get smoking hot in the same black skillet in which she baked the cornbread. Daddy, of course, was treated to all the salt-bacon in a little plate set out just for him. Many times, it was the only meat on the table--thank goodness the children didn't like it.

Another time, I'll write about my baby brother, now an organic farmer in East Kentucky. He plants corn with seeds "brought forth from 1823" and grinds the corn on a stone mill in an old barn. His Wiley Branch cornbread is coarse and the best in the world. He gives most of it away to family and neighbors.

Sometimes, when I visit my daughter, or my sisters back home, I am most pleased to find leftover cornbread on the stove or a hot pone just taken out of the oven.

Cornbread memories are welcome here,

Peace,
Judy

Elvis & the Coal Miner's Daughter

2009-01-06T11:39:00.005-05:00

Today, I started thinking of Elvis and why I am still such a fan. I decided to re-release this little piece I wrote a few years ago. Imagine 1956, rock 'n roll is just beginning to arrive on the scene.I lived up a hollow in the coal camp of David, Kentucky and our only access to new music is WDOC and WPRT in Prestonsburg, Ky. Both stations had disc jockeys who use words like, "bop, bop, a loo bop" and "away we gooooo". Recorded music moved slowly in those days, so, when we could tune it in, WOWO in Fort Wayne, Indiana was always first with the new tunes. We had heard of Elvis and actually had a hi-fi and owned two 45s,"That's when your heartaches begin" and "Love me Tender". I would swoon and lie down on our fuzzy red couch and just cry. I couldn't stand up during those songs, I got so weak. One day, we heard Elvis singing outside. Everyone in the hollow ran out and there came a car with loudspeakers on top blaring "Blue Suede Shoes". It was one of the most exciting days of my life. It was Dan Goble, owner of the Strand Theatre in P-burg, advertising the new Elvis movie. As I remember, my friends and I just stood there and cried with joy. My mother, Nova, said Elvis was a good boy. He respected his mother and his moves were sexy, not sinful. So I have given my self lifetime permission to adore The King. I Hope you enjoy my posting of Elvis photos. I have a large photo of him in his gold lame suit hanging in a place of honor in my living room, alongside my serious art collection.Do any of you have a velvet Elvis? I regret not buying one when they came out-I thought they were tacky--now,I'd love to own a Velvet Elvis.

30 years ago my son, Tom, bought me a priceless Elvis collection of 45s. I have given it to Dawson, my rock star grandson. In turn, Dawson gave me an Elvis book for Christmas. Now, in my little loft apartment, Elvis hangs there looking great alongside my Ruth Bernhard, my Amado Pena, my Picasso etchings, Tibetan art--and my priceless pieces by East Kentuckian artists--Tom Whitaker, Tim Sizemore, Ann Meade, Peggy Wells, Mike Keesee--and Originals from Lexington friends , Elsie Harris & Chris Eaton. I love them all!

To the King!

Learning to Blog

2009-01-05T17:26:00.000-05:00

I've been playing with ways to show you my mother, Nova's, Primitive Art. Please bear with me as I experiment with the layout of my blog site

I hope to hear from people who grew up in Appalachian Coal Culture or another unique, isolated culture. I feel we may have many things in common. Once I did a cultural heritage assessment activity in a graduate class and was surprised to find the person most like me in terms of attitudes, values, and world view was a Nigerian, Episcopal Priest. Our work ethics, family devotion, and human rights attitudes were very compatible. Some people in the class remarked, "I don't really have a culture". Do these attitudes emerge from culture? Collectivist communities exist all over the world. I believe East Kentucky is formed primarily of collectivist versus individual values. I see myself as an individualist within a collectivist culture. Where do the common bonds come from?

My Starting Point

2009-01-03T00:23:00.004-05:00

Daddy (on left in 1958 photo made 1-2 miles underground) came to the East Kentucky Coalfields during the Great Depression. He worked as an underground coal miner for 34 years. I grew up in David Kentucky, a coal camp, in unique lifestyle that is now extinct. The Appalachian Arts and Crafts Store works with local artisans and natives to sustain remnants of the old lifestyle. The David School, located where the old sludge dam was has also revived activity in the old community and has had national recognition for its success with high-risk students.

In its hey-day, David represented a company-owned culture, within a rural Appalachian culture, and linked to a small "town" culture. I now study to learn how these concentric influences impact my life and my world view. I look at the social, economic, and political aspects of my historical influences. Daddy believed in hard work and Mother believed in education. I have pursued both. Education is one key to a higher quality of life; becoming educated was tied to hard work. My first "shock" at being Appalachian came when I heard my homeland referred to as " third world”. I was in a doctoral program at the University of Kentucky and listened defensively as I heard our cultural practices and language referred to as undeveloped and backward. My goal is to write and dignify my Appalachian roots in an insightful and honest way. I cannot ignore the hardships nor the dialect, but I also want to delve into the challenging psychological, personal and social issues of my people.