High Mileage Hearts: Sharing Our Journey

A BABY IS BORN—2005

Pat McAlister

..., and he will be our family’s first...

Our first what, I wonder, listening to my granddaughter over telephone wires seven hundred miles apart. He won’t be the first boy, or the first grandchild, or, in my case, great-grandchild. Hmmm. The first—what?

My granddaughter finishes her sentence. Our first, she repeats, bi-racial baby.

Whoa, I think. Her tone of voice expressed excitement, as if a bi-racial baby was something our family had longed for.

Hummm. That’s right, he will be, I said, my inflection rising on the last two words, expressing, I hoped, enthusiasm. I had never thought of it. Actually Marc and Chong’s little Gabriel is a mix of Caucasian and Asian, but I knew what Erin meant: she meant a mix of Caucasian and African American which is mainly what bi-racial indicates to most Americans.

Mixed race couples are not hard to spot any more because a lot of couples fit the description. It’s newer to me I guess because I’m over 70.

These days, in malls, at amusement parks, school functions, churches, theaters, everywhere really, black and white couples are not all that unusual, their children hopping, skipping and jumping along, sliding their little hands into their parents big ones, just as children do all over the world.

One time, in Wal-Mart such a couple with their one child meandered into the aisle next to mine.

They’re everywhere now. It’s disgraceful, a voice to my right muttered and not too softly. I looked around. The person was talking to me. I looked at the bi-racial threesome and back at the speaker who, having my attention, went on with his opinion as to what was wrong with our modern world, an opinion not favorable to the innocent couple ahead. I don’t talk much to strangers in stores, but this time I turned and said, I don’t agree with you.

What? he asked. And this time I spoke right up. I don’t agree with you, I repeated in a louder voice.

I know the man was shocked. He turned away from me and walked on. I, who am not overly brave, had spoken up to a bigot probably for the first time in my life. And I felt fine about it. Maybe someone, someday will do something of the sort for Erin and Rich and Max.

I haven’t seen Max yet. His pictures show a beautiful tiny baby, five and a half weeks early who spent some extra time in the hospital. He has black hair and big, intense brown eyes. When I talk to Erin on the phone, I usually can hear his baby sounds in the background, so sweet. I won’t live long enough to see him and his little girl cousin, born four months earlier, grow up, but I’m grateful to be looking forward to seeing them together in a couple of weeks when Erin and her family come for a visit. We’re hoping the young couple will get married, and maybe they will. For now anyway Max has the love of both parents and lots of grandparents and about thirty aunts, uncles and cousins on both sides.

Maybe it all won’t be smooth sailing—whose life is after all. It will be interesting to see what the three of them can make of life together. I hope I can look through a peephole in a cloud somewhere (hopefully not up through flames), and check out what is going on with our family’s little kids, and our half-grown kids, and our young adults, as well as my own getting-older baby boomers.

Soon though, I’ll get to hold in my arms this family’s first bi-racial baby. I’m a lucky woman.

A CHRISTMAS MEMORY

Mary Johnson

Photo first published in The Times-Mail Dec. 24, 1974

Elizabeth F. Bebe Hackney straightens a

Candy stick lightpole on her 1974 Christmas candy village

On Christmas Eve my grandmother’s home was a place of candy and secrets, a place where adults prepared to make fudge and divinity, and sometimes stopped talking abruptly when I walked into the room.

There were new things in the lumbering old house not the least of which was a huge turkey who sat thawing in a red rimed white enamel dish pan on the back porch.

The card table in the living room was covered with rolls of ribbons, stacks of bright papers and Scotch tape.

It seemed my mother, Mary Hackney Johnson, and my aunt, Elizabeth Bebe Hackney were always having to go run back to town to get something else they decided they needed at the last minute.

Come on let’s go. We don’t have much time. They’ll close early on Christmas Eve, Bebe said to mom.

Hey if you’ll run me by the drug store I’ll get a box of chocolates, mom answered. Coats buttoned, scarves tied under their chins, purses in their gloved hands, off they went in Bebe’s old Chevy through the early darkness of late December.

My grandmother and I sat watching the black and white television. But I spent more time looking at the 10 foot high cedar tree that dominated the bookcase corner of the living room.

The evergreen was encrusted with half a century of Yule decorations—spun glass fruit—grapes, pineapples, strawberries, clear glass balls banded in red, green and white strips and a dozen strands of red, blue, gold and green lights each beaming within its own star-shaped metal reflector, each turning its bough red or blue or gold or greener.

Four small metal bells, each with its own glass clapper, hung low on the branches so the younger grandkids could ring them. I’m sure they hoped that would keep our curious fingers away from the giant turquoise and magenta glass balls and other fragile treasures that hung higher up and had somehow managed to survive decades of kids and grandkids.

Like the grandkids, over the years the number of decorations had snowballed.

Mom was in love with Christmas. Each fall when the weather got cold she would haul out her craft materials and began making Christmas ornaments. At first she decorated white Styrofoam balls with pinned on sequins, beads and glued on glitter. Then came her elf phase. She began cutting out and gluing together small elves using felt—pink for faces, red, green and black for costumes. Each elf had white pom poms on his hat and shoes. Mom would glue each to his own spun glass ball. Then using pink pipe cleaners, she created long lean elves, dressed them in felt and affixed their pointy toed felt shoes to Popsicle sticks. She glued the bottom of the sticks to a wooden clip clothes pin. Soon elves were skiing down branches all over our Christmas tree.

When she finally experienced elf overload, she crafted miniature Christmas scenes inside egg shells. While Mom made ornaments, Bebe gathered materials and made plans for her annual Christmas Candy House. Her first attempt produced a modest gingerbread cottage with a green gumdrop vine climbing the front of the house. But Bebe was the Frank Lloyd Wright of Christmas candy house construction. She made entire candy villages. Sometimes there were log houses made of Tootsie Rolls. One year she made a two story candy doll house, bricked up the exterior with butterscotch squares and plumbed the bath with marzipan fixtures including a lavatory, tub and commode.

One year she duplicated downtown Orleans in candy using red hots to replicate the Orleans bandstand.

On Christmas afternoon we grandchildren consumed her creations leaving shards of shattered peppermint stick light poles and hunks of white snow icing everywhere.

My grandmother watched the wrecking crew, contentedly from her old rocker.

Grace Truman Fidler Hackney always took things in stride.

The first Christmas I tried to hang up my stocking, I had decided to use one of my red knee-highs. None of those Buster Brown anklets for me. I correctly reasoned—bigger sock, more goodies.

I knew there was a hammer and a jar of nails under the kitchen sink, but I had never seen stockings hung anywhere but over the fireplace and there was no fireplace in my grandmother’s home. Then the woodwork around the door facing between the living room and dining room caught my eye. I gathered my tools, one of my socks and was taking aim with the hammer when my grandmother appeared in the door way.

Where’s your other stocking? she asked calmly.

Upstairs.

Go get it, she commanded.

When I came back with it, she had a large safety pin. She pinned both knee highs together at the top, then suggested I simply drape both socks, saddle bag style over the arm of her rocking chair.

Hang up two? I asked my smile widening.

Why not? she asked heading back into her kitchen with her hammer and her jar of nails, leaving her greedy granddaughter elated and her living room woodwork in tact.

THE HOMEPLACE

Mary Johnson

The old trees stand sentry

But gone are the gentry

Of the house that once was a home

Moved to dirt habitation

Left to ruination

The dwelling standing alone

This abode may abide

The vacuum inside

But the void sucks the life out me

I remember I grieve

Why’d they all have to leave

Only echoes of what used to be

And what do they see

Do they check up on me

Is the afterlife joyous and free

Do they laugh, dance and sing

Do they know everything

What was, what now is, what shall be

Do they say what’s ahead

Is nothing to dread

But homecoming for still living kin

Then one of these days

I’ll join in their play

When I can climb out of my skin

A PIECE OF MY FAMILY HISTORY

Deirth Holler

Sherry Deirth

Deirth Holler

In July 2004, I escaped the insanity of Indiana and went to visit my aunt, Moose, who lives in Johnson City, Tennessee. As my car traveled the familiar Interstate in a southeastwardly direction, I anticipated my arrival in those beautiful Appalachian Mountains. I don’t think I will ever tire of the sight.

Like the many trees that cover those mountains, my roots are planted there just as deeply. I feel it every time I visit, every time I hear that strong southern drawl native to the people who live there (and slightly evident in my own speech) and I feel the connection every time I stand and look at what used to be the entrance into Deirth Holler.

The story of my ancestors is sketchy at best. Only bits and pieces were handed down from former generations. No one seemed to think it important enough to keep a written record; I guess they didn’t know that years later someone would be interested in the story. But what follows is popular Deirth family lore.

William Deirth, a German immigrant, came to the United States sometime during the later part of the 19th century. He was accompanied on the journey by his older sister. William first set foot on North American soil in Georgia. I have been unable to determine his exact age at the time of his arrival in the states. It is assumed that he was quite young at the time since no one can remember him speaking with a strong German accent. There is no family recollection as to what happened to his sister, either. A miner by trade, William worked his way through Georgia and into Tennessee.

Julia (Julie) Rachel David was a fourteen-year-old girl when she met and married the 38-year-old German, William Deirth, in Sunbright, Tennessee in 1903. Together, they traveled from mining town to mining town as one coal mine was exhausted of its resource and another geared for production. During these years the couple had ten children, four dying in infancy. The remaining six children spent their early childhood traveling likewise from mining camp to mining camp, living in tent houses, never taking root in one place for any great length of time.

Julia decided that it was time she, William, and their six children take root somewhere. She was tired of living in mining camps and longed for a place to call home. They packed all of their belongings in a covered wagon and made their way to Lee County, Virginia, not far from the Tennessee state border. There, William purchased 30 acres of mountain land and the Deirth family finally had a home. William built a small, plain, three-room box house with a huge split fireplace and a long, high front porch that flanked the front of the house. Their piece of land on that Appalachian Mountain became known as Deirth Holler. It is still referred to as such regionally and sports the name officially on the geological maps of the area.

The Deirth family finally had a place to call home and it was here that my father and his siblings were born and raised. I used to sit for hours and listen to the stories about growing up in Deirth Holler. I could tell by the sweet look in their eyes that remembering often brings, that their harsh life of poverty had moments of pure joy. How I wish I could go back in time and witness first hand a happy day in their life.

No Deirth has lived in Deirth Holler for many years. In the 1970s, the land was sold to a strip mining company who took the coal buried deep in that mountain’s earth. While the look of the land was forever changed, the memories of those who lived there remain unaltered.

TO US, ALL THINGS

Sherry Deirth

We gather,

Creative minds seeking guidance From the one who stands before us, Holding knowledge in her hands.

Our teacher.

We listen

To the instructions and advice, Our goal to feel success within. Through words of encouragement,

Our inspiration.

We discover

In her a struggling writer, Understanding when words won’t come And re-writes that never end.

Our kindred spirit.

We promise

To hold on to what we have learned, To meet again and share new work With the pilot of this journey.

Our friend.

This poem was written for the most awesome English instructor on the planet, Dr. Kay Collins. From the very first story I submitted in English Composition I, she encouraged me to write. I thank her for challenging me to work hard to make my writing better.

A PLACE AT THE TABLE

Pat McAlister

A place was left at the table, which I was given. I was seven, the only child in the room at that time among the giants of my life, the seven or eight big, sweaty men out of the hayfield for noon dinner.

In front of us loomed stacks of hot biscuits, platters of hot ham, fried chicken, huge round blue crocks of steaming corn, green beans, mashed potatoes, sweet butter, homemade jellies, vinegar cucumbers and onions, and pies. Such pies they were, oozing purple berry juice, or sugary apples along the edges of rich, brown, crimped crust.

To watch those men eat! And eat. And eat. More food than anyone’s belly could surely hold. And they drank gallons of sugar-sweet iced tea, the great pitchers and jars sweating cold beads of water in the heat.

It was work time, too, for the women in their hand-sewn dresses, fanning themselves with flapping aprons bringing more and then more to the big, sunbrowned sweat-drenched men. Men with hay wisps in their hair and rolled shirt cuffs. Men with tanned faces and white foreheads where feed-store hats kept off the summer sun.

Then, one by one those giants leaned against the high-backed chairs, proclaiming the virtues of the food they’d been served before pushing back to find themselves shady spots on the living room floor, or under the leafy trees in the yard, where they stretched out for awhile before it was time to go back into the field.

A SUMMER RAIN

Sherry Deirth

The summer day was hot and steamy. The leaves on the trees had curled up, their pale green undersides begging for a drop of rain. A small bead of sweat slid down my forehead and stung my eye. As I blinked it away I asked, Is it raining yet, Mom?

Nope, but it’s a fxin’ to, Mom replied as she looked out our kitchen window, drying her hands ion a dishtowel. My sister and I stood by the kitchen door anxiously waiting for those first rain drops to splatter in the dry, dusty dirt by the front porch steps. I looked heavenward and prayed, God, please let it be a good rain. God didn’t disappoint me!

The rain came pouring down, sounding like buckets full being tossed against our windows. My sister and I grabbed the soap and shampoo and ran, slipping and sliding in the mud and wet grass, to the back yard. Once we reached our destination, we threw off our clothes and stood under the eave of the house where the rain sliding down the metal roof provided our make-shift shower. We soaped and shampooed ourselves quickly, never knowing just how long this summer rain would last. We spun around the backyard, dancing in wide circles, letting the rain wash away the soapy lather.

As a child, that was one of my favorite ways to ease the heat of a summer day. I felt carefree, alive, invigorated...all characteristics of youth, I guess. But maybe not so.

I’ll fast forward in my life 30+ years to the summer of 2004. On a return trip from the grocery store one hot July afternoon, my mother commented that the leaves were begging for rain. She was right. No sooner had I opened the trunk of my car when I felt the first drops plop on my forehead. Then another and another and another. I scrambled to get the groceries in the house and at the end of my efforts was drenched. As I stood in the kitchen dripping water on the floor, I told my mother I was going outside for a while. She looked at me like I was crazy and said, You do know it’s rainin’ out there, don’t you? I just looked at her and laughed as I headed back out the kitchen door. The pressure of the falling rain stung my cheeks as I danced around the front yard, waving my arms in big circles. Any passing neighbor might have thought I’d lost my mind, but just the opposite was true. I had lost nothing but instead found a part of me that had been missing...that carefree, alive, invigorated part of me that could enjoy something so simple as a summer rain. And I don’t ever intend to lose that again.

LEGACY OF YOUTH

Sherry Deirth

Spry, running youth

Surrounded by laughter.

Sheltered, some allege,

From the bitterness of life.

Rush through the door,

Adventures to reveal.

Halted in anger

By voices devoid of love.

Rejected youth

Seeks laughter no more.

Locked tightly insides,

The dreams of absent childhood.

Internal death,

Empty relic remains.

Too soon youth becomes

Spiritless man of the world.

A WEAPON THAT KILLS

Sherry Deirth

A swift sword that slices

Do we cower in fear?

Its silver blade swishing

Flies by your ear.

A hard, cold knife that cuts

Until it reaches the bone.

A severe puncture wound

Too close to home.

A frigid gun that fires

A bullet in the back.

Touch and go for a while;

We never crack.

But the weapon that kills

The most painful is heard.

Penetrating the heart,

Death by a word.

A THUD IN THE NIGHT

Helen Guthrie

The story I’m going to tell you seems like it happened only yesterday. Here it is..

Our supper hour was over and the house was quiet because the boys were in bed. Arthur was five years old and Scott was just a baby. My husband, Harold, had decided to call it a day and just relax for the rest of the evening. He sat down on the couch and said, I believe I will take off my shoes and socks and get comfortable.

I said, Okay, but I think I will go out on the porch and get a breath of fresh air.

It was dark outside, but it was a peaceful, balmy evening. The wind was softly blowing and I could hear the gentle stirring of the leaves. The night air was warm enough that one did not need a wrap.

Harold watched as I opened the screen door, stepped onto the porch, and closed the door behind me. Just as the door slammed shut and I had taken the three or four steps to the edge of the porch, I heard a thud behind me. I KNEW, I KNEW, I KNEW. I am not a physic, but I knew exactly what that thud was.

Our porch door had a ledge over it, and a snake had slithered up there to curl up and go to sleep. When I slammed the door shut, it caused the snake to fall off the ledge. Very softly, I could only breathe one word: Harold.

My husband knew exactly what had happened. He still had his shoes on and was at the door in seconds. I was frozen in fear at the edge of the porch.

Harold stepped out the door and right onto the snake. He reached back around the door frame, flipped on the porch light, then calmly reached down and picked up the snake. It was a huge black snake. As he lifted it up, it reached to shoulder height. Harold was six feet tall and still the tail of that snake dragged the floor of the porch. With a quick flick of his wrist, Harold flung the snake against the edge of the porch and killed it.

I looked at my husband and with a quivering voice asked, Harold, how did you know that I needed you?

He lovingly looked at me and replied, Honey, I heard you say, ‘Harold,’ and I could tell by the tone of your voice that you were scared and that you needed me.

I have always loved my husband very much, but that night I knew that somehow my heart found room to love him even more.

TO A LOVED ONE

Helen Guthrie

Most flowers are just tiny things—

But they remind me so much of you,

And all the little things you did for me,

That made my life so full and so pleasurable, too.

And you loved me.

Large flowers remind me of you—

Of all the blessings you brought to me,

Of all the love and goodness and serenity,

Of yourself that I always knew you to be.

And you loved me.

If one could have changed their life around,

And if one could have foretold the future,

Would one have changed their life for something else they found?

I doubt if I would have changed a thing, for sure,

For I loved you.

BECAUSE HE IS

Helen Guthrie

Well, hoity-toity,

Says the bird on the line,

You got your life,

And I got mine.

So what are you going to do?

Says the sprightly little thing.

Are you going go out

And do a little swing

In that great big tree

Sitting on the hill?

Because if you do,

You will take a big spill.

I’ll tell you one thing

You had better not do,

That’s to try to tell God,

A little thing or two.

You don’t do that to GOD,

He’s got a mighty big arm.

He’s just nice enough,

For you to come to no harm.

A VERY SPECIAL LAMP

Beverly J. Dalton

Around 1962, my dad and I were driving around in his truck to pick up a vehicle that needed to have a glass windshield replaced. Dad owned and operated Charlie’s Glass Shop on 22nd Street, between H and I in Bedford, Indiana. He was very good at it too. As we passed the alley behind the gas company, I said, Look at that old fashioned light post! He chalked up the truck, nearly sending me through the windshield. He said, We ought to have that. And just like that, he jumped out of the truck, his long legs bobbing like a scare crow, gathered up the lamp and put it in the back of his pickup truck. We continued our bumpy journey, picked up the car, and I drove it back to the garage.

Several days later, dad said, I’ve got the lamp all fixed up and in the garage. The glass was all sparkling and clear, just like magic. I really thought he was going to give it to me; but it was not to be. And I, in my shyness and pride, would not ask for the lamp. He eventually brought it home where it languished for 18 years in an upstairs closet.

My dad passed away in 1967 after a battle with cancer. Mom left things as they were for years. Even Dads suits were still in the closet