Westcoast Backroads

from FOLK issue 1 | K. Taylor | 2011

In this vastly diverse country, folk means different things in different regions. The one thing that is the same to all folks, however, is the desire to return to a simpler way of life, to enjoy a slower pace, and find joy in the journey rather than the destination. It's appreciating the process, whether it's preparing a wonderful meal for those you love, spending hours in the gardens, tending to your fresh vegetables and beautiful flowers, or shopping at your local farmer's market for the freshest meats, dairy, and produce.

Here on the west coast and probably in many other places - there are so many things that bring joy to folks. It's the smell of laundry after it has dried on the line in the sunshine, or maybe it is those long, leisurely outdoor dinners on summer evenings, surrounded by those you love. It's a picnic by the shore, searching for tiny crabs under rocks and the smell of warm blackberries growing along sandy roads mixed with the scent of salty air. It's the smell of bonfires on cool autumn days, or the sight of golden leaves gently falling as winter approaches. Whether it's the smell of lilacs in the spring, or taking in warm summer breezes, harvesting apples for crumbles and pies and cobblers, or sitting next to a warm fire on a cold winter afternoon, it's all about slowing down and connecting with the people and things around us.

I hope in this column you will find inspiration. I hope you discover what brings us together, as well as be inspired by what makes us different. What we share is this - a common desire to return to a simpler way of life. We aspire to find the things in our lives that give us comfort, or remind us of times gone by. Whether it's your favorite comfort foods slowly and lovingly prepared, or sleeping under the weight of an old quilt made by your great-grandmother years ago, we all share the love of comfort.

In this column you will read about wonderful escapes - destinations here on the west coast that are perfect for a weekend away, maybe longer. I will share some of the best places to find my favorite things: small shops, mom and pops that have been around forever; fabulous vintage flea markets, where things are repurposed and put to good use. I hope you will learn to appreciate things that have a story, that were loved before, and that hopefully you will find a place for in your own home. You will discover wonderful items that are made in America by designers that see the importance of manufacturing things here in the United States.

Most of all, I hope you find the road less traveled, wherever you are.

The Remembrencer

The Fodder of Memory

WHAT IS IT about milder nights and yellowing leaves that makes everyone slow down and take a deep breath? Fall is that time of year that I take time to honestly appreciate the little things in life. It seems that, more than any other season, Fall is responsible for many of the great memories I have of days past. I know that many people remember holidays and Summer vacations, but Fall memories are different. Fall reminds us of the togetherness we share with our families, the beauty of nature, and to slow down our busy lives to take note of all of the beautiful things that surround us.

Memories always seem to resurface during Fall, good and bad, but always more vivid than the changing leaves. Fall is a constant reminder of days long past, blue Power Ranger costumes, Fall festivals, and family togetherness. Fall is the time when family really makes the biggest impact for me, it is not about football games (though I have gone to my fair share of those). How many people can attribute their passion in life to a season? I think that I can.

Most of the things I enjoy doing, and things you will hear me write about for quite a while, have been done in the Fall. I have fond memories of cooking in the kitchen with my Nana, and watching her can apple butter and preserves that certainly do not belong in any other season. Cooking has always been a favorite hobby of mine. I love learning family recipes and introducing new ones into our collection and, since most of our dinners happen in the Fall, it always seems to happen in slow autumnal days. I have learned to make apple butter, stack cake, corn bread, biscuits, gravy, ham, yams, and most of the staples of our family dinners during the months of September and October. I have cooked dinners for my mother on her birthday, and have had dinner with all of my extended family for my cousin’s.

More than cooking with the women of my family, I am reminded of the ridiculous projects I have always given my dad during seasons past. I do not remember a time when I have not asked him to build something for me. Though he has taught me much of what I know about using power tools and making things for myself instead of buying them, I still like to have him do it instead. Sometimes the projects were elaborate, and sometimes not so much, but always there were projects.

I think that my love of decorating comes from all of these projects and not just memories I have of visiting him on contracting jobs. More of my inspiration comes from the fodder shot that he built me to read in when I was ten, or more so, the cabin. The cabin was a one- room, stilted home I asked for during the summer of my seventh birthday. My dad built it for me and after he finished during the early Fall, we both spent the night there on one Friday night. I think it may have been the only time anyone ever stayed in it, but I think it was enough to make it worth the effort. Though, dad may disagree. Other projects have come up since then, but I think that the cabin has been my biggest influence in my interest in architecture and design, and it probably always will be.

Fall has always been a friend, whether we went hiking together in the woods behind my house, watched my sister Heather sing in a hodgepodge of festivals, or watching the Halloween torch pass to a younger generation. It’s a comforting time to remember all of the times that have brought me to this place in life, and to make new memories. Whether the milder nights of Fall are spent recanting tales around a campfire, or the weekends are spent traveling, the one thing that always remains are the people who share all of the seasons with me, my family.

This Land

Story & Photography by Melissa McArdle

This story originally appeared in the Winter 2012 issue of FOLK

This is a story, a true story about our land, our hills, our rivers, our America.  It seems in today’s world, we do not connect enough with the glorious land that our country is so blessed to call home.  Often times, we all just need a little reminder to kick-start the deep love that sits nestled within our hearts for this bountiful land beneath our feet, providing food for our tables, and resources for our survival: this land we proudly salute as the United States of America.  

So imagine this, a cabin built by the hands of two settlers in the late 1930’s.  A place which never found a marker upon a map, no address, no utilities, just a place to call home a few weeks out of the year, a place far from society, and any modern conveniences that were or ever would be available.    Located in Northern California near the border of Oregon, this log cabin has been passed down from one generation to the next.  A hobby of fishing turned into a legacy of preserving and remaining one with nature.  

This story came about because a friend procured the help of another friend in restoring a deck.  What seemed a simple request turned into a list of must-do’s before actually arriving at the cabin.  By foot, one must walk 6.5 miles over mountain passes and streams in order to reach the desired destination.  Horses or mules are used to carry up to 150 pounds of food and supplies.  Once there, one arrives at what some might consider nirvana: a place of solitude surrounded by pristine nature.  A land mostly untouched still offering its magnificent gifts of sustainability in the purest form.  

The milling of a 150-year-old Douglas Fir (which had fallen in a 2008 fire) into new deck planks is how the restoration began.  Two days of laborious work rebuilding a deck which overlooks crystal clear water filled with an abundance of fish.  Water so pure, one can fill their cup and drink right there on the spot.  Imagine the stars which blanket the sky from one horizon to the next, no artificial lights to outshine the magic of the night.  Sleeping bags offer the best night’s sleep on the newly restored deck with an extended roof-line to shield from the occasional downpour that passes through from time to time.  Sounds of tree frogs, a swooshing river below, and the freshest air offered only by a remote wilderness are the elements gathered to lull one into a deep slumber. 

It is places like this that need to be cherished and remain untouched.  In a time when many do not even know where their food or materials come from, it is reassuring to connect with stories, places and people who offer the link to what America used to be: a land that was cared for, nourished and maintained in every aspect, for there was a bond between man and land, a bond of respect for the resources provided and used. Nothing was wasted and every use was carefully planned and considered in regards to the end-result.  A cause and effect for past, present and future inhabitants is a thought process which should still be upheld by one and all.  

America is full of bountiful secrets, mountains, rivers, forests and valleys that are brimming with inspiration. These gems of nature are this country’s pride and joy, and as with any precious gift, it must be handled with the utmost respect and care.  Let’s follow the lead of past generations, and learn to live as one with the land, for the roots of America is a true story worth fighting for.  

Crafting Dreams: A Poetic Journey into Quilt-Making

In the quiet realm where threads whisper and dreams unfold, the art of quilt-making takes shape. It is a journey that transcends time, weaving together fragments of stories, memories, and the very essence of the human spirit. This poetic essay embarks on a lyrical exploration of the intricate dance between hands and fabric, as a quilt blooms from the fertile soil of creativity.

In the soft glow of dawn, the quilter, a silent architect of warmth and comfort, begins her pilgrimage. The sacred space, her atelier, resonates with the hum of anticipation. Cotton, like clouds, lies in repose, waiting to be transformed into a tapestry of dreams. Each piece, a harbinger of stories, carries whispers of laughter, tears, and the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind.

The quilter's hands, weathered by time and blessed by the touch of generations past, caress the fabric. With a tender reverence, she selects hues that mirror the palette of memories - the golden warmth of summer, the azure depths of endless skies, and the muted tones of autumnal nostalgia. The pieces come alive, converging in a kaleidoscope of colors that dance like fireflies in the twilight.

Thread, an ethereal strand that binds the quilt's destiny, cradles the dreams woven into each stitch. The needle, a conductor of symphonies untold, pierces through layers, connecting the present with the echoes of yesteryears. With each gentle pull, the quilt unfolds its secrets, revealing the stories etched in the fabric's very fibers.

As the quilter navigates this sea of memories, she encounters the labyrinth of emotions stitched into the quilt. Love, like a river, flows seamlessly, creating intricate patterns that reflect the interconnectedness of hearts. Loss, a shadow that dances on the edges, is embraced by the warmth of the quilt, transforming pain into a tapestry of resilience.

The quilt, a living, breathing testament to the passage of time, takes shape like a phoenix rising from the ashes of disparate fragments. It is a patchwork of triumphs and tribulations, a reflection of the human spirit's ability to mend and persevere. The quilter, an alchemist of sentiment, stitches hope into every fold, crafting a sanctuary of solace and rejuvenation.

In the final embrace of completion, the quilt unfurls its majestic wings. It is a testament to the quiet strength of the quilter's hands, a homage to the threads of shared experiences, and an ode to the timeless tradition of quilt-making. Each square, a chapter in the story of resilience, converges into a harmonious whole - a symphony of memories, a blanket of love.

As the sun dips below the horizon, casting a palette of hues upon the quilt, it becomes a vessel of warmth, ready to cradle weary bodies and restless souls. The quilt, a living testament to the artistry of creation, now whispers tales of courage and connection. In its folds, we find not only shelter but a woven sanctuary, a vessel for dreams to rest.

In the heart of quilt-making, we discover a sacred alchemy where memories, emotions, and creativity converge. It is a poetic dance, a timeless journey that transforms the ordinary into the extraordinary. The quilt, like a celestial constellation stitched with love, invites us to wrap ourselves in the comfort of shared stories, reminding us that, in every stitch, dreams find their eternal abode.

Ponderings

an essay by Shannon Ashby | 2011

When the Old Beda Road was replaced by highway 231 North and South, a valley had to be filled in order for level construction on the new road to continue. The path of highway 231 was originally called the Buffalo Trail or Trace. Native Americans followed buffalo across the shallows of the Ohio River into Kentucky territory where hundreds of buffalo left the river, about where Frederica Street in Owensboro is today, and headed south along the same corridor year after year. The state highway department contacted my grandfather, Orville Tichenor, the landowner. They offered to build a large pond in exchange for the dirt that was needed to fill the deep gully. Sources of water at that time were scarce — no city water … just wells, cisterns and a few springs from which people and animals could drink. Water on the west end of the farm would allow cattle to graze if this small pasture and corn patch could be fenced. Fencing was too expensive, at the time, for my grandparents, but it eventually happened.

The pond was an exciting place for the Beda Community. Couples and families drove in on the large pond bank and emptied their cars for a day of swimming, picnicking and fishing. Often, farm trucks, fancy color cars and other 1940’s vehicles lined the banks. At night it was a favorite place for lovers, or ornery people, to “park” or drink liquor and beer. I never visited the pond at night, but my Papaw would walk to the top of the hill and see if he recognized any of the cars parked there. Oftentimes he would whisper their names to my grandmother.

Beda Cumberland Presbyterian Church used the pond to baptize church goers and wash away their sins into Christianity. It helped a lot because no cattle used the pond at that time and stirring the water helped keep the pond fresh as opposed to stagnant. Church members would walk or drive from the small white wooden church to the pond and the preacher would wade into the water up to his waist. He would then beckon those on the bank, waiting to be baptized, to wade to him. He’d place one arm around the new Christian and raise the other hand high toward heaven, his shirt sleeves dripping with pond water, and pray loud enough for all the gathering to hear. The new convert grabbed hold of his arm as he lowered them backward under the pond water and lifted them back to their feet. It was an inspirational moment that gave you a pacified feeling as church members sang all four stanzas of “Just as I Am, or “I Surrender All”… acapella, in four part harmony.

I remember our closest friends and family, Jerry and Wanda Allen, being baptized in that pond. The pond banks were lined with people around the shallow end. It was a place of notoriety for there were no other farm ponds as close to the highway and church as ours. I think at least one bird dog was converted there as well. Often times the family farm dog followed his master into the water only to be affectionately dunked by the minister. And so it was — the pond on our farm became a significant part of Beda’s social and spiritual life.

After the newness of the pond wore off and the church started sprinkling as a form of baptizing new members rather than immersing them, a new era began. The pond was one of my thinking spots. Mom and I lived with my grandparents for a time and my grandmother (bless her heart) could send me into the “squimmin’ mimmies” in a short period of time. Papaw, who was calm and never laid a hand on me, was totally opposite. When Mamaw got in one of her moods to convince me of my guilt, total unworthiness and to assure me that I was bound for hell, I’d slip out of the house with my Australian shepherd in tow, go around the bend, over the hill and down through the late summer corn and sage brush to the pond bank and pour out my heart to the tiny ripples created by the warm weather breeze. At that time, I was a lonely, only child, with no one to talk to; furthermore, there wasn’t anyone to talk to my Mamaw either. I think most folks were about half scared of her. I’d stretch out on the bank of the pond and listen to the warm breeze, or a slow moving car that occasionally passed. I’d stay just long enough to keep from worrying Papaw.

Twenty years later we fenced in the property and my parents built a small barn to house a flock of as many sheep as we could afford. “Pop O” found twelve ewes from Wyoming – a different breed with white faces. He paid over twenty dollars apiece for them. They grazed the fence line and kept it picked clean. They also kept the pond bank cleared and it could still be easily seen from the highway. We’d always had sheep on the big farm, but not near the pond by us. Sheep are a different kind of farm animal. They attach to their human family like pets. They are sensitive and can be scared to death if you aren’t careful.

Dogs posed a big problem to sheep. If they ever got into a herd and started running them, most ewes would fall on the ground from exhaustion. If you didn’t get them up as soon as it happened, I guess they’d lie there and die with lambs standing by their side. We had one horrible experience with Jerry Allen’s bird dog, Queen. Queenie got off the chain by her dog house and ended up in our sheep. It was mid-winter and the pond had iced over, but not too thickly. The lambs hadn’t started coming yet and the herd hadn’t been sheared. On this cold, snowy, day, Queen scared the sheep and I imagine she circled them. The whole lot ended up on the pond ice, scared, with a dog constantly barking and barking. The ice broke through and we lost every one of them. The pond was too far away from the farm house for anyone to hear Queenie barking. It was devastating to find all the sheep, their wool and lambs gone. In a brief discovery, the sheep could be tracked to the pond, their wool had caught on low branches, briars and underbrush while they tried to get away, but they couldn’t save themselves and we weren’t home to help them.

Later that evening, Jerry Allen came to see Pop O. He held his hat in his hand as he walked into our tiny kitchen. He was a dark-eyed, handsome man and a cousin of my mother. He’d come home from work and found Queenie off her chain and with some evidence that she’d been into something. Wool was tightly pulled about her collar, blood on her face and chest, and she was wet. He told us he’d heard about our sheep falling through the ice and thought Queenie was at fault. He didn’t have to come to us or admit to his dog killing our sheep, but being the man he was, he did. He had a home-owners’ insurance policy with Farm Bureau so we were partially compensated with a check for $200.00

Often, when I look into the vivid green hue of the pond, I think about all the community excitement and the sheep that were there, but that’s been nearly 60 years ago. I’ve ice skated there, all alone, enjoying the quiet…away from Mamaw. I could escape into any world and be anyone I wanted. It was a healthy escape that took me to places so far away that it would take me hours to get where I was going and hours to bring me back again. I’ve canoed and paddle-boated on that pond. It served as a background for a beautiful prom party for one of my sons. We gathered dozens of home-made lanterns filled with sand and lit candles. They cradled the pond’s shore line and gave off a magical glow in the water and on the pond bank. It cast flickering shadows in the woods as if fairies magically created it all.

We don’t allow many people to fish or swim in the pond anymore. Fishing and enjoyment are just for our children, grandchildren and other family members. I even turn people away when they ask. I’ve been known to walk to the pond and tell people to leave for there are some people who don’t ask permission. I guess that’s selfish, but times have changed and so have people.

The pond is fairly well hidden and grown up more now. Her banks are surrounded by birch, cedar, and sycamore. In the spring she becomes forty shades of green and reflects her surroundings like a huge vanity mirror. Buck bushes provide a home to red winged black birds in the summer. This time of the year, I can hear the spring peepers and see a few tadpoles that will become bull frogs. A dead snag of a tree in the water permits turtles to sun …big ones and little ones all bunched together basking in the warmth of the day. The blue gills begin their dance soon. Occasionally there will be turkey or deer tracks around the shallow side. I have one special place, between two pine trees, where I buried Abigal, my favorite cat. This pond has served her purpose well. Papaw deeded her to me when I was twenty-something, to help teach me responsibility and to appreciate her history. We care for her now, no sheep, no traffic, no diving board …just a haven for her wildlife.

Now the pond gives off the sound of the filament being cast from an adventurous family member’s reel and the occasional sound of a frisky bass breaking top water on warm summer nights. It’s time for her to rest now and let us enjoy her beauty. I have to respect her and keep her safe in the winter of her years. I enjoy seeing her every morning as I look out the front windows of our country home. She may look a little differently each day, but I can smile at her and know that we share the same secrets and the passage of time. Those things never change on Shannon’s Acres.

Always Cozy: Christmas with @keeleymckendree

Keeley McKendree (@keeleymckendree) has created a cozy cottage world that comes to life with the Christmas season and spirit.

I LIVE IN A COZY COTTAGE NESTLED OUT IN THE COUNTRY IN THE BEAUTIFUL STATE OF NORTH CAROLINA, with my husband, Nick, and our two cats, Arnold and Lenny. I’m a maker, creator, gardener, baker, and lover of all things cozy and vintage.

Gosh, there is so much I love about Christmas! At the top of my list are the cozy, warm feelings that Christmas brings, and all the time spent with family. At Christmastime, everything just seems so magical and happy. Even simple housekeeping tasks seem almost joyful by the warm, peaceful glow of the Christmas tree. The fun little activities, like baking and making crafts together, are special to my close-knit family.

I have so, so many favorites Christmas memories! When I was growing up, Thanksgiving night was the kickoff to the season. My daddy would drag in all the Christmas boxes from our storage shed and put on Christmas music. My mama, brother, and I would go to town decorating the house and putting up the tree! I also remember decorating my grandparents’ and Granny’s house for the season. They had a huge, white two-story house, and we decorated their staircase with a collection of vintage elves my MawMaw and Granny had. Every year, we’d wrap the garland around the railing and line the elves up the railing.

Those elves were my most favorite Christmas decoration ever, and still are. My mama has them now, and she sets them on her mantel in a sleigh. 

Every Christmas morning, my daddy would wake us up at about 5 am with a singing Tigger Santa -- Tigger from Winnie the Pooh, dressed up like Santa, singing “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”!  The four of us, my parents, my brother, and I, would spend Christmas morning together. Then we’d head to my grandparents’ and Granny’s house for our big extended family Christmas with a huge breakfast and lots of presents. I will never forget feeling swallowed by all the wrapping paper and toys everywhere! My MawMaw and Granny were very, very important women to me, and they have unfortunately passed away. But every year when I’m decorating my house or baking my Christmas treats, I feel them right there with me! They loved the holidays so much.

Nick and I have our own set of Christmas traditions now. Every December 23, we begin our three-day Christmas-palooza! During that day, we celebrate our little Christmas together — me, Nick, and our fur babies, Arnold and Lenny. Nick and I bake treats together, open presents, drink lots of coffee and hot chocolate, watch Christmas movies, and let our kitty babies open their gifts. They’re always far more fascinated with the paper than the toys!

On Christmas Eve, Nick’s mom makes us a yummy supper, and we open gifts and visit with family and friends. Then on Christmas Day, we wake up super-early and head to my parents’ house. My mama makes breakfast, we watch A Christmas Story, and enjoy the morning together. And of course, the family pup, Nestor, gets to open all his little gifts. Then we head to my PawPaw’s house and gather with my aunts, uncles and cousins to eat lunch, open presents and spend the afternoon together. On Christmas night, Nick and I make Christmas dinner for my parents and my brother. When everyone has left for the night, Nick and I snuggle up on the couch with our fur babies for some decaf coffee and reminisce about the wonderful day.

Over the past few years, my source of Christmas inspiration has been more of a “feeling”, as opposed to specific visual images: I like to think about old-fashioned Christmases. What would Christmas have looked like in an old country farmhouse 100 years ago? It always strikes me as something natural, simple, and cozy. Always cozy! I roll that around in my head, and just imagine how I can keep it simple. From there, I’ll use Pinterest to search for “simple Christmas” or “natural Christmas” ideas. Usually, I come across an image that inspires me, like a naked Christmas tree with just lights, against a window with a candle in it. I think about how I can recreate that look and that cozy feeling of pure happiness and calm that the image elicited.

I’m a music junkie, and Christmas music is no exception! I adore anything Elvis sings, especially his versions of “Here Comes Santa Claus” and “Silver Bells”. Oh, and I can’t leave out “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch”! I do love that! My favorite Christmas movie is another hard choice. But I’m going to have to say the original How the Grinch Stole Christmas cartoon. And my family never missed watching Rudolph or Frosty on TV. As for my favorite Christmas food, that’s an easy one! Hands down, my mama’s stuffing balls! The recipe was my MawMaw’s, and now my mama carries on the tradition.

This Christmas, despite all the difficulties this year has presented, I am hopeful that we can still celebrate with family. We all might be wearing masks and keeping our social distance, but the room will still be filled with love, happiness, and thankfulness!

Merry & Bright: Christmas with Hayes Cottage

Amy Whyte takes us inside her home filled with vintage Christmas finds and festive good cheer!

I LIVE IN LEESBURG, VIRGINIA WITH MY HUSBAND AND SON, AND OUR THREE DOGS AND NINE CHICKENS. When we first discovered our home in Leesburg, it had been abandoned for 10 years and was in very rough shape. We spent a year fixing it up and moved in 2012. It’s still a work in progress, but I love our home and it’s my favorite place to be. We also have a little cottage in the mountains not far from our home that we are in the process of restoring (@hayes.cottage).

I’ve been part of the Old Lucketts Store since we opened in 1996. At Lucketts, I spend most of my time transforming the Design House, an old farmhouse on the property, with décor and treasures both old and new. I also perform design work on the side.

I love old houses and antique furniture...basically, all things vintage! I have found joy in making spaces beautiful since I was a child. I first started collecting in earnest when I began going to local auctions for my shop. I caught the auction bug fast! There was nothing like the thrill of sorting through rows and rows of treasures at a beautiful old farm. The first thing I started collecting was vintage textiles. I am a textile junkie! Vintage cabbage rose bark cloth, Beacon blankets, old plaid wool blankets, timeworn ticking remnants, classic white pillowcases with sweet crocheted edges... these all make my heart go pitter-pat! For a while, my taste took a turn toward shades of white, but lately I’ve felt a return to my roots of all things color.

My favorite places to hunt for vintage treasures are the Old Lucketts Store and Hip and Humble Interiors in Berryville, Virginia. You never know what you are going to find at either of those places, and they are constantly bringing in fresh stocks of cool old finds at great prices! When I go hunting or picking, I like to make a day of it... I load up all three dogs in the car, hit the local country roads and shops, and try to end the day with a hike at the State Arboretum.

For Christmas, I collect old plaid wool blankets, folky farmhouses, and old toy trucks. I like to decorate for Christmas by bringing greens in from the yard. I take clippings from the pine trees and boxwood shrubs and place them over picture frames or in big bowls around the house. To me, the smell of fresh pine in my home just says Christmas. It’s so simple, and instantly transforms everyday objects into Christmas decor.

For anyone who wants to start collecting, whether at Christmastime or throughout the year, my advice is quite simple: just buy what you love. If it speaks to you, then bring it home! Fill your space with what fills you.

Personally, I don’t feel that I have a particular collecting or decorating style; I just collect what I love. I can say that I am inspired by color and nature. Right now, I’m really into shades of green and brown, and am starting to collect pieces of pottery and transferware in those shades.

My favorite memory of Christmas is a recent one – I love recalling the way we spent the holiday last year. It just didn’t seem right to let our little fixer-upper cottage sit alone on Christmas. So, we packed up a tree, a Crock Pot and a bottle of wine and headed up to the cottage for the day. We clipped branches from the yard and decorated the front door and mantel. We put lights on the tree and made a fire. We had our Crock Pot dinner in deck chairs by the fire. It was simple and quiet and peaceful -- perfect. This year we hope to do the same thing!

— @amycwhyte

Christmas will always be as long as we stand heart to heart and hand in hand.

­— Dr. Seuss

The Side Room Closet

A PIECE BY ALICE HALE ADAMS

FANNIE LEE CELEBRATED HER SIXTH BIRTHDAY IN THE WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, 1924. The excitement in the house was mirrored in her face, the joy exhibited in her inability to be still.

Her mother had spent weeks preparing for Christmas. The candy was sealed in tins, pink and white divinity, chocolate, peanut butter, and vanilla fudge, and caramels. Cookies were layered between sheets of waxed paper and a coconut cake sat waiting in the cellar.

December 21st was the day the tree was cut and brought to the house. Papa chopped off the big limbs at the base of the tree. Fannie Lee and her older brother, Wellington, helped him place the tree into a bucket filled with small rocks, dense enough to hold the tree upright and allow for watering. The window at the front of the house, far enough from the fireplace to avoid sparks, was chosen as the place to show off the Christmas tree.

Their house contained five rooms: a living room, two bedrooms, a kitchen and the side room, as well as a screened back porch. The front porch reached across the living room and front bedroom.

Mama used a little closet off the side room as a hiding place for the tins of candy and boxes of cookies. Tall shelves hid the Christmas presents that had been purchased for the children. Outside in the cellar, along with the coconut cake, Mama had wrapped apples and oranges in brown paper and tobacco leaves.

Fannie Lee was curious about hidden things. If she found herself alone in the house for a few minutes she immediately began searching for the candy and cookies she knew her Mama had made and put away for Christmas. Tiptoeing through the front bedroom, she looked in the dresser drawers and under the bed. Disappointed, she slipped into the side room, peeking behind the sideboard doors.

She rarely had more than a short time to look, but finally the day came when she wandered into the closet. Immediately, she could tell by the aroma that she had found the sweets. Listening for Mama, she picked through the tins on the shelves. Climbing into a chair, she reached as far as her arm would reach and felt the tin boxes on the top shelf.

Joy filled her heart but she had to shove the box back as she heard the back door open and slam shut. She sauntered into the kitchen, acting as innocent as a baby.

The next time Fannie Lee found herself alone she dashed into the closet, climbed on the chair, pulled down the box, opened the lid, and ate one piece of chocolate fudge. It melted in her mouth. Shivers ran down her spine.

She became braver and slipped into the closet even when she was not alone in the house. She was very quiet, scooting the chair across the floor without a sound, climbing up and getting a piece of candy. She ate a different kind each time so there would be some of each left for Christmas. But soon she could tell the box was less full and she felt afraid. She put the candy box back on the shelf, vowing not to eat another piece. Then she found the cookies.

She could hardly contain herself. She loved cookies better than anything, even better than the candy. It was hard to get them out of the wrapping without messing up the whole container but she just had to eat some. She took one of each kind, put them in her pocket, returned the container to the shelf, and went to the corner of the side room to eat them. They were glorious. 

On Christmas Eve morning, Fannie Lee began to worry about eating the candy and cookies. She knew her mother would be opening the boxes for everyone to share. Maybe it would be Christmas Day before they would eat the sweets. Would she get a whipping?

Much to her relief, Christmas Eve night came and it was time to go to bed. The cookies and candy were still on the shelf in the little closet. But with the excitement of Christmas and being nervous about eating the sweets, Fannie Lee couldn’t sleep. For a while, she cried. Then she decided she wouldn’t be in trouble since it was Christmas and she felt good and excited. It wasn’t long until she cried some more.

She pretended to be sleeping when Mama came to her bed. She didn’t move at all, although it was hard to be still.

Soon after Mama left the room she could hear soft noises coming from the direction of the Christmas tree. Could it be Santa? She just couldn’t stay in bed. She crept as quiet as a mouse across the floor to the door, which had been left slightly open. The lamp was burning in the living room, making big shadows that willowed like ghosts on the walls.

Fannie Lee was scared, but not enough to make her go back to bed.

Her heart nearly stopped when she saw her Mama hanging presents on the Christmas tree, a little truck and a bag of blocks for Wellington, and for her a blue lamp with a clear glass chimney. It was just the right size to sit on the table in her playhouse. It was perfect.

Fannie Lee didn’t think she could be any happier when, to her surprise, Mama tied a doll on the tree. It wore a blue checked dress and small black shoes and white socks. It was the most beautiful doll she had ever seen.

She watched as Mama went to the closet to get the candy and cookies. Fear gripped her chest. Mama opened the boxes. Fannie Lee heard her sigh and watched her shake her head. Mama spread the candy and cookies on white plates, set them on the table beside the tree, and covered them with a clean cloth. Then she went to bed.

Fannie Lee hurried to her bed. She stayed awake as long as she could, thinking of the doll and lamp. It only seemed like minutes before Wellington woke her up to come to see what had been left for them.

They gathered their presents from the tree, jumping up and down and squealing. Mama and Papa sat in their chairs by the fireplace, watching.

After they settled down to play with their toys, Mama passed around the plates of cookies and candy. When she handed them to Fannie Lee, she winked at her and smiled.

CHURCH IN THE WILD: JK Winders

I suppose a proper introduction is where I should start things off. My name is Joshua Winders, but most people call me J.K. I am an artist of many trades, full-time explorer, and red head with a soul. I’ve been a collector of different hobbies and interests for quite some time now, and I’ve always sought ways to combine then in unique and special ways. For well over a decade, photography has been my primary outlet and where I invest most of my creativity. However, after graduating high school and being freed from the confines of English and Creative Writing prompts and assignments, I began writing about things I actually enjoyed writing about and subsequently develop a deeper admiration for the written word. 

My latest book, Off The Beaten Path, regales some of my most treasured adventures across the dusty recesses of the high deserts, through the lush forests of the Pacific Northwest, and among the wondrous Canadian Rockies. The book also delves into the ideas of what it means to explore and discover the enlightening parts of the world and in turn within oneself. While I am very proud of all of the experiences documented in this book, I’m extremely excited to share with you a little bit from my own favorite chapter that recounts some of my first experiences among thew Grand Tetons in Western Wyoming.  

THIS ARTICLE ORIGINALLY APPEARED IN FOLK’S FALL ISSUE | ORDER HERE

THERE ARE SOME PLACES THAT ARE ALMOST TOO MAGNIFICENT, TOO BEAUTIFUL, AND TOO WONDROUS TO EXIST IN THE REAL WORLD. They are places where earth ceases to exist and heaven shines through the natural veil. These places drill into the deepest reserves of awe and wonder stored up in your soul, and creates a path for unadulterated joy and splendor to burst forth from. They are places that make you feel that just by being present, existing, and resting in their goodness makes you feel a part of the symbiotic flow of their grand scheme. The Grand Teton mountains nestled between the valley of Jackson Hole and the western border of Wyoming is one of these places.

When I was growing up, my parents had one of the walls decorated with black and white photo prints of the American west by Ansel Adams. One such photograph featured a shimmering river winding through a great open valley and a domineering, craggy, snow-capped mountain range in the distance with foreboding clouds overhead. It was a scene that, at times, made me feel uneasy because of its gargantuan and intimidating ambiance. Of course, this was at an age before I discovered how wonderful it was to feel minuscule and manhandled by the forces of nature. For a long time, I thought that this photograph was actually a painting. There was no way that this place could actually exist. It was too majestic, too striking, too grand. But it did exist, and one day I would come to call this one of my favorite places on earth.

The first time I set eyes on the Grand Tetons, I was cresting over the mountain pass to the east of the valley. Looking west beyond a road that drew my gaze straight to my destination, I saw the jagged peaks framed in front of an imperious blanket of storm clouds. I had never seen something that was equally terrifying as it was beautiful. From miles away, I could feel their gaze and hear their siren call beckoning into their dominion. That feeling lingered over me until I stood in their shadows that sprawled across the wide-open valley floor. The eleven, twelve, and thirteen-thousand-foot summits that formed the massif of the range were unobstructed by any foothills or gradients. They were standing naked and bare before me displaying full, geological prominence. All I could do was stand in humble reverence at their undressed, flawless, irreproachable glory.

Wonders such as the Grand Tetons expressively make one so aware that God is magnificent and fully unlimited in divine, creative power. When you witness great art, you feel the heart and intention of the artist. I truly believe God wanted us to experience Heavenly sensations on earth, so He gave us mountains. He gave us these incredible, exalted, awe-inspiring mountains. Countless photographers, painters, and poets have summoned at the base of the mountains to seek out their counsel of inspiration. They have spoken many truths to innumerable individuals and have granted them the vision to carry out amazing feats, create beautiful art themselves, and seek peace in a chaotic world. They are the greatest advocates for sincerity and virtue that I have come to know in this world.

The Grand Tetons are a church, the same way an art gallery or an orchestra hall can be a church. A church is not just a set of four walls, a few rows of seats, and a man behind a standing podium telling you how to live your life. Church is a place where your soul is fed and nourished. It’s a place where the body and mind can slow down and receive the goodness and blessing of a loving father. Works of art hanging in a gallery can speak that into people, music played by an orchestral ensemble can speak that into people. I like to think that there are places on earth, natural places, that God designed and created for that purpose; To speak beauty, righteousness, and truth into people’s souls and spirits. The first time I laid eyes on the majestic peaks, I cried. Not because it made me sad or emotional, but because it was true. Truth is beautiful, and beautiful things often-times make me cry. 

My mom and dad raised me with the knowledge that attending church doesn’t make you a beloved son of God. But instead knowing God and taking the time form my own, unique relationship with Him is what counts. When you know God, really know Him, you see his signature on more moments you encounter and find that He wants to meet way more often than every Sunday. Mom and dad never wanted me to limit what God could, how He could speak, and where He could be. I’ve found that the more I’m able to see God’s fingerprints on the earth, the more it helps me see the better in the entire world than the worse. It helps me see beauty when it is not obvious. It helps me know when Heaven has collided with earth. 

Heaven seems to feel a little bit closer among the Grand Tetons. I know I’m not the only one to feel this way. Many paintings, photographs, poems, and songs that have been inspired by this place echo that tactile sense. Heaven is found predominately in regions of peace. I have had the joy and the pleasure of being able to experience peace in many different places. But it had never felt more tangible than it did while I was sitting on the dew-soaked ground wrapped in a warm wool blanket sipping cowboy coffee from a tin mug as the rising sun set the mountains ablaze. Time had never felt so non-existent and the rest of the world had never felt so distant. Some people may say that peace is a choice you make, but that doesn’t feel like the case in Grand Teton. Instead, it is a mandatory part of the culture that you can’t help but feel obliged to adhere. 

Grand Teton is a place where harmony is found for those who yearn for it. It’s a place whose beauty rivals that of even St. Peter’s Basilica, the Notre Dame de Paris, or any of the most opulent, gilded cathedrals in the world. It is a sanctuary of serenity, of natural, divine artistry, and abundant grace. I can remember the feeling of worry and anxiety melting away from my being as I basked in the shade of these monumental peaks. It’s a place where I experience goodness and wonderment. The valley floors, tranquil meadows, alpine lakes, braided rivers, and the celestial mounts work in tandem to create deep-rooted connections with whoever cuts their path across them. Many have visited and many have left, but this place stays firmly imprinted on the heart like red on a rose. This is my church, and it’s a little wild like me.

When you stand on the edge of the mesa overlooking Snake River and the great peaks looming in the distance, an overwhelming experience is created. Some times you can go a find perfect solitude, and sometimes you can be standing shoulder to shoulder with dozens of tourists and other photographers. It’s a special view and one that many people have come to recognize. Thousands, if not millions of photographers, painters, and sketch artists have stood at this spot and captured the view before them. 

Who knows whether or not he was the first to capture a photograph at that spot, but he certainly set the standard for all who would follow. I wonder what that moment was like when Ansel stood at that very spot on a chilly evening in 1942 with a Hasselblad, a Karona view, or some similar tool in his possession. There was no platform, no parking lot, no information plaque, no point of reference. Just the untamed, natural wonder set in front of him. 

I wonder how long it took him to compose his shot, adjust his settings, and wait for the conditions within the frame to be just right before he clicked the shutter. I wonder if he was aware of the trail he was blazing at that moment, if he knew how many walls his iconic, monochromatic prints would hang from, or if he thought about the countless photographers that would follow in his footsteps and attempt to recreate his image.

Of course, there’s also a part of me that imagines exactly the opposite. There is a definite possibility that it was just an ordinary moment in the mountains for him. The only thing he was ever known to focus on was the visualization of the final print before an exposure was ever made. One thing is certain about Ansel Adams; he was a master of timing and discovery. I like to assume that in some way he was in tune with divine guidance. I like thinking that when God whispered a location in his ear, he was there at the perfect moment. Mr. Adams operated in an age when people created for longevity rather than a brief moment visual sensation. He captured moments so that could truly last forever. 

People have asked me regarding some of my most prized photographs, “Did you know how special this moment was?” And the answer is almost always, “No, not really.” It was just a moment where I was creating and having fun. If it was special, it was so only in an ordinary sense. It’s important to embrace the fact that behind every photograph is just a moment that is yours. Experience it, enjoy it, own it, let it be just a moment.

I thought I knew what mountains were. I thought I had seen some of the most prominent pinnacles that arose from the earth. The Grand Tetons are more than just mountains. They are methodically and wonderfully crafted effigies of the consummate partnership between nature and the divine. There was nothing that could’ve prepared for what they would be like in person; no photograph, no description, nothing that could have provided any shred of justice to their grandeur. There are some places where it is abundantly evident that God was having a good day when He crafted them into existence. The Grand Tetons are one of such places. It’s a place where every refined earthly goodness of the Heavenly Father has been poured out and displayed in a glorious exhibition.

The first time I saw the jagged peaks of the Grand Teton mountain range, they terrified me. They were so prominent, so titanic in their dominance and stature over me standing defenseless in the valley below. Wonder can be terrifying. Feeling overpowered in any way can be terrifying. But it still elevates you past your understanding and perception to a place where you can soar. Even before setting my gaze upon them, I was still terrified of them. I’ve always maintained a little bit of fear of land that I haven’t navigated. It’s mostly just the fear of the unknown and of what might exist or occur. I had built up an idea of what those incredible mountains would be like in person. They were images of incomprehensible, ominous, austere, powerful giants branded on my mind. Those images were terrifying themselves, but I was also afraid of the reality that framed those mentally fabricated pictures. I understand how irrational that may sound. But every new road is explored with a small twinge of fear. 

People are most fearful from afar. They are afraid of the foreign lands that they’ve never been to but have heard of being full of dangerous environments and evil people. They’re afraid of the treacherous mountain pass that may or may not exist between where they are and where they’re going. They’re afraid of the possibility of getting hurt more so than the pain that comes from it. Not being able to see or fully understand something is what adds layers of dread and worry. We fear God because He’s bigger than us, bigger than our capacity of understanding. We fear the wilderness because we don’t know how far it stretches beyond the horizon before yielding. 

The first edition of Off The Beaten Path is currently available on Amazon, with the second edition Hardcover coming November of this year. For more visit jkwinders.com and @jkwinders.

Enjoy the journey!

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THIS ARTICLE ORIGINALLY APPEARED IN FOLK’S FALL ISSUE | ORDER HERE

The Coming of Fall

An Essay by Ruth Barnes

The end of Summer is approaching and I don’t remember when it began. As I sit looking out of the window, watching the leaves on the huge oak tree turning colors before my eyes, my mind wanders to another time. A time when this large oak tree was just starting its new life. Oh, the stories this tree could tell. As Fall approaches, the leaves on the old oak tree are preparing for the next season. They will slowly change color, starting with a beautiful yellow, and moving on to a golden amber. When the sun’s rays hit these beautiful leaves, oh how beautiful they are. As the ]days progress and the temperature starts to fall these beautiful leaves will take flight. The wind picks up and one by one the leaves from the old oak tree sail like airplanes, gliding through the air until they reach their destination on the ground.

Often times, I feel like an old oak tree. I change with each season preparing for the next. The Fall brings cooler weather, which gives you a sense that something is in the air! A tingle of excitement, that you can’t explain. You just sense that something is different. As the long hot summer days drag out, we are ready for change, just like the old oak tree. We are ready to shed our own leaves and prepare for new. This is a time to celebrate the “Coming of Fall”.

The “Coming of Fall”, means warm scents in the air, cinnamon, nutmeg and pumpkin. The Farmers are cutting their hay in the fields, and the smell of fresh cut hay is something you will never forget. The cotton in the field down the road is green and I can see tiny buds appearing, preparing to bloom.

A plant that produces a fiber, cotton, what an amazing thing. When the cotton is in full bloom, it is beautiful. The soy bean field across the highway puts off a scent that I can’t describe, but I know it is the “Coming of Fall”.

There is a crispness in the air, it takes my breath away as I walk barefoot in the cool grass under the Old Oak Tree.

I look up to see the leaves flying around me. I watch one leaf as it slowly floats, and the wind picks it up and carries it to its resting place. Over time, the leaf will break down, and go slowly back into the ground from where it came. I step on something with my bare feet, I look down to see an acorn. I pick it up and think to myself, I am holding a new life in my hands. I gently place it back onto its resting place, where one day, a seedling will appear and the little acorn will begin a new life. This is the “Coming of Fall”.

“The Coming of Fall”, brings Festivals to life.

Oh the scents of cotton candy and corn dogs!

The County Fairs, the Barn Shows, and the Craft Festivals! There is music in the air with the sounds of laughter and craftsmen selling their wares.

The night brings bon fires, roasting hotdogs and drinking hot chocolate while sitting on a bale of hay, snuggling with the ones you love! Fall is a family time. It is a time to be thankful for family and friends.

As I look out my window at the old oak tree, I wonder, is it, “The Coming of Fall”?

Slow Living Issue Preview: The Rural Record

The following is a preview of our story with Matthew Walton of The Rural Record from FOLK’s Slow Living issue. For the full story order the issue HERE.

The Rural Way of Life

Though what we see out our back doors is different, I would assume people in rural and urban environments share much in common. We have our shared technology, educational resources, and individual goals that we’re trying to obtain. In this age, we’re connected like no other time in history. That being said, the environment does play a large part in differentiating our lives.

Those that work in the fields or with cattle and other livestock may be a bit more in-tune with the land around them. The weather is something that makes or breaks an entire crop and potentially an entire livelihood. Faith is also a big part of life around here. When you realize you can’t control nature, but see the brilliance of the way life grows from seed to harvest and calf to maturity, you have a good sense that it’s not all up to chance.

People in these parts are often hilariously depicted as a bit slow, especially in the way they talk. And while, there are some folks who do tend to draw out their conversations, I know many whose minds are racing a hundred miles an hour and are some of the most brilliant people I’ve ever encountered. Of course, there are also people who will spit out a conversation faster than a podcast on double speed. So, just like everywhere else in the world, there’s a mixture of personalities and quirks that make people special. We may not have access to every form of art and entertainment, business, restaurant experience, etc., but we have our own special blend of hospitality and hard work.

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Within These Reflections

WITHIN THESE REFLECTIONS

ESSAY + PHOTOGRAPHY: LUKE FRANCIS BIGGS

Two years as a child in Pennsylvania near Penns Creek have affected my vision ever since. We lived as a family of seven in a cinderblock hunting cabin five miles from Coburn on a dirt road, the last place on the hill, past the tunnel and truss bridge of a former rail line. While there was never a lack of movement at that age, the memories of light and space and sound from that time, in that forest, along those banks, have forever taught me to stand still. Wherever I have lived since, from Brooklyn to Philly to Wyoming, that lesson of realization in the present has allowed me find beauty everyday.

Philadelphia reminds me of Ray. We used to drive around West Philly, listening to jazz, talking about life and good coffee. His laugh and smile are incredible. He once took me to his storage unit in the Northeast where he collected old furniture to later resell. It was his ‘side hustle’, as he described it, and it was there that I found a water-damaged Degas replica that has been watching over me ever since. He sold it to me for $20. Then there’s Norma, who, when she writes an email, italicizes the whole of it. She says it reminds her of cursive. She is a continuous moment of grace and wisdom. George will be the best man in my wedding. Despite knowing that I would one day leave, he took the time to share his soul and taught me how to fly fish. Then I left. Through the countless back roads and hours spent with him, I have forever learned what is real. It is with pride that I can say that these friends are in their 60’s and 70’s. It is friendships like these that I have always based my confidence on. I’ve long felt that we are all just diamonds cutting away at one another, becoming ever more faceted as we slow down the light that surrounds us. For your refracted light and patience, I thank you all.

It seems the words hardest to find are for those we love the most. Recently, I tried to find them in a letter written to my father. There were usually two chairs in our backyard where we sat in the fading light, listening to the final gestures of squirrels and catbirds, watching the stars rise. While I always wished for words then, I only recently came to realize how few there were that would plunge beneath the placid depths of his eyes and expression to the current below. It was his silence in these moments of unspoken understanding that taught me how to care. My mother understood this silence, but her sincerity (something I’m still trying
to attain) would never allow her to keep it. She would always try to find words. She would always be willing to take time as I drove countless country lanes looking for the right combination of light and lines. She would always endure. She will always be loved.

Within these recollections lies the hope for an explanation of where I am now, some 2,000 miles away from that backyard, those country lanes and those friends, trying to leave again. Recently, I wrote in that letter to my father, that the only things I had going for me was caring and wanting to understand. Those desires and these experiences affect the interpretation of the daily as I move to stand still somewhere anew, and have become a continual reminder to “see without a camera.” They help me to see the wisdom and joy of my friends in the faces of strangers. They help me to find the silence of my father and feel the sincerity of my mother in all that surrounds me. It is the beauty of the patient unknown...It is everyday.

If We Only Knew -Veterans Day

By: Martha Passman | 2012

On a dusty shelf, in a tiny thrift store in North Georgia, sat an old gold plated glass liquor decanter.

As I traveled along my usual route through the shop, I spotted a decorative bottle resting among vintage glasses and candlesticks, $2.95!  Of course I put it in my stash of finds without a second glance.  I was already thinking about the next treasure to be found.

After a long day of picking, boxes and bags of newspaper wrapped items are usually deposited where ever space is found in my garage, until I can prepare them to be put in my shop.

Months later, while un-wrapping a couple of boxes of merchandise, I came across the decanter.  I studied its shape and speckled remains of gold and I thought how pretty it would look on a book shelf or in a collection of vintage bar finds and bottles.   As I sat there studying the bottle, I noticed a label for the first time, Kentucky Tavern – Personally Selected for Kenneth Gissonne; Rio Rita; 403 Bomb SQ 43 GRP.

I can’t describe the feeling that came over me!  Was this a gift for a person who was part of a bomb squadron?   What or who was Rio Rita?  I immediately dropped everything I was doing and headed straight for my lap top!

The first thing I researched was 403 Bomb Squadron.  Yes!  There it was, the 403rd Bomb Squadron was an active unit of the United States Air Force from 1940 to 1946.  Then later reactivated and then closed during 1961. 

It was activated in 1940, during WWII, as a long range reconnaissance squadron that operated over the mid Atlantic states and later the Newfoundland Straits and the North Atlantic shipping lanes.   In 1942, it was reassigned to Australia and flew from Australia and New Guinea and participated in the Battle of Bismarck Sea.  The squadron also flew over China and Japan performing multitudes of bombing runs.

Now I was on to something!  Next was Rio Rita!  Initially, all I could find was information on a 1927 romantic comedy musical named Rio Rita, written by Florenz Ziegfield and a 1929 movie based on the same story. The story does involve spies and secret service so I assumedsince the movie was the most popular of its day, it must have been well known.  

I finally came across copies of old newsletters that began in 1981.  Known as the 43rd Bomb Group Assn. Inc. – these men remained connected via mailed newsletters and annual meetings!  The 43rd Bomb Group, calledKEN’S MEN, consisted of four different squadrons of bombers, the 403rd being one of them!

I read through several newsletters, announcing member’s deaths, changes of addresses, comments and memories by different members, until, there it was, a small paragraph in the 32nd edition from August, 1989.

“Bryan A. Flatt, 403rd, a new member, says to tell Kenneth Gissonne, 403rd Navigator, he was on the Wewak Mission, 27, August, 1943, and had returned (to base) when Rio Rita came in for landing, shot up, no landing gear, etc.  He will be at the reunion, so see him there to talk it over.”

Ah Ha!  So the Rio Rita was a plane and Kenneth Gissonne was its Navigator!  It sounded as if they had been through an air battle!  I was excited to finally find something!  

Then in an earlier newsletter, 31st edition, dated, May 1989 I read, “On 8/23/43, mission which turned out to be a little rough. Plane was Rio Rita, Crew: Pilot, George Putnam; Co-Pilot, John Taylor; Navigator, Kenneth Gissonne; Bombardier, Phil Wolf.”  The newsletter goes on to list several crew members.  It then states:  “Damage, One KIA, three wounded, two engines shot out, nose wheel retracted, over 200 bullet holes.”

Thank goodness they were able to make it back to base!  I could not imagine the horror of being shot at, losing engines, possibly being on fire and injured and dying crew members! I found three different mentions of the air battle and subsequent crash landing in the air field, but cannot confirm the actual date.  

More research and several hours later I finally found a photo, there she was, the Rio Rita, a B24 Liberator Bomber!

After reading hours of newsletters, absorbing these veteran’s lives, I was overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude.  Over 750 men were killed serving in the 43rdGroup. These men who were teenagers and 20 year olds, left their homes, traveled to Australia and then New Guinea of all places, experienced terrible Japanese bombing runs on the island, saw native families and villages destroyed, death and suffering not only of the locals but their brother airmen as well.  They came home filled with memories they would never forget.  They came home sharing a bond of experience, hardship, pride and patriotism!  

Each newsletter included a section called Gone But Not Forgotten, listing the men who passed away since the previous newsletter, and there it was, Kenneth Gissonne passed away on March 20, 2005, as reported by his daughter.   I found a mention of his birth on an archival website, October 16, 1920.  He was 22 years old when he left for Australia and died at the age of 84.  Kenneth Gissonne flew 35 missions with one pilot, Al Putnam, and then went on to also fly missions out of the 63rd Group as well.

I thought about my own grandfather, who fought during World War One in France and my father who fought during the Korean War in Korea, and wondered what hardships they encountered, what experiences and memories traveled home with them.  

And yet, even now, during modern times, all the lives lost since 911, the sacrifices and struggles made by today’s military families, the men and women of our United States Armed Forces continue to protect our nation, our freedomsand our rights!   They make the same sacrifices today as those made decades ago and as they travel around the globe, they carry the same unwavering sense of duty andpatriotism!

The gold Kentucky Tavern Bourbon bottle will stay with me.  I have not been able to confirm when Mr. Gissonne received the gift.  Pure conjecture on my part, but I would think it was a special gift presented to him as a 50thAnniversary of his veteran service from WWII, which would mean he received it sometime in the early 1990’s.  

Over the years, I have purchased many things that included clippings or notes or dried flowers that instantly took me to another time.  These vintage and antique items that we all love to collect have a story!  They represent someone’s life, someone’s home, their taste in clothes or furniture or even liquor!  Or they may go one step further, and teach a lesson about history, brotherhood and duty!

Next time you see a memento from the past, pay homage to it, you never know what you might learn!  Past and present, I am forever humbled and grateful for the men and women of the United States Armed Forces!  Thank You!

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One Nation Under God -Veterans Day

By: Linda Burgess | 2012

Patriotism, as defined by Webster, means great love of one’s own country and loyalty to it. I learned that in my home, my school and in my church. I grew up in a home and family with a World War II veteran, my dad, and a Pearl Harbor survivor, my great uncle.  My father-in-law also served in World War II. My father-in-law also served in World War II. Several years after Dad’s death, I gained a Korean era veteran for a step-father. Yes, patriotism flourished in my home. 

Each school day began with prayer and THE Pledge of Allegiance. Pictures of patriots hung in our classrooms…George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. An American flag proudly hung from the center of the frame around the blackboard. One of the greatest honors was holding the flag while the entire class recited The Pledge. Chills still run up and down my spine as I recall those mornings in a small, rural school in western Kentucky. 

Vacation Bible school held similar places of honor as each day three people made the cut and proudly marched into the church carrying the Bible, the Christian flag or the American flag. On special occasions such as Veterans’ Day or Flag Day or Memorial Day we sang songs such as “God Bless America”, “America, the Beautiful”, or “America” after the church recited The Pledge of Allegiance. 

I often scratch my head as I wonder what happened to all of this. Why do we not see those patriots’ pictures in our classrooms? Why do school children not pledge their allegiance to our flag? Why do we not hear the stories our veterans have to share? Why do many churches not display our American and our Christian flags? The answers neither come TO me nor FROM me but the questions present themselves as fodder for thought. 

Dad never talked to me that much about his military experience. I know that he was an unbelievable marksman who declined the job of sniper. He could hit his target when shooting from the hip with a pistol. He never admitted to that being more than an accidental hit. I hunted with him on many outings where every shot brought home a bird, squirrel or rabbit. He didn’t believe in wasting ammunition. My granddad taught him that during the lean years of the Great Depression. He once ran across a plowed field, dropped to one knee and with one shot, took down a deer on the run. It was a clean shot right through the heart. I knew he never saw action once he arrived in Europe. He helped with clean up and police action. The peace agreement had been reached and signed while he was en route to France. Dad often talked of the beauty of the areas he saw, in spite of the destruction of war. He always wanted to visit Europe again but he never got that opportunity. Among other mementos of Dad, I proudly own one of his dog tags. Part of my tradition for Veterans’ Day is wearing his dog tag in honor of his service. I’m thankful he didn’t have to fight but equally thankful for his patriotic spirit that was willing to fight for our freedom and all the things that make our country great.

My great uncle rarely spoke of Pearl Harbor until after he retired. To some he was known as Doc. Others knew him as Pappy. To me he was Gussie Boy. Although Dad was the marksman, Gussie Boy taught me how to shoot. I had a brand new BB Daisy BB gun and couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. I competed with my brothers (one older and one younger) that Christmas but spent more energy fussing because I couldn’t hit the target. Gussie Boy came to my rescue. He showed me how to use the sights properly and I became a regular Annie Oakley, a name my 21 year old nephew also used on me recently. Gus also gave me my first real gun but that’s another story for another time. During those years of my childhood I didn’t grasp the magnitude of Gus’ service. On Dec. 7, 1941, he would have just been 2 months beyond his 31st birthday. That explains the nickname Pappy. He served aboard the USS Tracey, docked in the harbor that fateful Sun morning. He told of how he stood ironing his dress whites as the attack ensued. He traded his iron for his weapon and, as the saying goes, the rest is history. Along with Dad’s dog tag, I have one of Gus’ that I also wear on Veterans’ Day. That is my way of remembering my two favorite veterans on a special day as well as honoring both the U.S. Army and the U.S. Navy. 

Though I didn’t have much time to really get to know my father-in-law, one of my favorite family photos hanging over my desk is one of him in his uniform. Three WW II veterans greatly influenced my life personally and my life in general. When I began teaching sixth grade, I found it very easy to incorporate a special unit wrapped in World War II information. People such as Bill Burgess, Gus Burgess and Jamie Reid preserved our freedom and set the wheels in motion for America to become the greatest nation on Earth. Although those three men were no longer available to visit with my classes, I found others who did. Perhaps my motives were, in part, selfish, but I felt the burning desire for stories to be shared with today’s young people. My generation seems to have dropped the ball with teaching patriotism, respect for our country and to the men and women who keep us free. 

One of my favorite visitors was a woman who served as a nurse during World War II. She came to my class each year for 12 years. She brought her nurse’s uniform and joked about it not fitting. She never failed to tell about going through basic training just the same as any other soldier. My students found it interesting that a nurse carried a rifle, crawled under barbed wire and tossed grenades. “Mert” never left U.S. soil. She served at the Greenbriar Hotel which was converted to a military hospital for a time. Her duties and specific training found her working the spinal cord injury ward. She always shared the story of a big, athletic young man determined to overcome his injuries and walk. With tears and quivering voice we learned that the day came to prove he could walk but the injury to his spinal cord was too great and he could not walk. Mert said she often wonders what happened to him after he left the hospital. These stories need to be preserved and retold. They are the stories of true American heroes.

My mother remarried many years after Dad’s untimely death -another great guy and a veteran. Clark served during the Korean Conflict. Again I was blessed to have a patriot in the family. I didn’t talk to Clark about his military time but he often spoke about friends he made when he and Ben’s grandmother lived on different Army posts and of how they “took in” young soldiers and their families as they tried to make life a little more like home. That’s just the kind of spirit that makes our nation strong. 

Seeing pictures of my fathers and my great uncle send chills up and down my spine. I get emotional when I hear “The Star Spangled Banner” (when sung properly and not so stylized you don’t recognize it) or when I see a squad of veterans bear the colors in the local Christmas parade. I love listening to John Philip Sousa marches and watching fireworks on the 4th of July. I step aside when uniformed service men/women walk in my direction. I feel the need to pull over and stop along the roadside when meeting a convoy of military vehicles. I still stop and watch as military helicopters pass over my head. I secretly hope they can see that I pause to honor them in my own way. I wish I could hear Dad talk about the beauty of Germany or ask Gus more questions about Pearl Harbor. I wish I could thank Jamie and Clark for their service. Since I can’t do that, I can, hopefully pass along my love for America and my sense of respect to those who serve in the armed forces. We ARE the greatest nation and I, for one, wouldn’t live anywhere else.

SUBMIT YOUR STORIES AND ESSAYS TO EDITOR@FOLKLIFESTYLE.COM

A Conversation with Brandi Carlile

Christmas in August and a Music Crush Confirmed (or…)

Christmas Comes Early: A Magazine Writer and the Story She Will Be Telling For Years.

Liza Turner || August 2012

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She had me at “Cormac McCarthy”… or maybe “Dolly Parton”...

Oh, who am I kidding? In the most awesome movie cliché moment of my life, Brandi Carlile had me at “Hello.”

In August, I took a long lunch break – one justified with adoring phrases illogically strewn together in nervous excitement: “I love this woman. She is going to call… ME. I hope I don’t say something utterly foolish. Do I refer to her as Ms. Carlile? Her voice [insert any platitude about angels singing and/or music to my ears].” – and decided to spend the few minutes prior to my phone interview just practicing breathing…and securing my cell phone, the one I misplace about four times each day, close by my side.

You see, Brandi Carlile and Tim and Phil Hanseroth’s 2012 homage to the Seattle dairy barn-converted-into-studio production site, Bear Creek, has been on repeat in my car for months. I have been a huge fan of this Washington singer-songwriter since 2007. That year her second album The Story was released, which includes some of my favorite songs:

“Turpentine,” “Have You Ever,” and the title track. Her voice, smooth and pure and yet rich and haunting at times, stirs me. Her storytelling, descriptive of emotions we all experience, but articulated in a rare combination of beauty, intelligence, and occasional playfulness, confirms her status among those songwriting icons whose influence is apparent in her work: Kris Kristofferson, Bonnie Raitt, Johnny Cash. Her fluid positioning somewhere at the intersection of outlaw country, folk, Americana, bluegrass, and rock allows for creativity in sound and style.

I first encountered her comfortable and inviting stage presence in January 2009, at the Brown Theater concert in Louisville. Brandi remembers this concert as well because the crowd stood, entirely engaged, for two hours. Brandi seems smart and funny and simply “real” even as she and the Hanseroth twins do something pretty amazing on a stage many feet away.

When the opportunity came to interview Brandi, I exchanged multiple emails with her incredibly helpful, entirely unpretentious, press team, which brought me to my kitchen table, awaiting a call from “my” Brandi Carlile.

And the call came. A month later, my best friend Melissa and I stood outside a post-show meet-and-greet room in the basement of Nashville’s Cannery Ballroom, giant peel-and-stick guest passes adorning the shirts we spent far too much time picking out, talking to one of my idols. August and September 2012 will go down as two of my favorite months of my adult life.

And thus, I share with you bits and pieces of those conversations. Although part of me wishes you could hear the warmth, genuineness, and really damn funny, but good-spirited, sarcasm in her irrefutably distinctive voice, I can’t lie; a bigger (and without a doubt, more childish) part of me likes keeping that all to myself.

Q. What is one song, from any genre/artist, you wish you had written?

A. “Hallelujah,” by Leonard Cohen

Q. If you could perform a duet with or write a song with anyone, who would it be?

A. Dolly Parton (perform), Bernie Taupin (write).

Q. Favorite venue? Cities you’re particularly excited to visit this tour?

A. Favorite – Red Rocks; Excited to play – Beacon Theater in New York

Q. Describe a typical day when you’re on the road A. Wake up, down two cups of coffee, go for a walk with my fiancé [now wife] go explore the city we’re in, do a sound check, have dinner with the band, take a shot of whiskey, play the show, meet and greet afterward, movie on the bus with the band before bed.

Q. What are you currently reading and/or who are some of your favorite authors?

A. The Bible; Favorites – Cormac McCarthy (Outer Dark), Jon Krakauer (Into the Wild; Into Thin Air), Rob Bell (Velvet Elvis; Love Wins).

Q. How do you take your coffee?

A. Black – straight up trucker style.

Q. Favorite room in your house?

A. I’m kitchen-obsessed and particularly drawn to reds. All of my favorite kitchen tools and supplies are red.

Q. Favorite piece of art or furniture in your home?

A. Photo of Paul McCartney, taken by Linda McCartney, and given to my fiancé; piano from around 1900 that one of my best friends’ family members gave to me when I was 17. Two things that have traveled everywhere with me: a horse and a piano.

Q. What is the “Looking Out Foundation” all about? Other social issues of importance to you?

A. Growing up, I was a “fan’s fan.” I would follow people only when I loved everything about them. They had to be an activist who stood up for values I believed in. People like the Indigo Girls and Elton John set the bar high. I thought “if I ever get there, I want to give back some of the blessings I’ve been given by having this job.” The Looking Out Foundation serves to promote civil rights, environmental awareness and women’s empowerment.

Q. Describe the perfect Christmas morning. Do you consider yourself a good gift-giver?

A. God, kids, family: Waking up at my house, with my family all around, snow outside, coffee spiked with a little Bailey’s Irish whiskey, kids running everywhere. I’m an over-the-top, far-beyond-my-means gift giver. If I hear my dad say he wants a snowmobile, that’s all I can think about all year.

Q. What are some things few people know about you, but that you don’t mind sharing with us?

A. 1) I love to be humble and pious, but I drink champagne like soda pop. 2) I don’t know how to open a bottle of champagne. 3) I love to be laughed with, but hate to be laughed at. 4) I have eight animals – two chickens, a horse named Sovereign, two cats named Lanie and Blue, a Doberman pincher named Bailey and two goats named Tim and Phil.

Q. If you could have dinner with three people, living or dead, who would they be?

A. Jesus Christ, Martin Luther King, Jr., Freddie Mercury. I’d also be in a band with all three.

Q. I’ve read that when growing up, you felt ostracized by some of those in the church community. What is your relationship with the church like today?

A. The church has been a stumbling block to LGBTQ rights and there seems to be a tragic misunderstanding between those voices. I have a lingering “bad taste in my mouth,” but I personally see no contradiction between sexual orientation and religion.

Q. How do you decide the artistic direction of your videos, websites, publicity photos, CD covers?

A. We’re [Brandi and the Hanseroth twins] are heavily involved with the storyline/plot of the videos. Grammy-winner, Michelle Holme (Columbia Records) plays an important role in designing CD covers. I don’t worry about photos too much as long as they look unaltered and honest.

How do you get down from a goose

By: Greta Whitehead || Spring 2013

“Aren’t those geese beautiful?”

The geese belonged to my grandparents, Herman and Lola Render of the Walton Creek area near Centertown, Ky. Summer arrived and with it came more time at our grandparents’ home. It also meant molting season for the geese. Since geese typically molt (lose some of their feathers) during the summer, Mammie took advantage of Mother Nature’s help in harvesting feathers for new pillows. Their feathers sure made neat pillows.

My sister, Jo Carolyn Patton, and I, Greta Whitehead, lived in that neighborhood and were always at our grandparents’ home as much as possible. We had grown up around the geese but we were afraid of them. We knew that geese were sometimes used for security animals because they are so easily excited and alert you to impending danger by flapping their wings wildly and honking loudly to scare off suspected intruders. Still, we loved to find their big eggs. It was always special on Easter to have a big colored goose egg in our basket.

We were daring kids…especially me. I would make one of the geese mad just so it would chase us. The only time we were pinched by one was when we helped our grandmother hold the big geese while she plucked the feathers for her pillows.

She would turn one at a time upside down and hold it with her legs and start to work. Jo and I, as little girls, would try and hold their heads so they wouldn’t pinch her legs. We would get tired and let go a few times. Mammie would end up with black and blue legs but good, soft, fluffy pillows.

Herman Render and Lola Bennett Render, beloved Christian grandparents of our 13 brothers and sisters were near 80 when our family moved on in to Centertown. I have many good memories of Walton Creek people and the good life we had there. Though saddened by our move to town, many new adventures and memories awaited us there.

My dad, the local barber, felt it necessary to move to town so he could be close to his barber shop. Sometime in the 40’s, Dad bought an old Greyhound bus. He converted the old bus into a nice café that sat on Main St. It was quite beautiful, inside and out, with a fireplace, juke box, booth and stools at the counter. The “Blue Bus Café” became the hangout for teens, a safe place that was supervised by good honest folks who believed in their community and its future. Our parents, Raymond “Dick” Render and his loving wife, Lou, ran the café until they moved to Jeffersonville to work in the shipyards.

Times were hard and work was scarce so many families of our hometown had to move where they could find steady work. The Blue Bus closed but the stories of good times there live to this day. Other small cafés have come and gone in Centertown.

Each one had its regular customers who would enjoy a good cup of coffee and the stories shared around the table. More often than not, someone would bring up the Blue Bus Café and fond memories began to flow.

Although we missed our days at our grandparents’ farm, the Blue Bus Café occupied our time and life moved forward.

Lessons and values learned on that farm and in the Blue Bus Café never left us. Whenever I see geese I recall the fun we had helping Mammie make pillows. In reflection I can see that we were learning work and care for the family, but we just thought we were having fun. As I drive down Main St. in Centertown, my mind’s eye still sees that old Greyhound Bus that transformed to a wonderful hangout known affectionately as The Blue Bus Café…a safe place for youngsters to spend supervised time together knowing that Daddy and Momma kept a keen eye on each and every one of us.

SUBMIT YOUR STORIES AND ESSAYS TO EDITOR@FOLKLIFESTYLE.COM

A Look at Chernobyl // Barbara Arcuschin

Photographer Barbara Arcuschin submitted these eerie photos of Chernobyl.

It’s been over 32 years since the catastrophe, and less than 10 since the site was opened for tourism. The area surrounding the former power plant won’t be safe for human habitation for the next 20,000 years.

“Chernobyl is like the war of all wars. There’s nowhere to hide. Not underground, not underwater, not in the air.” 
― Svetlana Alexievich, Voices from Chernobyl

Common Thread

 

COMMON THREADS

AN ESSAY BY MELISSA MCARDLE 

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Her hands work effortlessly as she turns a skein of yarn into an afghan her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren will warm themselves with on countless occasions…a piece of crafted art, a piece of her, a blanket filled with love and memories of the selfless woman who gave her everything for her family. Whenever a loving couple commits to happily ever after, a birth is announced, or a home is new to cherish, she creates an afghan for that occasion, a keepsake that becomes an instant heirloom in our hearts and homes. It is the one gift we all look forward to receiving, and when she requests the colors of our desire, we choose with thoughtful consideration. A colorful spectrum of soft woolen fiber fills the homes of her descendents, linking us together by one common thread, her loving handiwork, her patterns...a compilation of comfort in every loop, knot and row.

The winter months are when I dust off my needles and sort through the bag of yarns, easing my fingers back into the practice of knitting. It’s a hobby which remains dormant in the sun-filled months, yet tends to warm my heart during the long dark chilled evenings of the crisper seasons. My grandmother taught me how to knit and crochet, both skills I hold dear; a family-tree connection that I am beginning to pass down to my little girl. Recalling the early days, when I was eager to learn and dreamed of being creative like my grandmother; patiently, she watched as my unskilled fingers tried over and over to grasp the yarn and produce an outcome beyond a tangled mess of string. Rhythmic movements of her hands in complete synchronicity, forming a pattern, creating a comforting gift, she could have done it all with her eyes closed. Now that I’m older, I believe I understand why she enjoys this method of crafting: One’s thoughts tend to wander in a peaceful state as the rhythm unfolds and the final outcome of the creative consistency is a practical gift filled with joy and love. Whether I’m practicing my own handwork or wrapped up in one of her gifted afghans, I am reminded of her – warm, loving and safe, an endearing way to carry her with me forever and always.

True Country

ESSAY BY: BLAKE PACK

When people dream of living in the country, I imagine they don't give much thought to the flies, pollen, grain chaff, and heat; the smell, wind, or dust. Growing up, the five-hundred head of livestock we owned consumed several tons of grain, hay, and corn each day; Let's just say not all of our dust was made of dirt. I don't know how the West was won, but I can imagine it probably conquered a few indomitable wills along the way.

I worked with these cattle in these conditions and I couldn't fathom thatthis land, this plain, was someone's romanticized dream of country life. I hated the work most. You couldn't escape the filthy combination of dust and grime, of animal and earth. When Grandpa said to be at the barn by seven, he didn't mean 0700, you were expected be there at 6:45 A.M. The cows wouldn't milk themselves at four in the morning, nor would the grain irrigate itself. The calves had to be fed, and the horses caught, all before nine if we were going to get to horse breaking.

I will admit the chore of breaking mostly fell to my Grandpa and father, but my brother and I had the privilege of holding the ropes as the colts kicked up the aforementioned dust. After several days of this repetition, the time came for my brother and me to run the horses like we were being chased by hellfire. It will never fail to amaze me how a colt in full sprint can reach back and bite his rider's shin without ever breaking stride.

I won't say it didn't have its rewards. We had our fair share of trips to the Palisades and Grand Tetons. Even if the trips required a wake-up call at five in the morning to catch horses, pack saddles, and load trailers. Six butts crammed into an extended cab '88 Chevy Dually for a two-hour drive, it wasn't ideal but it was all about the destination.

After several hours of riding, in these watercolor landscapes usually right about the time the pain from the saddle fell numb we'd return to the truck and, in reverse order, undo all the work of saddling the horses, repack, cram our butts back into the truck, and return home. Only this time, we'd stop by the first gas station we met where Dad would buy us whatever treat we wanted. At the end of our drive we'd drop the cousins and uncles off at their homes, leaving the work of unpacking to my brother, father, and me. Only when we had unpacked the horse trailer could we waddle home with our saddle-sore thighs and crawl into bed; Just to repeat it all the next day.

When people dream of living in the country, I don't imagine them giving much thought to the work and sweat that goes with a true country life, but that's just what I'll never forget.