Betty

Columbus, Ohio

Appalachian Sprung . . .

By Betty Garrett Deeds Former Citizen-Journal Feature Writer

(From the January '04 issue)

Dr. Atkins' W-h-a-t?? Just pass the vittles, please!

Beat us. We had always thought we were poor, but didn't take it personally since nearly

everyone around us was poor too.

There may very well be people in Appalachia today who are follow-ing the famous Dr. Atkins diet - indulging in the expensive high-protein plan comprised of all the meats you can eat, cheeses, even butter and fats, virtually anything except carbohydrates and sugars - but those folks need enough money to live high off the hawg (even the cow) to follow it.

The traditional Down Home diet of greens, beans (pinto and navy) and 'taters augmented with plenty of starchy side dishes (say, homemade egg noodles), biscuits, cornbread, yeast bread, gravies and countless varieties of pies and cakes (that we were lucky to afford but could clog the cardiac arteries of a bear) are not included in the Atkins plan.

Born in 1936 during the Depression, I was well acquainted with the Down Home diet while living in southern Ohio (New Boston) with my maternal grandparents, Frank and Lula White. They owned their own house in that little steel mill town, but no land beyond our small yard, where Mamaw worked miracles with tomatoes and lettuce and yards of climbing roses.

Dr. Atkins would have had a heart attack (but died falling down the steps instead) at the thought of the small amount of meat we consumed in comparison to all the economical and filling carbohydrates and sugars. What he could not have known is just how delicious those meals were and still are. Further, while I was growing up,

I saw almost no one who was morbidly obese, as is common here in Columbus, Atkins' hometown, the Fast Food center of America.

We did have meats, but they were primarily pork products, since the homely "hawg" could provide ham (a rare luxury), pork chops, bacon and side pork, hocks for seasoning, and lard, which was used for everything from frying chicken to blending flour into pie crusts. The feet were pickled, and some of the innards were consumed in disguised forms. Fried or stewed chickens were usually a once-a-week treat unless you had a farm and could raise your own. Men hunted game, squirrels, rabbits, and sometimes deer to augment the meats on the table.

While New Boston was a steel mill town, and nearby Portsmouth was larger as well as industrialized, we were surrounded by farms between the foothills and the Ohio River. Butter, milk and buttermilk were often brought to small towns from nearby farms, as well as large amounts of eggs, fruit (other than those gathered from apple trees in backyards and berries which could be garnered from the countryside).

Citrus fruits were rare. At my New Boston Baptist Church, we lined up to receive a Christmas treat of one orange apiece.

Origins of the dishes we ate began in the late 1700s after the Revolu-tionary War. People in the Eastern states crossed the Alleghenies, and their counterparts in the South headed up through the Cumber-land Gap into the wilderness. Colonial Armies were often afforded land grants giving them title to large amounts of acreage in Kentucky, Ohio, and what is now West Virginia, among others. And some people came intent on physically staking claim to uncleared land.

Traveling in wagons, they could bring along only a few items from their original homes, largely building tools and cast iron skillets and cooking pots. But in some ways, most priceless among the things that were necessary for survival in their new surroundings were seeds - seeds to grow their own food.

Settling in mountainous areas and foothills meant "bottomland" between them was extremely valuable. There they could grow vegetables such as potatoes, corn, and the heartiest of apple trees. Sometimes a few areas at the tops of or on the sides of hills could be cleared, but it was rough going. It was a hard existence, but these were folks who valued independence enough to live without the amenities of "civilization."

Large families were prevalent, and they depended on labor from everyone who was physically able. If they lived near a settlement, there was usually a dry goods store where they could barter their pro-ducts and precious coins with merchants and other settlers for different products.

When they sat down to eat at those early plank table, these victuals (from the Latin victua for food and victuala for provision) were translated into "Pass the vittles" immediately after grace. Most

of those people, especially from New England, were quite religious, and extremely independent. But a tradition which started immediately was hospitality. No matter how meager or abundant the food on the table, it was shared with far-flung neighbors and traveling strangers who might stop by.

The core diet of "greens, beans and 'taters" I mentioned earlier prevailed during the time of those early settlers as it did during my childhood. Later, there was a larger variety of store-bought foods, of course, but economically the region was and still is what the federal government people, i.e., Appalachian Regional Com-mission, began to refer to as "distressed" and "economically disadvantaged."

Beat us. We had always thought we were poor, but didn't take it personally since nearly everyone around us was poor too.

Here's a sample of what a week's diet in Mamaw and Papaw's house resembled. Things were pretty much the same in the few hundred other homes in New Boston.

On weekdays, breakfast every morning was bacon, eggs, leftover cornbread or biscuits from the night before, or toasted, buttered slices of Mamaw's yeast bread. There might be homemade jelly, jams or

preserves or Mamaw's favorite apple butter. We had milk, and sometimes buttermilk. A farmer from the country delivered the dairy products and abundant eggs to our house.

Mamaw was employed pretty steadily year round hanging wallpaper in houses. Before I started school, she took me with her and carried along something for our lunch, but I don't have vivid memories of it. I think she made sandwiches of lunch-meat from John Sanford's store or took along some leftovers to snack on. Unless Papaw was away on one of his occasional jobs delivering coal for his friend Marvel Sloane, he probably had the same at home.

Weeknight dinners were simple but abundant. Sometimes we had pork chops, or more bacon, but the staples were fried potatoes, pinto or navy beans and greens. In warm weather, Mamaw would take me out into the fields near the mill to help her pick dandelions and other greens I didn't recognize. She bought kale at the store. We always had some kind of freshly baked "quick" bread - biscuits or cornbread - which we buttered and topped with preserves or honey for dessert.

Sundays were another matter. That was Katey bar the door to no one. Mamaw got up by at least 5 am to bake her apple pies (lard was always the shortening for the flakiest crusts I've ever eaten, and the apples were dried slices cooked into a thick sauce flavored with sugar, nutmeg and cinnamon). She purchased flour in very large cloth bags, and it was placed in a bin in the left side of her kitchen cupboard, one of the most efficient work centers ever devised.

There was a metal container for the flour with a funnel and a handle to sift it through a screen. Shelves overhead held the sugar canister and baking supplies such as baking powder, baking soda and vanilla, and other food flavorings. In the middle there was an enamel shelf which slid out of the back to an enlarged size to roll out pie crusts, knead yeast breads and biscuits. A large space beneath it on the left held pans; drawers on the right contained things such as the rolling pin and apple corer.

While the pies were baking, Mamaw kneaded the batter for at least three loaves of yeast bread to rise. And while that was occurring, she made homemade egg noodles. This required clearing the kitchen table, lining it with pages of The Portsmouth Times and dusting flour over the entire surface.

I do not know the exact recipe for this, but I think I can come close. (I made them myself while my four kids were growing up.) She skipped a bowl and placed at least three or four cups of flour in a mound at the center of the table. Making a slight dent in the center, she dropped in three eggs, a couple of tablespoons of milk and some baking powder.

These ingredients were mixed together with her hands, and if the consistency didn't seem right, she would add more flour until it met her standards. Then she dusted her rolling pin with flour and spread that mass out into a thin sheet that covered at least half the table.

Giving them a surface sprinkling of flour, she took the pies out of the oven and, if the bread batter had risen enough, baked those. Then she used a metal egg noodle cutter - it had a wooden handle and metal discs to cut the dough - so that the dough looked like noodles. They were left to dry until after church, when she cooked them in a big kettle of water in which she placed a small precious piece of stewing beef to make broth.

Oh, I almost forgot! She took the live chickens she bought on Friday or Saturday and had tethered to the back porch and chased them around the yard until she caught them and took a hatchet to their necks, which she wrung for good measure. Then all the feathers had to be removed and the birds were singed over a stove fire before washing.

All this occurred before we went to church. Depending on how long Rev. Crane made us sing hymns until someone would confess to being a miserable sinner and "get saved," it was a bit after noon before we returned home.

How anyone can eat Colonel Sanders greasy chicken with the secret seasonings is beyond me. Here is the way really great fried chicken is prepared in any decent Appalachian or southern home:

Mamaw took one or two big cast iron skillets and melted lard before putting in the chicken which was dipped in (please pay attention) flour with a little bit of salt and pepper in it. (I used to put the flour in a paper bag and shake the pieces in that a few times.) Fry the chicken for about a half hour, turning frequently. If you like it very crisp, skip the last step of putting a lid over the chicken for a couple or three minutes to tenderize it.

When it was removed, some of the fat and little chicken pieces were saved to make gravy: just put in flour and turn it until it's browned a bit, then put in some water and milk and stir that until it's your kind of gravy.

While the chicken was frying, the egg noodles, which had dried a bit, were dropped carefully into the beef broth and cooked until tender. A dollop of butter was added. A lot of peeled potatoes went into a big kettle and were cooked until tender, then pounded with a masher while adding plenty of butter, salt, pepper and milk. The vegetable was usually green beans (fresh or preserved, depending on the season) and sometimes corn was mixed with that. On some occasions, there were also candied sweet potatoes.

All three leaves were placed in Mamaw's dining room table while this was going on, and the family - me, sometimes Mom, Uncle Bud and Aunt Renie, Aunt Alice and her seven kids - and some of Papaw's friends from A.A. who may have joined us, were stretching it to its full length and placing plates and flatware around the table.

By the time all these things were put in the "middle" of the table, there was barely room for them, as the meat platter and all those serving dishes were put out, along with relishes, sometimes a cucumber salad (slices in a sugar and vinegar solution), and of course the butter, salt and pepper and other condiments.

I never hear that Hemingway title, "A Moveable Feast," without thinking of those spreads. Actually, the feast stayed still; the diners rotated around the table and some sat, while others sought out the living room sofa or migrated to the kitchen table.

I ate at other Down Home places over the years, and asked relatives from Kentucky and West Virginia to compare that spread to what they ate, and they were, and often still are, the same.

Just writing this has made me feel like falling over, which is what most people did after dinner, except for those taking their turns at washing dishes. The Short North Gazette has a limited number of pages, so I'll pass along some of the recipes - especially those for desserts (oh, the desserts! The chocolate cakes, the home-made strawberry shortcakes, the custard and rhubarb and lemon meringue pies) - later, if anyone is interested.

Blame it all on the countless people on Dr. Atkins' diet who keep telling me about how much weight they've lost and how easy it is. I'm very glad it works for them, and I wish I could afford to try it out. The popularity of that diet has sent the price of meats, especially beef, soaring. When I go through the supermarket now, I look at the steaks and prime rib roasts - and then the price tags and wave goodbye to them. Even chicken has gotten rather costly. Need we speak of seafood?

Well, I eat meat sparingly anyway, and have tossed salad at least twice a day. (Try Gordon's Food Center, Cleveland Avenue off 161, and another on Hilliard-Rome Road - restaurant supply places where individuals can buy products in bulk, in this case, 3lb. bags of salad mix for $2.99.)

That's my good deed for the day - no, the month.

I often think of a sign that used to be painted on a huge boulder on one of the hills lining Route 23 as Portsmouth and New Boston grew near: PREPARE TO MEET THY MAKER. I'm working on it, folks� I'm trying.

Until then�pass the vittles, please.

obetsydeeds@aol.com

(From the December '03 issue)
Jesse Stuart: A Ploughman and a Poet
The greatest thing in my life," he began, sounding like the first paragraph of David Copperfield, "is that I was born. That was August 8, 1906."

Hold on to April; never let her pass! / Another year before she comes again / To bring us wind as clean as polished glass / And apple blossoms in soft, silver rain. / Hold April when there's music in the air, / When life is resurrected like a dream, � "Hold April," by Jesse Stuart

It was a dreary mid-March afternoon in 1970, and clouds were scudding across a gray sky as I sat in the rare silence of the Columbus Citizen-Journal newsroom on one of those infrequent, but sometimes welcome, days when nothing seems to be happening. The teletypes were tapping out the national headlines, and interns were checking out their assigned hospitals and writing post-dated obituaries.

At such times, particularly once March arrives, I find myself feeling restless, weary of winter, and longing for the day when April comes and when the hills back home in southern Ohio will be lined with the blossoming redbud, crabapple and dogwood trees. Then I can finally get on Route 23 and rush back to the beauty that breaks the boundaries of winter and industrialization. Monet painted nothing more beautiful than this impressionistic foam of pastels and new-leaf greens in his gardens at Giverny.

Well, the sound of the phone ringing finally broke the silence on that gray March day, and my dreams of Down Home receded as I reached for the receiver. The call was from Jeanne Thomson, publicist for Lazarus Department Store, when it was a bustling castle for consumers looking for practically anything and everything. And nowhere was it more busy, or more alluring to me, than in its bookstore. It seems a poet named Jesse Stuart had come to town from Kentucky with a new book, and Jeanne wondered if I would like to interview him.

Would I like to interview Jesse Stuart? The only writer, to my knowledge, who had ever written about the hill country in both prose and, especially, poetry. I had not known of his work when I lived in New Boston visiting my relatives in Ashland and Greenup, Kentucky, but I was introduced to his work in my literature class here at Capital University, to my great joy. Jesse Stuart is the only writer I have ever read who captured the beauty of the Appalachian land marked with its steel mills and coal mining, although Harry Caudill has chronicled its history in Night Comes to the Cumberlands.

Jeanne told me he was staying at the Neil House, and asked if I would like to meet them there before he headed out to the bookstore at Lazarus. Well, I grabbed my notepad and practically ran to that hotel, where I was greeted at the door by his wife, Naomi Deane Stuart. Stuart himself rose from his chair, and it was like watching an oak tree at its full height reach out a branch to encompass my hand.

"Well, young lady, I'm mighty glad to meet you," he said. "I hear you come from the hills yourself, and I think I may know some of your people. My home is in Greenup County, on land where my mother and father used to live in a small cabin with several acres. I've added to that until I own 1,000 acres now, and my wife Naomi Deane and I call it 'W' Hollow."

I told him that, indeed, my father and his relatives were born in Greenup County. My father had died during the 1937 flood, but I had several aunts and cousins who still lived there. My Aunt Mayme continued to teach in Greenup County even though she was nearing 80 at the time.

Stuart broke into a hearty laugh, and his wife joined in. "You mean Mayme Ramey - used to be Mayme Alexander?" I confirmed that. "Why, Mrs. Garrett, your aunt lives just across the way from us, and she has taught school with my three sisters for many years. And your father was Charles Alexander? Your cousin Charles, named for him, is superintendent of the Wurtland County Schools, as I used to be. And one of Naomi Deane's sisters married your Uncle Floyd."

He motioned for me to sit down in what was suddenly a circle of relatives and family history which had never been made known to me before. This was due to my father's death during my infancy.

"Your people, the Warnocks and Alexanders, came through the Cum-berland Gap in the late 1700s, even before my clan, the Stuarts, came through in the early 1800s. There is still a Warnock settlement down by Tygart Creek. My people settled right here in Greenup County later."

I was so excited that I had to remind myself that I was there to interview Jesse Stuart, not vice versa, although thankfully, this turned out to be the first of several meetings and letters which helped me learn more about my family and our mutual territory in Kentucky. He spoke as freely and profusely as the natural well he boasted about on his property at W-Hollow: "Tap into it anywhere, and you get a spate."

"The greatest thing in my life," he began, sounding like the first paragraph of David Copperfield, "is that I was born. That was August 8, 1906." He drew on a large cigar as he continued

"My mother was Martha Hylton of English descent, a Democrat and a Baptist. My father was Mitchell Stuart, a Republican and a Methodist. Never did get together on the politics, but they weren't too strong on religion anyway� When they settled here, they had seven children, five of whom lived. Between us, my three sisters and I have taught school 120 years. But I've been the only writer in the family."

Stuart's father, like many mountain men, could neither read nor write, but took his sons with him into stores to sign checks "for the best bulls and the best grasses, even Korean clover." His mother had gone to second grade. "Both turning out all the pennies they had for our education," he continued. His mother "hung our A's up on the wall, and said, 'I want people to see you on the streets of Greenup and say, There's Martha Hylton's son! How could you fail a woman like that?"

The man who became a teacher at the age of 17 in a one-room schoolhouse believed in the value of competition. "Trying to eliminate grades and competi-tion is just plain crazy. There were 15 chairs in those one-room schoolhouses and the students always competed for that No. 1 chair with grades. They will always find a way to compete, and should.

"I've had about 10,000 students over the years, and every one of them was my child. Now some Americans have got the silly idea that money can do everything, but it can't buy ambition and incentive to learn," even with scholarships and subsidies. "Motivation's the word they're using now, isn't it? In my day, it was just called inspiration.

"When I was head of McKell School in South Shore, Kentucky, in the '30s, folks got awful mad when I fought for just payment of teachers. They figured they shouldn't pay as much for a first grade teacher as an eighth grade teacher ... and they wouldn't hire married women, but I insisted." That got him blackjacked on the head at the time. "Kentucky folks are good hard workers," he said matter-of-factly, "but you don't fool with them when they get mad."

He beamed and concluded that "a lot of those kids went on to college, and not one of them ever failed."

He also helped his father on the farm, and wrote many of the 703 sonnets which were later published as Man With a Bull Tongue Plow in a total of 11 months. "When I was plowing, I'd lean on the plow. That team would sure thank me now for the rest, if they was alive. One time

I wrote 42 in a day. I'd just write anytime I could."

In that first book, he immortalized his parents as well as the land he was helping them farm. He wrote this of his father:

All this hill man knows is work and work. / The color of the sun is in his face, / The pick and axe have calloused his bare hands, / The weight of loads he lifts have curved his back. / But by hardship he understands / This is a place to live and a place to die. / Depository for him at the end. / The earth at last becomes his bosom friend, / He's of the dirt and he'll go back to dirt.

For his mother, he vowed:

I shall not speak soft words for her &endash; my mother. / I shall not praise her to the lofty skies, / But I shall leave her on the earth &endash; my mother / Would choose the earth in preference to the skies. / I say the strength of oak is in my mother / And in her is the courage of the wind. / And in her is the rain's cool sympathy.

Both are now buried in Greenup Cemetery.

The 62-year-old author customarily carried a tablet to the breakfast table, according to his wife, "the writing never stops." She also confided to me that he had suffered a heart attack the previous year, and although he followed his doctor's orders to take a cruise and rest, while they were at sea, he confiscated every piece of paper on board and had written several hundred pages before they returned.

As we prepared to leave for Lazarus, Stuart commented that he was looking forward to meeting new people and putting his book to market in "the concrete flatlands of Columbus."

Nearly two years later, after an exchange of several letters and many kind gifts of Jesse's signed books, I got onto Route 23 and headed down to visit my Aunt Mayme Ramey and to stop by for an interview with Jesse and Naomi Deane. Both the farms lined the same road leaving the city of Greenup, where the Courthouse and a drugstore that sold Jesse Stuart's books stood in the town square.

An unpaved road led to their home, a place Stuart described in quatrains as "My Summer Valley," where "grasshoppers sing on green cornstalks � [while] White mists rise up to meet blue skies." There were no chemicals in the farmland to choke the sweet fragrance of honeysuckles twining on the crossed log fences which surrounded his vast acreage, and a gate was open to let us into the driveway up to the porch where they waited.

The shingled cottage that had expanded into many rooms surrounding what was once his parents' cottage was filled with plump armchairs and sofas, mementos of the many countries they had visited, Victorian furniture, campaign chests from the East and primitive paintings.

At one point, Stuart said, he gave a speech in Athens, Greece, and remarked that his parents, like most Kentucky hill folks, made sure "we were raised like Spartans. Do you know, a lot of those Athenians walked out?" He laughed heartily. "Held a grudge for 2,000 years!"

He explained that it was necessary to have that kind of discipline and rigor to survive his journeys once he finished high school, working in street carnivals and the steel mills of Fort Knox while saving money for college. He stopped at two colleges that cost too much; a third, Lincoln Memorial University in Harrogate, Tennessee, accepted him for the $29.30 he possessed. He also washed pots and pans for money and became editor of the college paper, publishing his own poems. He graduated in three years, but felt no desire to migrate north.

Stuart went on to Vanderbilt University "for further study where they had a bunch of writers there called the Agrarian Movement. They wanted to combine farming and writing, and that suited me fine, except it turned out they were gentlemen farmers with three tomatoes in the backyard. Also, they wouldn't let me into a writer's club.

In one class, he was told to write an 18-page autobiography in 11 days. "Well, I turned in 322 pages, margin to margin. The teacher said, 'There you go, Stuart &endash; it's the greatest paper I have ever read in my life. You are some kind of genius, and if you were my son, I don't know what I'd do with you.' But he failed me, that's what he did. I hadn't done the job the way he said. I learned right then, writing sure is a funny game."

Six years later, in 1934, that "assignment" was published as a book, Beyond Dark Hills. Only 2500 copies were published, and it was reissued in 1972 to rhapsodic reviews. Stuart shook his head. "Now they are saying it's a great book, and will last a few years."

At the time his teacher rejected it, though he decided to leave Vanderbilt. He took the advice of another teacher, Donald Davidson, who read some poems he had written about the hills and his people. "He said, 'Go back to your country and write about your people as the Irish write of the Irish and the Scots write about Scotland." That was a good piece of advice." He borrowed two dollars, hitchhiked back to Greenup and returned to his father's bull-tongue plow.

I remarked to him that when I was living in New Boston and traveling to South Shore and Ashland, Kentucky, I had no idea I lived in "Appalachia" until Lyndon Johnson used the word in the '60s. Stuart smiled at the irony too. "That's a poetic name, isn't it? � But it's ironic that the rest of this country thought it could impose its standards of culture, in the name of help to what they're calling Appalachia � when Appalachia is sitting here with the only real true culture left in this country.

"You read the obituaries any day and you can see what's happening to Kentucky: folks dying off, their kids are spread up here and everywhere. But all the same, I believe now there remains in the people an originality and a culture that just cannot be erased."

He foresaw the tenacity of that way of life even when it had to be abandoned physically in his poem "Deserted Coal-Mine Camp":

Where have they gone to leave their dead behind / In unmarked graves upon this lonely slope? / What way of life have these men gone to find / To earn them bread and give their loved ones hope? / In years to come their mother mountain earth / Will hide scars where these veins of coal ran thin; / Bracken and fern will lay a pretty wreath / To hide the sunken spots where mines caved in. / Rich dust from these decaying shacks will grow / Tall briars whereon birds will alight to sing, / And soft white petals from their stems will blow / Down leafy corridors of April spring.

He was right. The migrants moved to cities and found new jobs, but they brought with them the customs that came to be called Appalachian: the cadences of their speech and music; the foods that sustained both body and soul; the bonds of kinship, both blood and friends. And a longing to head back to the hills as often as possible to see the bracken and the fern, the dogwoods and redbuds in their season, and the people who stayed, who cling to that land still as honeysuckle twines along the wood fences up and down unpaved roads.

When Jesse Stuart died in 1984 at the age of 77, his body had endured a long series of heart attacks and strokes. But the raging energy and work that sustained him through that time produced more than 50 volumes of novels and short stories - the most memorable being The Thread That Runs So True and Taps for Private Tussie, and literally thousands of poems. They, too, are collected in many volumes under many titles, but you cannot pick a finer place to start than he did, as a Man With a Bull-Tongue Plow.

email Obetsydeeds@aol.com

(From the November '03 issue)
My Cousin Bess: Ashland, Kentucky's "Scarlett"
She had varicose veins, which she attributed to several years as a practical nurse, that wandered all the way up her long legs. Sometimes she covered them with pieces of Ace bandages, other times with long opaque stockings.

"Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm . . " - Gone with the Wind, 1936, Margaret Mitchell

My Cousin Bess Dowdy, who lived in Ashland, Kentucky - about 25 miles from New Boston once you crossed the Ohio River by ferryboat or bridge at Portsmouth - lived in another world, or so it seemed. Kentucky, set farther back into the hills on the other side of the river, was amazingly different from where I lived, in everything from accents to mores - both amply evidenced by my cousin.

Bess always said "you-all" for the plural of you, and there was a decided upswing in most of her vowels as well as her eyebrows, which had an arch as distinct as Ava Gardner's. She also had a cleft chin which resembled the great screen beauty's, although she was not conventionally pretty. Bess reached her full height at about 5 ft. 2 inches, but she was not tiny elsewhere - a fact that males overlooked when distracted by her Size C 1950's bras (rigidly pointing forward like tank turrets) and by the way she batted her eyelashes at them like Civil War fans.

We had been close friends during all the years I lived with Mamaw and Papaw in New Boston, so when Mom hauled me up here to Columbus in the eleventh grade, we continued our friendship by spending a few weeks together each summer. I was 15 in the summer of 1952 and graduated from high school the following year. Bess was ahead of me by a year chronologically, but light years away in terms of her outgoing personality and ability to attract and secure boyfriends.

Aside from holding up a Bible on Sundays in the Southern Baptist Church in Ashland (where the hymns had the wonderful gospel seasoning of black music), I think Gone with the Wind may have been the only book she ever read voluntarily and repeatedly. Bess could recite long strategic passages of it by heart, and as most of y'all know, that is one long book! She considered me withdrawn and pessimistic, and whenever I expressed doubts about anything, she would smile brightly and quote Scarlett's famous last words, "After all, tomorrow is another day!"

I, on the other hand, lived with my nose in a book, as Bess pointed out to me repeatedly over the years, and particularly during the memorable last two summers of our youth. Yes, I had read Gone with the Wind, and enjoyed it, although I never understood how Scarlett could make men fall at her feet when the things she said to them were so incredibly stupid. At that time, I didn't think Scarlett was too bright but later understood her strategy of survival, which Bess demonstrated to me by living example.

I wass busy reading period English novels, swept away by the Bronte Sisters, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Tennyson's poetry and Greek myths.

"Betty," Bess would say ruefully, as she primped herself for what was often the first of three dates on any given evening, "how am I ever going to find a boyfriend for you if you don't get your nose out of a book long enough for anyone to see what you look like?" She would toss aside whatever I was reading, get out her makeup and try to brush my eyebrows into something resembling an arch, shaping my lips with the most flattering lipstick she could find.

"You ah lucky to have those hazel eyes," she would remark clinically, "because you can wear any color you want and reflect it." Before I could say thank you, she was looking at my unboned brassieres and sighing, "You have got to get some up-to-date bras instead of those saggy ole thangs that let you just hang there." (I did not sag at 15, but didn't argue the point or lack of it.) Then she would put one of her own skintight sweaters over me, push and pull at the rest of my garments until she figured she had done the best she could by her task, and then take me by the hand to the front porch swing.

It was never long before the first feckless male of the evening would stop to pass the time with Bess, who would push me to the side while she sat strategically in the middle. The conversations went something like this:

"Gosh, Bess, you sure look pretty and cool sitting out here."

"Why, Ronny Ray, you are just the nicest boy to say such nice things when I know you are so much smarter than I am. Your grade cards always make me feel like a dummy. I'm flattered that you even stop to spend your time talking to me when I'm just so dumb I don't even know how to draw triangles in geometry."

Before two seconds passed, she would put her hand on mine and say, "By the way, this is my cousin, Betty Lou Alexander. She came all the way down here from Columbus, Ohio, to spend time with me. Why, she is such a scholar, she always has her nose in a book, just like you must do."

Ronny Ray or Dwight David or whomever the passerby might be would inevitably assure her that she wasn't the least bit stupid, and after dutifully greeting me, would assure her, "I don't spend all my time with my nose in books. See? I brought you one of my Momma's roses. It's not as pretty as you are, but I thought you might like the way it smells."

Oh, me. Round One.

The second part of the evening was usually a planned event. For instance, she might have told one of her boyfriends that she would go with him to see a Sandra Dee movie - if he didn't mind Cousin Betty coming along. After two or three days of that, the word was out to arrange blind dates for me. Of course, I felt mortified.

The grand finale of the evening would be a ritual right out of the movie American Graffiti, a latent classic set in the early '60s: cruising the drive-in restaurants in American jalopies that resembled the joke about how many clowns could fit into a Volkswagen. Windows down, radios blasting, male and female heads and hands sometimes leaning out as far as their waists, while they hooted at each other: "Hey, Wanda" � "How y'all, Bobby? Whatcha doin' tonight?" � "Watch out for that car hop, Johnny, or you ah gonna kill her and wreck your Daddy's car and then he will kill you!"

And the perilous weaving of the diner carhops (sometimes on roller skates, sometimes not) between the headlights of the cars and the bright-colored lights illuminating the drive-in signs advertising burgers and root beer. Holding trays up in the air and balancing them while staying on their feet unscathed was an athletic American art form. Particularly dangerous considering the way the kids sometimes jumped out of the doors of one car to jump inside another, but oh Lord, yes, it was exciting.

Rock 'n roll was in its infancy, and the first example I remember hearing was on a car radio with Bess's friends: Bill Haley's "Splish Splash I Was Sittin' in a Tub."

Bess and her favorite boyfriend Dwight David Cotton thought it was the "most." I wasn't saying much because I was with a blind date who turned out to be a nice boy despite his nickname. As humorist Dave Barry often says, I swear I am not making this up. His name - well, his nickname, the only name I ever heard &endash; was Horny. I had absolutely no idea what that meant at 15. I've wondered since if Horny did.

He was certainly chivalrous in his treat-ment of me. I'm afraid I was not only shy, but a snob as well at that point. I had seen Mario Lanza in The Great Caruso and became enamored of opera and, by extension, classical music, so when Bess or Dwight David said that Bill Haley's song was the "most" and asked me what I thought, I snapped nervously but brusquely that it was "sheer, unmitigated trash."

Bess's date looked at her, shook his head, and said, "Bess, your cousin shore does talk fun-ny." Horny immediately defended my honor by replying, "Dwight, you ass, that's ed-u-cation."

Well, Horny was my steady date for the remainder of that three-week stay in 1952.

The next year, immediately after graduating from Central High, I made plans to go to Capital University here in Columbus, while Bess and a number of her friends decided they would remain in Kentucky and attend Ashland Junior College, so it would be our last summer of real togetherness. I still think of Mario Lanza singing "Golden Days" from The Student Prince when I recall it.

Mom let me splurge on a real train trip to visit Bess in Ashland, instead of riding on a Greyhound Bus - cigar smoke and claustrophobia always made me vomit. I remember pulling into the depot where Bess and Dwight David were waiting for me, waving before I could even step off the train. After embracing, I told Bess swiftly that I needed to go to the bathroom - I had been afraid to enter the one on the train.

They led me to the side of the station, and suddenly I noticed something I had never seen in New Boston, Portsmouth, Columbus or any other place I had been in Ohio. There were two doors: one for Whites Only and another one for Coloreds. The water faucets outside were labeled the same way. I had been reading about civil rights, which never came up in Rev. Crane's Baptist sermons, but actually seeing those signs made me know that it was wrong. I refused to use the toilet.

I discovered something else momentous that summer of 1953: my first true love. And it wasn't even a blind date arranged by Bess. Horny had moved to Ironton, so I just went solo with Bess and her date to a party at someone else's house.

I was sitting on a sofa, observing people and listening to their chatter, when I realized a guy was staring at me intently. He got up, came over to me and said, in a truly "educated" manner, "Hello, my name is Bill Campbell. I've heard that you're Bess's cousin Betty, and people here think you're a bookworm." He smiled, and even though James Dean's face had not been seen on a movie screen yet, I was looking at a good facsimile of it. I'm glad I don't know what mine looked like then, but it had to have been moonstruck-smitten.

I scooted over to make room for him after he asked to sit down, and he continued, "I know, because people say the same thing about me. I just finished Catcher In the Rye and thought it was great. Have you read it yet?"

I had and was delighted when he told me he "identified" with Holden Caulfield, the now classic portrait of a teenage "outsider." Bill was a disc jockey for WCKY Radio in Ashland, and the courtship that consumed the rest of my stay was continued by correspondence and phone after we both started college that fall. The magic that bound us that summer can't be described and I won't even try.

All through my freshman year, I received long letters from him that came in rolls off the teletype machine at WCKY's studio &endash; different (as he was) and special. Our courtship continued the next summer when my visit to Ashland was alternated with a visit from Bill who drove up to Columbus, bringing Bess and her on-again steady, Dwight David.

Mom and my stepfather divorced after I started college. I think they both sensed that they no longer had any great reason to argue, but who knows? I do know Mom allowed my friends to visit our new apartment at King and Neil Avenues. Porches with columns surrounded several floors of quarters with large old rooms, and Mom divided them so that the boys slept in one room, Bess and I in another, while she chaperoned from midpoint.

On our last night together, after going to a drive-in movie to see The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial, Bill and I stood out on the balcony and experienced what would turn out to be our farewell scene. We didn't know it, but that bittersweet time was the end of our romance, something I had only found in literature before, and after, really. Surely everyone remembers that special sweetness occurring once in a lifetime? I don't know what happened to Bess and Dwight David after that except that they drifted apart. Bill's teletype letters grew less and less frequent and eventually stopped. So did my hand-scribbled notes composed between classes and work.

Well, one door closes and another one opens. Before too long, I was dating a fellow student at Capital University, the son of my literature professor. He studied music there and would play Chopin (my favorite composer) on the piano in the living room of the boarding house where I roomed. We married in the autumn of 1955. Bess married a tall, quiet policeman in Ashland before the end of that decade.

My cousin and I didn't see each other again until we each had our first child, both daughters. Bess had a nice home which she made sure to keep tidier than her mother had kept their home, which she

wouldn't let her friends enter. And while I was writing for the college literary magazine, Bess had taken up a hobby, graphoanalysis (handwriting analysis), which actually gained her a column in the Ashland, Kentucky, newspaper.

Her demeanor was more subdued on the surface than it had been in high school, but her enthusiasm hadn't really diminished at all. After comparing notes on family ties and the "old days," she asked me if she could have a sample of my handwriting. I scribbled a couple of paragraphs of nonsense on her steno pad.

She scanned it carefully, and I couldn't quite read the look of amazement on her face until she said, "Oh, Betty, give me permission to use this in my column, please! I may never see another one of these again!" My handwriting had never been what you'd call Spencerian, but I was certainly unaware until she examined the downward loops on all my F's and capital letters that they were those of a "classic psychopath."

"Lord have mercy, Betty, I wouldn't ever want you to get mad at me. There is terrible violence suppressed in this writing! Please do let me analyze this in my column." I suppose I should have been insulted. I only remember thinking, "Bess is loony as ever" and told her to go right ahead and use my dangerous aberration if it would help her career.

Neither Bess nor I could have guessed at the time that we would never see one another again. I had two more children in the years between then and 1962, and Bess had another, so letter-writing and visits got lost in the shuffled schedules of raising children.

I can't tell you what a shock it was when Mom called me one day in 1963, I think, to tell me that Bess was dead. Aunt Ruth had tried to reach me but couldn't locate my telephone number, and Mom had moved several times by then, so it was too late for either of us to go to the funeral when we finally heard the news.

Barely into her 30's, the cousin who embodied not only Scarlett O'Hara, but the ebullience of youth, died of some form of heart disease. I think it may have been congestive heart failure. Aunt Ruth regretted, as we did, that we hadn't been able to get to her funeral, but she was outraged that it had been a closed-casket ceremony - something virtually unknown in her family or hill country mores.

The medication Bess had taken, or something endemic to the condition, had caused her to become terribly overweight in the months before she died, and her husband, taciturn but firm, insisted that "Bess would not have wanted people to see her that way." Despite all the protests hurled his way, he honored her memory when he allowed her that last vanity.

Scarlett O'Hara would have understood that, and so did I. And I was grateful that out of all those dozens of boyfriends who came and went, Bess had taken a husband who didn't bow to Appalachian convention which prohibited such a thing. He staunchly loved her and chose to protect the memory of her Scarlett-like charm. Never more so than when there wasn't another tomorrow for Bess.

e-mail Obetsydeed@aol.com

Bud and Renie: Marriage on a Dare

(From the October '03 issue)
She had varicose veins, which she attributed to several years as a practical nurse, that wandered all the way up her long legs. Sometimes she covered them with pieces of Ace bandages, other times with long opaque stockings.

When I was five years old, I knew that I wanted to marry Leslie Edward White, my Uncle Bud, when I grew up. At the time, I didn't realize that such a union would be incestuous, because even Rev. Crane didn't mention that word when he told about all the things that would condemn us to Hell. I just knew I had a lot of competition. Tall, fair, and good-ooking, Uncle Bud was surrounded by all the girls attending Glenwood High School just before World War II.

My hopes were finally shattered when he married one of them before joining the Marines. Her name was Joanne. She was pretty, laughed a lot and cracked gum when she talked, and wore a big furry coat that looked like a bear and matched the color of her curly hair. She cried with the rest of the family when he left for Parris Island, S.C. I figured that was where he would be fighting the war, and in many ways it was.

Mamaw decorated the living room with blue satin pillows that had a Marine Corps crest and gold fringe around the edges. She also put a little flag with a star on it in the window so people would know she had a son in the war.

Before Uncle Bud "shipped out" for overseas, though, Mamaw received a telegram. "O Lord!" was all she said when she opened it, read it quickly and turned the color of flour. Had the Nazis or Japs already killed him? Mom snatched the message from her and read it to Papaw and me.

Uncle Bud was in the Parris Island hospital with something called spinal meningitis and was in "critical condition." Mamaw and Mom packed quickly, and Papaw drove them to the Railroad Depot in Portsmouth. Papaw held one of my hands tightly while we waved with the others.

"Uncle Bud will be all right, Betty Lou. Mom and Bessie will take care of him, and we'll all be together soon, just like before."

Papaw was trembling, but he was right, although it was a pretty close call. After a week or so, Mamaw and Mom returned to say he would have to stay in the hospital for a while, but he'd get well.

After that, he became a driver for one of the officers there until the war ended. When he finally returned and stepped off the train, he looked more like a movie star to me than before in that blue uniform with gold trim and billed hat, grinning from ear to ear.

We took him home, and after more hugging, kissing and rejoicing, he looked around kind of bewildered and asked where Joanne was. Things grew very quiet. Mamaw answered that Joanne was planning to meet us there for the home-coming dinner and should be along soon.

Impatient to see her, Uncle Bud left and went over to her apartment, but when he returned, he looked sick again, although he assured us that he was really looking forward to tasting Mamaw's fried chicken again and that we should go ahead and have dinner.

I sneaked around to hear the things whispered among the grown-ups, my favorite hobby. All I heard was that someone else was living in Joanne's apartment with her. Before long, Uncle Bud got a d-i-v-o-r-c-e.

He went back to work at the garage where he had worked on Saturdays while he was in high school, and before you could say single, lots of girls were calling and hanging around the house again. Nobody ever mentioned Joanne. Things seemed pretty much the way they had been before he left.

That was until one night that changed the course of all our lives for years to come.

Uncle Bud got all dressed up in his "civvies" one evening and drove his Chevy to Ashland, Kentucky, to visit a couple of our married relatives. All I heard was that he was going on a blind date.

I wondered if he was going to be with a blind lady, but didn't ask.

Unfortunately, it was Uncle Bud (usually a teetotaler, unlike Papaw) who became blind that night &endash; blind drunk.

So did Frank and Ruth Dowdy who had arranged the date. I didn't find out the additional details for quite a while. What I remember vividly is a lot of knocking on our door that night. Loud knocking, and people laughing outside.

When Mamaw got up and opened the door, clutching her chenille robe, Uncle

Bud staggered in, holding up a big woman - as tall as he was, but bigger. They were laughing, trying to talk at the same time but not making any sense. Then the woman grabbed Mamaw, hugged her and cried out, "Mom!" Uncle Bud swayed as he introduced her, "Mom, Dad - hey, Betty, what are you doing up? - this is Varina, but call her Renie. We just got married!"

Lord have mercy. Married? They'd never even met before that night.

Mamaw was absolutely flabbergasted, and she couldn't seem to find words as her face registered shock and total confusion. Papaw, who'd put on some pants with his undershirt, never talked a lot (Uncle Bud was like him in that respect), but I'd never seen him speechless before. Finally Mamaw said to me, "Betty, honey, it's real late." She then retreated into the kitchen, mumbling, "Lord have mercy."

Uncle Bud and Renie ended up sleeping in a back bedroom Mamaw saved for "good."

Come the dawn, it must have looked grim for Uncle Bud. Seems the foursome shared numerous drinks that night and got loaded out of their skulls, enough for Frank and Ruth to come up with an idea for a great joke. They dared Uncle Bud and Varina (named for Varina Davis, wife of the Confederate president) to get married! Well, Uncle Bud and Renie took the dare. As the saying goes, it must have seemed like a good idea at the time.

Later, I often wondered if Renie had really been drunk that night. She always had her wits about her when she wanted something and a way of getting it.

For the next 25 or 30 years, Uncle Bud stood by his word and his wife. His word was good, but she was another matter. Six feet tall, Renie was not what you'd call "comely." Her face was OK, sort of, but her overall bone structure was that of a Viking. She had varicose veins, which she attributed to several years as a practical nurse, that wandered all the way up her long legs. Sometimes she covered them with pieces of Ace bandages, other times with long opaque stockings.

Renie could not help what she looked like, of course. It was her behavior in the long run that truly earned the word ugly.

The newlyweds rented a small brick row house (common in steel mill towns) a few blocks from Mamaw and Papaw's cottage. Renie convinced Uncle Bud to furnish it with brand new blonde wood and shiny chrome furniture in post-War Nouveau style, putting the first of many dents in his earnings and savings.

When Renie wanted something, she usually got it. Like Papaw, Uncle Bud was laconic and didn't verbalize his feelings. Mamaw had raised him and Mom in the Baptist church before she got to me, and my instinct now is that he felt he had no right to deny his bride anything. After all, he had given his word in marriage, sworn it on a Bible - till death would them part. I'll never know for sure, but I think he felt an exaggerated sense of responsibility for her rooted in his act of weakness that night. He felt he had to make it right.

From time to time, she went back to "work" by offering to "take care of" anyone who was sick in the family or the neighborhood or all of New Boston. She bought some restaurant surplus uniforms and moved in on the helpless. People down home didn't pay relatives and neighbors for help during problems, and Renie didn't "charge," but she had a sly way of admiring doilies and bric-a-brac in their homes so that they felt they should offer them to her.

Five minutes after television sets appeared on the market, Renie "just had to have one." Neighbors, and some-times even Mamaw, Papaw and I convened there to watch this miraculous thing with pictures that moved and talked just like the movies, except they were a lot smaller.

That's where Renie saw "The People's Choice," with Jackie Cooper playing a small-town mayor who received advice from his talking hound dog, Cleo. Aunt Renie didn't think she could live without a talking hound dog, so Uncle Bud ordered one for her from Sears-Roebuck. I've told that story here previously.

Aunt Renie had just about exhausted conspicuous consumption in New Boston, that was a true fact. Then, sometime in the early '50s, southern Ohio sprouted a lot of signs advertising lots in Florida for sale (sight unseen) for only $10 down and $10 a month &endash; or whatever would have been a great bargain at that time. Naturally Renie wanted to have her own piece of Florida swampland, and for once Uncle Bud went along with the idea with enthusiasm, not just defeat. Florida sounded wonderful. Sunshine. Sand. Water. He loved to fish.

I don't believe they ever went to see their land before they finished paying for it, but Uncle Bud did plan ahead on one thing. Since he would be fishing a lot, he would need a boat of his own. He was a car mechanic, so why couldn't he build a boat? He bought blueprints for a suitable craft, and (after much persuasion) Papaw agreed to let his son use his own bedroom, the largest room in our house, to build it.

I suspect he thought that anything that would take Renie out of state and far away was worth the sacrifice. Papaw never said so, but it was obvious he didn't like her. Mamaw was better at putting a Christian manner on her feelings.

The boat-building took some time, although Uncle Bud had plenty of help. Lots of relatives, friends and assorted curious neighbors took to dropping in when he worked on it. Many a heated discussion was carried out while people took hammers and saws in hand and helped out. After some time, the boat was completed, and my, it looked yar. (New Boston definition: it looked as if it wouldn't sink.)

Unfortunately, there was one big problem - the boat filled Papaw's room from stem to stern. No matter how Uncle Bud and his biggest crew calculated tilting and turning it - horizontally, vertically or diagonally - there was no way it could be carried out the bedroom door!

Papaw had tried to warn Uncle Bud that this might happen, but of course, Papaw wasn't a mechanic or a boat builder. So he just closed his eyes, exhaled his famous snort that conveyed scorn, and walked away. By this time, I think, Papaw was a member of A.A. and it was a good thing.

It became obvious that the only way to carry out the finished fishing craft was to remove the east side of the house long enough to remove it. The Laurel & Hardy crew finally did just that, and managed to put the boat on top of Uncle Bud's Chevy

and tie it there safely. I'm not sure where he stored it, but when he returned to attach the wall back on the house, Papaw was still hunting. It was the longest time he ever stayed away in the hills.

When Uncle Bud and Renie finally headed down to Florida with the boat on top of their Chevy and some of their belongings in a U-haul truck on back, Mamaw cried, of course. Her "baby" was really leaving home after all those years. As for Papaw, he was wearing the biggest smile I ever remember seeing on his face.

It wasn't until about 1966 before I went along on one of Mom's frequent jaunts to Florida and visited their Shangri-La. Turned out their blind buy (appropriate considering their marriage started with a blind date) was located around Orlando on a sandy lot. They purchased a trailer with two bedrooms - one too many considering that everyone they knew wanted to visit them once they made Florida home.

This time, Mom took along Artie, an old friend of hers and Uncle Bud's from high school days. Artie was a Good Time Gal if there ever was one. She was petite but lively, with a laugh that sounded a lot like Tallulah Bankhead's after several post-performance drinks. Artie liked whiskey pretty well herself.

She and Uncle Bud hugged with friendly affection while Renie looked on like a tropical storm, particularly when he asked us to go for a boat ride while Renie went to the store to prepare for dinner.

It was a long drive to the little lake where Uncle Bud kept his homemade boat docked. He revved up the big motor he'd installed, and we went for quite a ride. Artie drank a cooler full of beer while Uncle Bud showed his expertise at fishing. He caught three or four pale catfish, but not enough for the dinner Renie tried to put together later while she stomped around the trailer.

When Mom pulled out after a Long Goodbye, I could sense overtones of something she and Artie didn't want to discuss in my presence.

Would you believe that after 25 or 30 years of being a devoted husband, Uncle Bud finally divorced Aunt Renie? The negotiations took a long time, and he would sit and listen repeatedly to a record by Engelbert Humperdinck called, "Please Release Me (Let Me Go)," but eventually Renie did, in return for the trailer, everything in it and alimony that would keep him in near-poverty through Social Security and into eternity. He did get to keep the boat. Then he married that sweetheart of a gal pal, Artie, and they had a helluva good time for a few years.

But something strange must have happened to Uncle Bud once he dumped Aunt Renie. He wasn't the same stoic, passive "stand by your word" guy he'd been all the years before. Artie's beer swilling, cigarette-smoking and vulgar jokes began to seem bigger than their trailer could hold. Within five years at most, he up and left Artie too!

Who knows what Mamaw and Papaw (now dead) would have thought if they had been around to find that Uncle Bud turned into a serial monogamist?

Yep, he did it again! He secured a divorce from Artie.

Uncle Bud is now married to some lady named Kate. I have never met her, but according to reports passed

along to my kid brother Jim, she was a prosperous widow with a home in Tampa and a trailer of her own. (Good thing.) The information line indicates that she is a nice woman. They sold both their trailers and moved to her lovely home on the Good Side of Florida.

I haven't seen Uncle Bud in years, not since Mom died in 1982. He won't leave Florida because he shivers anywhere else. The twain may not meet again, as he is in his mid-80's now, and I'm content to be close to my grandchildren and don't often travel farther than Down Home, preferably in the Autumn. But I truly hope he is not only alive but also resting in peace, at last.

What ever happened to Aunt Renie? Hey, I have no idea. My brother isn't sure either, although he thinks she's still alive, and I would bet living in that trailer or somewhere around Orlando. I do wonder sometimes who would "take care" of her now that she's in what would amount to her twilight years.

Gentle Readers, let's face it. I don't know. I was never even sure where Cleo the Talking Hound dog ended up either, but I hope she was as well-kept as Uncle Bud's ex-wives are.

I just don't put much stock in romance anymore, except the classic ones I read about when I was growing up. Heathcliff - I know we'll get together someday.

(From the September '03 issue)
Hoo-Hahs in the Hills

... A person's death was to be grieved, of course, copiously, sometimes uncontrollably, but a funeral was also expected to be an unfettered "Last Hoo-Hah!" a Hill term equivalent to Hurrah!

I haven't been to a really good funeral since I left The Hills.

Even though many Columbus residents came here from Appalachia in the 1940s, carrying Scotch-Irish heritages with them, most of Columbus' population originally came from England and Germany, bring-ing along a desire for religious freedom, hard-working stability and conservative lifestyles. The funerals I've attended here have usually reflected those traditions.

Only recently have I noticed a trend toward "Celebrations of Life" in which families and friends stress the positive, joyous aspects of the deceased's life, sometimes in ways as individual as their personalities. A few weeks ago, there was a story in The Columbus Dispatch about a devoted football fan (Cleveland Browns, I think) whose natural environment was re-created in the funeral home. His recliner, giant-screen TV, football pennants and the décor with which he surrounded himself in life went to the funeral home along with his coffin. Way to go!

In Appalachia, most people - steel workers, coal miners, hardscrabble farmers and a few fortunate owners of good bottom land between the mountains - considered life something to survive, not celebrate. That doesn't mean they lacked emotional sustenance. Family ties and friendships were intensely cherished, even clannish, but threats to their physical and economic stability always loomed over them.

Newborn children were greatly loved and welcomed, but with a realization that they too would face a lifetime of hardships. Our churches, from Southern Baptists, Nazarenes, Methodists and (in Portsmouth) Catholics, reassured us in various manners that after we died there would be a better life. We would go to live where Jesus lived, in Heaven, and finally feel peace.

Small wonder that these people with meager incomes almost all maintained a life insurance policy. Rain or shine, work or unemployment, coins and, later, bills were stashed away in a container, untouched, to pay the insurance man. Life was endurance tempered by love and faith, but Death was considered the most important event in most people's lives. Accordingly, one expected funerals to be as lavish and indulgent as the insurance policy allowed.

I first saw the word 'funeral' on the back of a paper fan in our church, furnished courtesy of (printed like a book name) Soward's Funeral Home. Mr. Soward, an unseen presence, advertised in New Boston's other churches as well, even though he had no local competition. Nor did we take our loved ones to funeral homes outside of New Boston, in Portsmouth or Wheelersburg, although we took their bodies there later, as they had the only cemeteries.

Some people maintained the ancient Mountain custom of having the deceased's coffin placed in their living room until the burial. This led to a bizarre situation around 1950 when my Cousin Harold died unexpectedly of diabetes at the age of 20. Aunt Alice put his coffin in her small living room; and as it happened, his funeral coincided with the weekend when Cousin Ruth was chosen Homecoming Queen at Glenwood High School. Wearing a card-board crown covered with sequins and a red velvet dress, she was there to receive flowers along with Cousin Harold. Aunt Alice was torn between crying with grief over her sweet son and pride in Ruth's moment of glory.

Increasingly, though, the departed were nearly all taken over to Soward's where family and friends could assess the beauty and expense of the satin-lined coffins and marvel at the number of floral tributes. Most of the arrangements involved at least some gladiolas, and I still recall an over-whelming, somewhat nauseatingly sweet aroma emanating from those flowers - unlike the ones in our backyard.

Over time, certain customs evolved into a form of ritual folk art. A person's death was to be grieved, of course, copiously, sometimes uncontrollably, but a funeral was also expected to be an unfettered "Last Hoo-Hah!" a Hill term equivalent to Hurrah!

Hoo-Hahs have since come into use in many other ways in other parts of the population, but nobody said it like folks in southern Ohio, Kentucky, and West Virginia. There weren't many reasons to say Hoo-Hah! in life, but at funerals they were heartfelt, often whooped like Indian cries of victory as well as goodbyes.

For starters, there was an ongoing feast of food served to mourners for at least two or three days prior to Going to the Grave. As people rotated around the banquet, they took turns eating and drinking and telling stories about the dead person, who was finally receiving all the tributes and praise they rarely heard in life.

My sister-in-law Cheryl recalled that in backwoods areas such as Paintsville, Kentucky, people often took off their shoes while they ate and reminisced, and sometimes passed around spirits. She has fond memories of her Uncle "Sit 'n Drink Jack," so-named because he habitually drank Jack Daniels. Many people from more isolated hill towns, who hadn't seen New Boston relatives for 10 or 15 years because of some fight, inevitably showed up for their funerals as if nothing had ever happened. No ill was spoken of the dead.

"Yessir, he was a good'un, Uncle Hy was. Seems like he was just here yesterday."

"Well, he was, Ernie. Too bad you didn't see him sooner, but he's sure be glad you're here today."

And so it went until it was time to bury the person who could finally say Hoo-Hah! in Heaven. The coffin would be carried by Soward's from the church to the cemetery. When we reached Portsmouth or Wheelersburg, or in some cases, small family cemeteries across the Ohio River in Kentucky atop steep hills, pall-bearers struggled to carry the coffin up to the waiting graves relatives had dug. A minister then came along to say last prayers for the bereaved.

Pallbearers usually carried the coffins on ropes without pulleys or mechanisms that would have made the ultimate descent smooth. Instead, the ropes were simply removed and the coffin dropped to the bottom of the hole where it rocked back and forth a bit and settled with a resounding thud.

At that point, people not only sobbed and moaned but sometimes screamed. This was the point when everyone waited to see if someone, almost always a woman, would leap into the grave to remain with her departed father or husband, hanging onto the coffin, proclaiming she couldn't go on without him. I think it was not an accident that I never saw a man leap into a woman's grave.

After much cajoling from folks above, she would finally allow herself to be pulled up, but it wasn't easy. Sometimes several people leaned over the grave as far as possible to try to pull her out; other times, it was necessary to lower a piece of the grave rope for her to grab onto to ease her back up into the world.

"Hoo-Hah! That was one awful jump," someone might say. "Thought she'd never come out of there." It was a ritual, certainly, but one which had roots in reality. Life for women became much more difficult after a husband's death, although her grown children would naturally take her into their homes alternately for the rest of her life.

In the meantime, the life insurance which provided this display of departing grandeur was always considered a good investment.

When my Mamaw died in 1957, she was 66 and her heart literally gave out. I went to the funeral home for viewing hours, thinking I wouldn't be able to bear it. Instead, I felt a strange but wonderful relief when I looked at her unnaturally painted body. It was my first certainty that the woman who was the core of love and security in my life was not in that casket. I knew her spirit had left her body and was finally, truly at peace.

When I returned home, Papaw was lying on his bed, sobbing, as he had been since the moment she died. I had just arrived from Columbus, but couldn't stop him from crying, "Mom, Mom�." (He only called her Lula during formal moments in their lives together.) I tried to comfort him while my mother and Uncle Bud were off visiting the Immanuel Baptist Church making funeral arrangements with Rev. Crane, who had made my life a living Hell for so many years.

I didn't learn until they returned that the Reverend didn't want to bury her from his church because, he said, she "wasn't a member." For at least two decades, she had put her hard-earned money into that collection plate, but he said she wasn't a member! Apparently she neglected to perform some formality that constituted his version of membership. I still feel rage at the memory of that.

They finally convinced the Reverend to be merciful and conduct her burial service, but I didn't attend the funeral. I told them I would never step foot into that church again. As a matter of fact, it was many years before I entered any church again. I had a lot of maturing to do before I stopped blaming God for Rev. Crane.

As it happened, Papaw simply couldn't be moved from the bed. Mom finally said, "What are we going to do? Someone has to stay here with Dad." I was the obvious choice and volunteered quickly.

While everyone else was gone, the house was quiet and peaceful, as it always had been. I hugged Papaw and felt certain that Mamaw's spirit was there with us as always. Just the three of us. Amazing Grace - singing hymns was the only thing I ever truly loved about those services, and the words of that profoundly moving masterpiece returned to me all day.

My last experience with a Down Home funeral was when Papaw died about four years later, in 1961. He sold the house Mamaw was so proud of owning two months after her death because he couldn't bear to stay there without her. He moved into a little cottage in Wheelersburg, not far from the cemetery where a double stone marked two lots, one waiting for him to join her.

Mom brought him to Columbus during the last months of his life as he wasted away to a child's size from esophageal cancer. I took my baby daughter Kirsten with me and visited Mom as often as I could to help out. He was taken to a hospital one last time, and surprised me by ordering me to look up the name of a Studebaker dealer in the phonebook. He wanted to fix his car and drive back home!

After his death, Mom had a breakdown from the stress of his care and asked me to handle the funeral arrangements. Of course, Papaw had life insurance, and Mom instructed me to spend every penny of it so that he would have the very best. And I did. She had already ordered an obscenely expensive metal vault, but I looked at the coffins and decided on a simple pine one that looked almost handmade.

Then the funeral home salesman opened a display rack of suits that only had front portions (what else would be seen?). I assured him that I wouldn't be needing one. Papaw had a perfectly good brown tweed suit from Sears-Roebuck (the only formal attire he wore in all the years I knew him). I told them I would return with the suit and expected him to be wearing it when his body arrived in Wheelersburg.

It was a beautiful autumn day, the kind Papaw loved for roaming the woods with Queenie or one of his other hounds, just sitting and enjoying the hills even more than hunting game. I had asked the minister to please keep the service short and simple, advising him that Papaw was not a churchgoer but a man who found Heaven in nature. Much to my surprise, after the minister recited the 23rd Psalm, he took out a book and began reading William Cullen Bryants' early 19th Century poem Thanatopsis:

"To him who in the love of Nature holds �"

Perfect. Heaven-sent.

Papaw's funeral ended there. I held onto Mom as she wept weakly while his coffin was lowered into his place next to Mamaw. The few other relatives who were left in New Boston and his closest friend, Marvel Sloane, gathered around. The atmosphere was serene. Then just as I started to lead Mom back to the car, there was some flurry of noise, of strange activity that caused us to turn around.

A woman had been standing on the side of the grave, someone we hadn't noticed during the rites, and leapt into Papaw's grave. She was crying on his coffin. I think the minister and somebody else not in our family leaned down to help her out as

we looked on in complete amazement. A slight, middle-aged woman, a total stranger. Mom and I looked at each other simultaneously and asked, "Who was that?" "I don't know, Mom. Never saw

her before in my life." "Neither have I," she said, shaking her head. None of

the remaining mourners acknowledged knowing her either.

Mom was so relieved to have the funeral over, she just collapsed into the car and we left. I think she had taken some medication to get through the funeral and may not have recalled much of anything about it because she never mentioned the incident again.

It was a few years before the strange and treacherous thought crept through my mind. Papaw had lived alone nearly four years. He had always been a lean man with an ineffable attractiveness; high cheek-bones testified to stories of his mother's Cherokee blood, and his thick auburn hair was barely marked by gray even in his 70's. Why, maybe, I thought ... maybe �

Why, Papa � you ole hound dawg!

email Obetsydeeds@aol.com

(From the August '03 issue)
Fundamental(ist) Sex Education 101

In the 1940s, though, I was somewhere between eating the green apples out back and having no idea how or why babies appeared. That changed somewhat when my Cousin Ruth suggested we "play doctor."

Sex Education wasn't taught in New Boston schools when I was a girl, nor in most of Appalachia; it was inherited. According to our Southern Baptist Church, and most other Protestant fundamentalists, it all began with Original Sin in the Garden of Eden with Adam and Eve - correction, make that Eve.

It was all Eve's fault that she and Adam were evicted from the Garden of Eden, because a snake tempted her to pick and taste an apple which God had forbidden to them. Then she convinced - okay, forced - Adam to take a bite of the apple too. It was a Delicious apple. God got so mad about it that he made them leave the Garden and go out into the Land of Nod, which was considered a bad neighborhood. While there, they magically had two sons named Cain and Abel. Wait a minute - let me clarify this again. Eve had two sons.

Because she picked the Forbidden Fruit and convinced Adam to have some too, and because she gave birth to two sons and eventually other children who had still more children, Eve was guilty of Original Sin. Somehow, this meant that all of us who were born after them, forever after, were conceived in Sin.

Furthermore, we remain sinners unless we Get Saved.

Anyway, at about 7 or 8 years of age, it was all still pretty murky. I wasn't sure whether this actually meant we shouldn't eat any apples without God's permission. But there was an apple tree in Mamaw and Papaw's backyard, and I loved to climb up in its branches and eat them, even when they were still green. I often had belly-aches afterward, but I didn't give birth to any children.

This was before the '60s, readers, or whenever Americans got around to teaching sex education in schools, and parents told children more explicit information than how their mothers had swallowed a watermelon which would become a brother or sister.

By the '50s, though, I had decided that Eve got a bum rap in that story. Personally, I think Adam had a hunch what was really going on all along after Eve talked to the snake, and even cooperated with her transgressions. Then he just claimed that since she had gotten him in trouble with The Boss, they might as well eat some more of that apple. And before he could have a cigarette, he probably suggested she might as well make an apple pie while she was up.

In the 1940s, though, I was somewhere between eating the green apples out back and having no idea how or why babies appeared. That changed somewhat when my Cousin Ruth suggested we "play doctor."

Ruth was one of Aunt Alice's seven children, and one of my best friends. Aunt Alice's husband, George, left her after she committed so many original sins. She had to raise the family by herself, which she did remarkably well - with one exception. I'll discuss that later.

There was a barn in the big back quadrant of our yard, and I loved to go inside its musty shade on hot summer days. Most of the time, I read books there, or just daydreamed. But one fateful day, Cousin Ruth came over and suggested that we "play doctor." I asked her how we did that, and she said it was like going to the doctor (rare in New Boston) and that we take off our clothes and look at our bodies. And thus it came to pass that I Showed Her Mine and She Showed Me Hers.

They were the same things. What could we do except look at each other? But we felt suitably satisfied that we had sinned until a large shadowy figure appeared at the barn door. It was my Cousin Tony, the exception to Aunt Alice's success at raising nice kids. Tony was about 15 years old at that time, tall and husky, and a star football player on Glenwood High School's football team. He was a snob who thought he was hot stuff because all the teenage girls hung around him.

He never said nice things to us younger kids. I didn't like Tony at all.

He immediately deduced what we were doing and said we were not doing it right. In a rare act of benevolence, he offered to help by playing doctor with us. Gee, that was nice of Tony, but what were we supposed to do now?

Immediately he looked at Ours with a smirk on his face, and then proudly announced that he was going to show us His. And he did. What a shock!

Ruth and I both gasped and stared at it while he smiled and preened himself and did some things (alone) with that peculiar thing that hung between his legs. I wondered how he could walk, least of all play football, with His Thing. It looked pretty awkward. I also thought it was ugly.

Before our sex education continued, however, the barn door opened and there stood Aunt Alice and my Mom who, along with my stepfather, had been visiting me at Mamaw and Papaw's house.

I lived with my grandparents because my stepfather didn't like my living in his house because I wasn't "his." He and Mom had two sons, and when I did stay at their house, I enjoyed being with my kid brother, Jim, but I never got along too well with my other brother, Doug.

All told, though, I definitely preferred the arrangement of living with Mamaw and Papaw, Mom's parents. Their house, my home most of the time, was quiet and peaceful; nobody shouted or argued, and I was loved.

I can't do justice to the terrible scene that ensued once we were caught, or all the things Mom and Aunt Alice and my stepfather shouted at us, since they were all shouting at once. They made Ruth and me put on our clothes, then grabbed us by the collars and dragged us to the front porch. Mamaw came out to see what all the fuss was about. She cried, but didn't yell at us. The others had a great time restaging The Inquisition.

As previously noted, Baptists are big on guilt and confessing. Ruth confessed her guilt right away, but had trouble beating me to the punch, because I tried to confess first.

However, Cousin Tony, whom Aunt Alice took with all her family to the Nazarene church, even stricter than the Baptists, didn't confess to being a sinner. Instead, he dropped to his knees on the porch, lifted up his hands to the sky and shouted, "Oh, God, if I am guilty of these sins, please strike me dead right here and now!"

Oh, boy! I can't remember the exact words that raced through my mind, but I can re-create their essence: "OK God, you heard him. He was guilty of sinning too, so kill him right now!" I expected he would fall over immediately, but I didn't have time to imagine what fun it would be to go to his funeral.

That's because Aunt Alice embraced him, sobbing and crying, "Hallelujah! I knew he didn't sin. Tony has The Calling! He's going to be a preacher!" Even my Mom bought the story, apparently; at least she didn't say he should be punished too. Mamaw turned away and walked back into the house without saying a word.

That left the two confessed sinners, Cousins Ruth and Betty, to accept their fate. Aunt Alice duly gave Ruth a hearty spanking, while my stepfather voluntarily took on the responsibility of beating the living daylights out of me.

Ruth was hauled back to Aunt Alice's house, while Cousin Tony continued to look heavenward and chant, "Hallelujah, Glory be to God for this victory!" He even managed to walk with a strut despite that thing hanging between his legs.

By the way, Cousin Tony did become a minister when he grew up, although according to family rumors, he was discharged from two of his ministries for impregnating two teenagers (one per church). He is still alive, though, and as far as I know, still preaching.

In retrospect, I realize that that Apocalyptic incident was almost a zero in sex education, but it was the beginning of my understanding of how Eve must have felt when she had to leave the Garden of Eden and Adam didn't even have to have babies for eating the same apple she did.

For the time being, though, I just cried on my bed, and Mamaw rubbed my back to comfort me, saying only, "Hush now. You'll feel better soon." But her mouth was set in a very grim line.

I suspect she had received the same lesson in sex education long before I did.

email Obetsydeeds@aol.com

(From the July '03 issue)
A Sobering Experience: Papaw, Mamaw and I Join A.A.

While the other females and kids kept their proper place in the kitchen, I sneaked around corners and eavesdropped on proceedings in the living room.

In June's "Appalachian Sprung," I wrote about my adventures and misadventures as a grade school companion to my grandfather when he took me to the best of New Boston's bars, the Mill Lake Inn. Other kids came into the bar occasionally, but only to try to get their fathers to return home or to make sure milk was picked up on the way back.

Unlike the other children, I remained at the bar with Papaw while he drank, reading comic books and throwing peanuts at the big Grizzly bear staked outside, until we wound our way home, sometimes in unsteady fashion.

The drinking was not discussed at home, at least not by Papaw. A proud, unbending man, he never conceded that his drinking habits were out of control. About 1950, though, he was informed by Dr. Bloom, New Boston's only doctor, that he would die soon if he did not stop drinking. Mamaw told me this one day just before a big black ambulance stopped outside our home to take him away. She said he had to go to a hospital far away, "Up North." I thought she meant Columbus, which was the northern limit of my childhood travels.

I realize now that it is possible, perhaps probable, that Papaw was taken to St. Thomas Hospital in Akron. It was then the only hospital in the country giving rehabilitative care ("drying out") to people with drinking problems. Dr. Robert Smith, a surgeon who was co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous along with a stockbroker named William G. Wilson in 1935, was on staff there.

They were the first to recognize alcoholism as a physical disease as well as a mental and emotional problem. After receiving medical care, recovering alcoholics who left St. Thomas often joined A.A. in their own hometowns, which Dr. Bob and Bill W. - as they would become known to the world - had developed into a national program.

In Papaw's case, meetings were held in Portsmouth, just west of us. Papaw "officially" joined A.A. by admitting - as the first step of their 12 step program - that he was "powerless over alcohol" and it had made his life unmanageable. I didn't hear him say those words the first time. Considering his stiff-necked pride, I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for him to stand in front of the others and say: "My name is Frank W., and I am an alcoholic."

Mamaw and I eventually joined him at the Saturday night meetings in a large empty house. What had once been a huge living room was now filled with folding metal chairs. Papaw and his fellows members (no women were present at that time) sat in there by themselves. Although A.A. does hold open meetings which allow families or anyone else interested in solving a drinking problem to attend while members have discussions about past experiences as alcoholics and the difficulties of staying sober, there are also closed meetings limited solely to members.

Mamaw and the other wives and (rarely) their children all gathered together in a kitchen at the back of the house. They brought along homemade cakes and pies and brewed fresh coffee for refreshments later. The women never sat in on the meetings themselves. I suspect that the Appalachian culture in which families did nearly everything together accounted for our actually being there.

Papaw had always refused to go to church with Mamaw and me on Sundays, a habit which did not change after joining A.A., although he regularly practiced the Twelve Steps and recited The Serenity Prayer: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference."

Apparently Mamaw had the wisdom to know the difference between Papaw's embracing sobriety thru the partially faith-based program of A.A. and finally getting him to join the Baptist Church, because I don't recall her pestering him about it. Churchgoing involved sitting through long sermons about what to do or not do (primarily anything which hinted of pleasure) in order to avoid being condemned to Hell. Papaw voluntarily acknowledged his drinking problem and a need to change it, but he was not about to have someone order him how to behave.

Aside from missing the Glenwood High School basketball games on Saturday nights, I welcomed the time spent at the A.A. meetings and found a new interest in these occasions: listening to the men tell stories about their struggles with alcohol. While the other females and kids kept their proper place in the kitchen, I sneaked around corners and eavesdropped on proceedings in the living room.

Oh, the terrible things they had done while drunk! The misdeeds, the hangovers (physical and mental) and, worst, the pain they caused to the people they loved - sometimes losing them- were recounted in excruciating detail. Yet, expurgating these experiences allowed them to realize that they were no worse and no better than other recovering alcoholics. At the time of their downfall, they felt they were all alone in their pain and that no one else had ever scraped the bottom of the barrel of humanity as low or as hard as they did.

Papaw did not speak often, but he was a man of few words anyway. However, I do recall his confessing some of the things I already knew firsthand - such as the night he swerved off Rhodes Avenue into the field facing the steel mill, plowing the '36 Pontiac into a power pole. ("Betty Lou, I think we'll walk home tonight.") I never heard him mention the empty pint bottles of that era's equivalent of Thunderbird wine in the quilts on his bed, nor how I put them back in place when he asked me to "make" his bed. (I thought I was preserving his collection.)

He did bring up one story I had long forgotten. I must have been very young when he took me to a carnival in Portsmouth - after having a few drinks. I never got to ride the Merry-go-Round because Papaw stopped to play something called a shell game. I watched him take change from his pockets and place it on a stand as he tried to guess which shell was hiding a pea the huckster manipulated. Papaw kept guessing wrong, but placed new bets until all the money was gone.

As we walked back through the sawdust, he held my hand and said, crestfallen and ashamed as I had never seen him: "Betty Lou, I've made a fool of myself and I've wasted all your Mama's money." Yes, it came back to me with fresh pain when he told his fellow members.

One incident I never knew about until he told it there (a marathon confession of not "how great I was" but "how hard and low I fell") was his stealing Mamaw's iron. Her precious, always-needed iron, which she applied to every item of clean laundry, was sold to obtain a little money for drinking. Shameful and terrible indeed.

Listening intently, though, I also detected in these alcoholic accounts a certain sense of competition: "You think that was bad? Wait until I tell you about the time..." Or even a fugitive sense of nostalgia. After all, when they committed those drunken acts, sometimes they probably enjoyed it, or, as the cliché goes, "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

There was one man whose name escapes me, but his story never has. He couldn't recall how it all began aside from getting drunk, but when he woke up one day, he found himself on a coal barge on the Ohio River, floating along with all the other flotsam and jetsam on that polluted water. He wound up somewhere in Kentucky. "That was some trip," he sighed, before laughing, "I just wish I could remember it."

There was one unqualified tragedy in the A.A. programs, though. It occurred on meeting nights when one of the "regulars" didn't show up. It meant he had probably fallen off the wagon. A pall of dread and anxiety would fall over the room. Would he make it back, or was he lost? Of course, it was a reminder of how precarious their own hold on sobriety was and always would be. That is why alcoholics always speak of themselves as "recovering," not "recovered."

The fellowship which began for those men and their families at the meetings often extended to personal friendships which were taken home, at least that was our own experience. Eventually, Mamaw's wonderful Sunday dinners began to include at least three additional people from the A.A. "family."

One was Rev. Frank Fox, accompa-nied by wife Gretchen, who used his full name freely in our home. He always said grace before Mamaw's fried chicken was touched. Another was a World War II veteran, Warren K. who had lost both his legs and was confined to a wheelchair. We developed a special closeness, and he would make sure to put a drumstick, my favorite, on my plate. He also listened to my stories about school, although he never spoke about the war or having a family besides us. Mamaw told me privately never to ask him questions about that.

Occasionally Warren would go to the Veterans Administration Hospital in Chillicothe for care and would send me postcards making silly jokes he knew I'd enjoy. During one extended stretch, the postcards stopped coming. Mamaw drew me aside, hugged me and told me that Warren was dead. He had tried to throw himself out a bathroom window, but he couldn't scale the wall, and attendants pulled him down, foiling his suicide attempt. However, he caught pneumonia and died.

Over the coming years, Papaw and Mamaw introduced newer A.A. members into our home and extended family. Papaw never once "relapsed." He remained sober until the end of his life at the age of 73. He never gave up smoking, though. He did stop hand-rolling that Bugler Tobacco and switched to Camels.

Gratefully, he and Mamaw enjoyed a kind of companionship I'd never seen before, despite the obvious bond they had always had, even during his years of drinking. It might not have involved going to church, mind you, but there were family outings, including drive-in movies!

Mamaw was thrilled to see the Cecil B. DeMille spectacle, Samson and Delilah. So was I, although I wondered why Victor Mature was dumb enough to let Hedy Lamarr cut his hair, and worse, pull down those pillars and crush himself and everyone else in the Coliseum.

Once we traveled all the way to Indianapolis with Uncle Bud and Aunt Renie to "see" the Memorial Day 500 mile race. We parked in a dusty field, never even near, least of all inside, the big fence which enclosed the race. Nonetheless, we were there, and heard the deafening noise of the circling wheels and became covered with clouds of dust that settled over all the baskets of picnic food Mamaw had spread on several tablecloths. We swallowed the dust along with the food.

Most often, we drove to Ashland, Kentucky to visit relatives, a 25-mile excursion which took at least two or three hours at Papaw's accustomed driving speed, which sometimes only went as high as the distance. At times other cars pulled around us and people yelled things we couldn't hear. They might as well have been saying the Serenity Prayer. Unperturbed, Papaw continued at his stately pace.

What it amounted to, in a wonderful collective way, was a life that fulfilled the lesser known part of that prayer: "Living one day at a time; Enjoying one moment at a time; Accepting hardships as the path-way to peace; � Trusting that (we) may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy � Forever in the next."

I don't know about the "next world," but after Papaw joined A.A., things were truly happier and more peaceful for us in this one.

(From the June '03 issue)
Grade School By Day ... Barfly By Night

At least two or three nights a week, he would say, "Betty Lou, how would you like to go with me to the Mill Lake Inn?" He knew I would be overjoyed, and off we went.

When I was a child living with my grandparents in New Boston, I didn't realize that my grandfather was an alcoholic. I'm not sure he did either. This was strange, considering we both went to the same bar, The Mill Lake Inn, several evenings a week.

It was so-named because the Inn sat on the edge of a lake placed there by the steel mill. The rest of the mill's view consisted of blast furnaces and smokestacks spewing their marks against the hellish red sky. No one looked too long in that direction, though. The intent was for patrons to get blasted themselves.

In retrospect, I'm sure Papaw knew he was drinking enough to make my Mamaw unhappy, but I never heard her complain. After all, my grandmother was a busy woman. During the weekdays, she took me with her to work nearly every morning at 6 am when I wasn't in school or on vacation. Mamaw hung wallpaper steadily in houses in New Boston and Portsmouth, the large town just west of us. A realtor who handled most of the property there kept her busy.

Every morning, I awoke to conflicting aromas: coffee brewing, bacon frying, and a large steel kettle of blue Argo starch being brewed with water into an enormous batch of wallpaper paste. It had a strange sweet fragrance that I associated with both her dexterous brushing of it on the wallpaper and with the picture of the man on the Argo box-cover dressed in long robes with the long white beard. I figured he must be God.

While she brushed her waist-length hair, braiding and folding it into a crown around her head, the radio would be tuned to the "Cadle's Tabernacle." Someone always sang, Ere You Left Your Room This Morning, Did You Think To Pray?

I didn't, but I knew it was time to have my bacon and eggs (no coffee) and get Mamaw's brightly patterned homemade starched aprons from the bureau to take to work. Later, she placed a cotton belt of sorts with pockets to hold her brushes and tools.

Papaw lifted up the long folding boards which she would set up once we reached her work site to hold long stretches of wallpaper, along with the ladders she climbed to reach the ceilings of the empty rooms she transformed into paper gardens.

He would place the boards and ladders on top of our '36 Pontiac and tie them with ropes and drive us to our destination. When the weather was cold, we took along a portable metal kerosene heater which she moved from room to room to keep us comfortable and to aid the drying of her symmetrical strips.

Somehow, she always managed to find books (a rare commodity in New Boston) for me to read while I sat in the corner and waited. After her parents died, she had been forced to leave school in the second grade, and her older brother "sold her into bondage" to work in other people's homes for her keep. She wanted me to read so that I would never have to do the same. She loved to listen. Reading and freedom were tied in her mind as necessary, and she made sure I realized that.

Papaw would pick us up in the afternoon. Once home, Mamaw would prepare tasty meals with staples of hill country diets - beans, greens, potatoes and flaky biscuits - but she also fixed dishes she must have learned when she cooked for a hotel as a young woman: pork chops with potato slices and sauerkraut baked under a rich cream stands out in my memory. The origin of many of her standards seemed Pennsylvania Dutch.

Afterwards, we sat on the porch, and, when I had been "double promoted" in the second grade because of my reading skills, she had me read The Portsmouth Times to her. After I covered the news of car wrecks and domestic violence, she always asked me to read the scriptures to her. Some of the words were difficult, but there was a musical rhythm involved in separating the syllables that I still appreciate.

Then she would go into the kitchen to clean the dishes and take her bath, and Papaw and I would sit on the porch alone for a while. He was always polite to other adults, calling them ma'am or sir. He was a proud man. Courteous but somewhat laconic otherwise. Only with me, as I remember, did he let down his guard. I would climb onto his lap, put my face into those wrinkles of his, and kiss the tobacco smell that clung to his skin.

"How much do you love me?" he would ask. Mamaw asked the same question, and my answer was the same to both of them. "I love you all the bushels and all the pecks in heaven." I knew what bushels were because of the baskets I'd seen, but I had no idea how to measure a peck except that it must be enormous, for I loved them beyond measure, really.

When I climbed down, Papaw would reach into his shirt pocket and produce a package of Bugler's Tobacco. There was a picture of a WWI soldier on the front playing a bugle. A little metal device with a rubber conveyer belt, required to put the shreds of tobacco into papers, was on the porch table. I begged Papaw to allow me to roll his cigarettes, and he would let me do that, with more patience than I could have realized. When the cylinders had been formed, I took my tongue and generously moistened the edges of the paper, which were thin and sagged a lot.

After that, at least two or three nights a week, he would say, "Betty Lou, how would you like to go with me to the Mill Lake Inn?" He knew I would be overjoyed, and off we went.

The Mill Lake Inn was a long one-story building with an equally long linoleum-covered counter and high stools where the men sat while they drank their choice of the many rows of bottles lined up in front of the mirror.

There were metal advertising signs on the wall, and most of the men drank beer whose names were there. Papaw imbibed something dark in a small glass. The other men usually conversed with one another, but Papaw didn't say much to anyone except me. I would sit on the floor under the metal racks that held potato chips and peanuts and comic books.

After we had been there long enough, I would tug on the cuffs of his trousers and ask if I could buy some peanuts to feed the bear. A bear? Honest and true - a big wooly bear was in the yard outside the bar, chained to a stake in the ground.

Don't ask me why there was a bear outside the Mill Lake Inn. I had no idea, but I liked to go outside at least once during the evening and, standing back at a safe distance, throw peanuts at him. He scarfed them down and made loud noises, but I don't think he was dangerous. By the time I finished, Papaw was usually ready to make his way home. (The mill had the bear as a strange attraction or mascot, and Papaw had me as his companion/mascot.)

And so we would head home in the '36 Pontiac with the chrome Indian head on the hood. Its profile reminded me of Papaw. Grandma White, his mother, was part-Cherokee Indian, I'd been told, and his bone structure mirrored her high cheekbones and nose as surely as Chief Pontiac's.

I did not learn until I was an adult, and both Papaw and Mamaw had been dead several years, that Papaw was a direct descendant of one Peregrine White, a baby born to Sarah and Edward White aboard the Mayflower on its voyage to Plymouth, Massachusetts. Papaw never mentioned it, and may not have known. He had an aristocratic bearing and manner, and he didn't work much, although I'm not sure that was because of his background.

I had seen a picture of him when he was a handsome young man, sitting astride a motorcycle, serving as Police Chief of New Boston, Ohio. From time to time, he would drive trucks long distance and be gone several days. And he also groomed and trained horses occasionally.

Most of the time, though, Papaw was unemployed.

When we returned home, he would usually say that he was hungry and ask me, "Would you go inside and make me a fried egg sandwich, Betty Lou?" And I did. (Mamaw was in her bed asleep by then.) But when I carried the plate with his sandwich back to the car, he was almost always sound asleep. And that's where he would stay on those nights, in the car, sitting straight upright. His spine was perfectly aligned with the back of the seat.

On other occasions, he went into his bedroom. From time to time, he would ask me if I would mind making up the bed, and I was glad to do it. We did not have central heating yet, so Mamaw made plenty of quilts for us. There were at least four on Papaw's bed. I peeled back the layers one by one, removing small bottles scattered over each blanket, smoothed out the wrinkles, and neatly replaced the bottles. He hadn't asked me to remove them or throw them away. I thought he must be saving them.

The only disruptive thing I remember about our trips to the Mill Lake Inn was one night when we were riding home and I noticed that the car seemed to curve back and forth on the street. Papaw turned it to the left, and suddenly we were riding across the field in front of the steel mill.

By that time, I was yelling and crying, "Papaw, we're not in the street anymore � Papaw, we're in the mill field." The car rocked back and forth in the hard chunks of mud before it collided headfirst into a power pole. I was all shaking and scared.

"You hit the pole, Papaw. We're going to die!"

He didn't say anything for a while, just sat there, staring at the pole. His only response to me was, "Ain't that bear by the lake a smart thing? It's a good thing you give him peanuts." Then he opened his door, which took awhile, and walked around to my side, opened it carefully, and lifted me out.

"Betty Lou," he said calmly, "I think we'll walk home tonight."

And so the years passed with no declaration that Papaw had a drinking problem, until 1950 when I was in the ninth grade. Mamaw took me onto her lap and explained that Dr. Bloom told her that Papaw was very sick and needed to get help or he would die.

He was going away to a hospital in Columbus awhile, she explained, as a big black ambulance pulled up. They carried a stretcher into the house, and by the time they carried Papaw out, pale and wan, tears were streaming down all our faces - even his.

It was two weeks before he returned home and walked in the front door again.

e-mail Obetsydeeds@aol.com

Coming Next Month:

Papaw, Mamaw and I join Alcoholics Anonymous

(From the May '03 issue)
Patty Scarpelli's Star Turn

Girls wore skirts with crinolines, some adorned with poodles,
or straight skirts with a slight slit from mid-calf to the knees �

There is a time between spring and summer that always signals another year's crop of high school graduates. They blossom suddenly in Columbus' finest restaurants, the 18-year-olds in their tuxes or dance dresses, having dinner before The Prom. It is a sight that makes most of us smile to ourselves, and not without poignancy.

We remember our own proms and graduations, if not the words of "commencement" wisdom we barely heard, least of all remember. It stirs instead a montage of memories of what we have experienced in the years since we left high school ourselves: college, perhaps; dreams and ambitions lost or fulfilled; the marriages and children and the few friends we still cling to while others have vanished into the past.

There is only one thing for sure that lies ahead of all these hopeful young men and women, whether they choose to attend them or not: decades of reunions with their classmates. Class reunions are an annual American rite - a time when one debates whether or not to Go Back: to compare waists and hairlines and whatever fate has wrought while exchanging stories about the past.

As a graduate of Columbus Central High School's Class of 1953 (I was only 16, so I can't be that old), I'm contemplating the prospect of what this landmark 50th year reunion might reveal. Fifty years? Impossible! I may forget where I put my glasses and car keys, but how could I have misplaced a half century?

More easily than I could ever have imagined. There are a few choice years that you endure all your life, those that were an eternity in themselves, but most slip by as quietly as moments or months, the math uncounted.

Ours was a large class, well over 200 people. Central High School, now the classical façade on the east side of COSI over-looking the Scioto River, was a magnet school. In 1953, that meant students from all parts of the city could attend rather than those in their designated neighborhoods. Vocational education and other specialties drew many students. Long before legal segregation, we were a mixture of all races. One commonality: none of us was wealthy.

It was the early '50s. A time when only two or three students had cars. Only boys wore jeans. Girls wore skirts with crinolines, some adorned with poodles, or straight skirts with a slight slit from mid-calf to the knees. The daring ones of both genders often sported ducktail haircuts. The stratification included cheerleaders, football players and others who were "in" by clothes and invisible criteria; the academic set that made the honor rolls, put out the school papers and yearbooks, and were involved in music and drama; and a pre-James Dean set of guys who wore cigarette packs in the sleeves of their T-shirts, usually followed by "their" girls, some "loose." And then there were the loners who didn't belong, period.

Patty Scarpelli was definitely a loner. Barely five feet tall, she had enormous breasts which seemed to endanger her balance, and she clutched her books against her chest defensively. Her clothes were few and unstylish, but her short, shaggy brown hair framed a sweet smile in a sweet face. When she passed others in the halls, she always smiled, whispered "Hi," and passed on without pausing. Rarely did anyone try to stop her or engage in conversation.

Joyce Jones Buck, our Class Secretary and compulsive organizer, once got four or five of her friends to save their lunch money for a week (no small sacrifice) to purchase some clothes for Patty and give her a home permanent. Patty was reluctant to accept the gesture at first, but finally agreed and thanked them. Afterwards, she went her solitary way, just as before.

It was ten years before we had our first class reunion, and perhaps 15 years before any alumni heard or saw anything of Patty Scarpelli. Joyce Buck, involved in the planning and hard work of a half century of these events, thinks it was that late -or a bit later - before she connected with Patty. After checking all the Scarpellis in the phone book, she reached a woman who told her simply, in Italian-marked English, "Patty, she in Chicag-ee." She gave Joyce her phone number there, and thus did it come to pass that Patty made reservations for herself and several companions to fly back to Columbus for a class reunion.

The motel ballroom was crowded with well over 100 of us that evening, moving from table to table during cocktail hour to exchange stories of how we were faring. I don't remem-ber a spotlight being turned on, but there might as well have been when Patty Scarpelli came into the room suddenly, making a dazzling entrance in a clinging white dress that Marilyn Monroe might have worn, her now shapely figure disciplined by fine lingerie, and her height balanced by high heels and beautifully teased hair.

She was also wearing what I remember as a white fur stole, which revealed a huge white orchid corsage when she removed it and finally draped it on the chair where she was escorted by at least three or four guys wearing black suits. They didn't carry violin cases, but there was something about their appearance that made you feel they might. They were definitely protective in the way they surrounded Patty, who introduced one as her secretary and another as her driver to the people who rushed to form a crowd at her table. That process continued all night, but I must confess, I was enjoying the spectacle so much that I didn't go to the table. I have no idea what was said. I preferred to imagine it.

After dinner, when the dancing started, Patty found herself facing a long, long line of anxious guys waiting to ask her for a dance. She didn't sit out one number the entire evening. She knew all the new dances and demonstrated the moves for her partners and what can only properly be called her audience.

There is a phrase in show business called a "star turn." It occurs on a stage or on film when all eyes are focused on only one person. That night, it was indisputably Patty's Star Turn, and it was absolutely wonderful. It didn't take much imagination to realize that she must have dreamed of that scene without hope during her student years, and perhaps had planned it for years after graduating. And somehow the rest of us savored it with her and for her.

When she finally vanished into the night, as the rest of us also left, her "bodyguards followed her into the darkness - and oblivion. In the 35-40 years since, she has never returned for another reunion. Attempts to reach her have always proven fruitless.

Wherever she went and whatever has happened to her since then, she left no clues. It was as if she had just passed us in the halls one last time, said "Hi," and walked away smiling.

In the decades since, though, not one Central High School reunion has passed without somebody asking, "Hey, remember the night when Patty Scarpelli came back, all dressed up and looking like a knockout and �" Her Star Turn has become legend to the Class of '53.

It was re-told once more at our 45th reunion, when only 65 or 70 of us showed up, mostly the "regulars" who make it a habit to come from wherever they live to join the dwindling group again. Certainly it's a safe bet that her name will be invoked at this fiftieth, when none of us will believe that a half century has passed, even though many of us have passed on. But someone will be sure to re-tell the story, as surely as none of us expects to see her again.

Patty, wherever you are, here's to you!

e-mail Obetsydeeds@aol.com

(From the April '03 issue)

Letters to The Editor:

Why not move the State Capitol to New Rome - in name alone and start collecting on those speeding tickets?

I like to read Letters to the Editor in newspaper and magazines to discover what my fellow citizens are thinking and saying about the issues of the day. I rarely write to editors myself, though (excluding the e-mails I send to Margaret Marten, our Short North Gazette editor).

Whether I agree with what I read or not, most people put together fairly reasonable arguments for their stances. I'm just not sure that the current administration in Washington, like many others, listens to reason.

For example, right now we are involved in a necessary battle against al-Qaeda terrorists who came to our country and killed Americans out of fanatical hatred. That is a battle which will probably endure throughout our lifetimes and those of

our children and grandchildren. The "religious" bloodbath between Israel and Palestine continues. The United States' federal budget, which actually had a surplus two years ago, is now in a massive deficit which grows by the day, and the overall economy is lousy. Need a job?

Try China.

What do we do now?

President Bush says we should - and will - go to war against Iraq, no matter how many people disagree with him. In fact, it was after the snowplows came down my street after the Big Snow that I awakened early one morning and leaned out the door to get my copy of The Columbus Dispatch. With my eyes still at half mast, I poured some milk into a bowl of cornflakes, sat down at the table and propped up the front page. I can only paraphrase the headline story on page one. Bush, it said, considered millions of anti-war protestors around the world (including several hundred thousand Americans) "irrelevant." My eyes popped open, my mouth dropped open and I dropped my spoon into the cereal bowl, splashing milk on the paper. "IRRELEVANT?" I shouted to the skies. "Did he really say IRRELEVANT?"

I found myself stomping around the kitchen like Rumpelstiltskin, angry beyond printable words. What would it take to get through to this man that going to war with Iraq - again!- is the last thing we should be doing with all these other problems on our hands? He's like a bullheaded kid who insists on his way no matter what it costs in innocent lives, so long as he can get even with Hussein for living through the Persian Gulf War. And having all that oil.

This is it. I am finally going to write a letter to the Editor. Any editor.

By the time this sees print, we may already be at war in Iraq � but I have an idea how we can stop it. It may sound crazy, but the prospect of this war is crazy. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Dear Editor:

Why doesn't the U.N., the Pope or anyone else who can manage it, see that both George W. Bush and Saddam Hussein are placed in a boxing ring in one of the "irrelevant" countries that doesn't want this war. All other people will stop fighting. Leave the two alone and let them slug it out. No gloves. Frankly, Bush doesn't look like much of a fighter, but then, Hussein is older and reputedly has a bad back. If either is still standing after a few blows- well, to the victor belongs the oil wells.

Sincerely,

Desperately Irrelevant

While I'm at it, I might as well suggest a measure to ease our problems in state government.

Dear Editor:

Take Gov. Robert A. Taft ... please. Have you noticed how much he resembles Chevy Chase, the actor who plays Clark Griswold in the National Lampoon Vacation movies? It's particularly noticeable when he grins. I know he doesn't need a job, even the one he has; his forebears probably put away a few dollars for a rainy day. But he's running out of things to tax to alleviate the awful budget deficit Ohio is in, along with most other states.

There is one possible alternative which seems more lucrative than anything else he can tap now. There's a little place west of Columbus called New Rome. The Mayor and City Council of New Rome made truly big bucks for years by fining speeders who raced through their little burg without realizing they had left a highway.

I think New Rome's government may have been dissolved, but all the better. Why not move the State Capitol to New Rome - in name alone - and start collecting on those speeding tickets? Gov. Taft might have to live there quite awhile, but in the meantime, members of the Columbus School Board might be able to move Bill Moss to Taft's office and let him pound his shoe on the Governor's desk. This would help their situation a lot.

I voted for the Columbus schools tax levy, since I don't buy Lotto tickets. Nil disperandum. I feel better about things already.

Sincerely,

Feeling Better in Columbus

P.S. While I'm at it�

Dear Editor:

Columbus Mayor Michael Coleman is a Democrat, although he doesn't always show it, and is doing a pretty good job of running the city. Well, the snowplow situation didn't work out too well, and he laid off three workers before we know it's over, but by and large, he's OK. The thing is, he's lived and worked among so many Republicans for years, he could use a slightly jazzier style. Does anyone know where Jack Sensenbrenner left his straw skimmer hat? If so, it would be nice if Mayor Coleman could wear it awhile, hand out flags and maybe do a little soft shoe. Let's have "Spizzerinctum" at City Hall again!

Sincerely,

Definitely Feeling Better in Columbus

I think of poet Emily Dickinson's words, "This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me." Well, the world is writing back, but apparently we need a translator because someone doesn't seem to understand.

(From the March '03 issue)

New Boston Makes News!

According to the EPA, the air quality in New Boston during the 1990s was worse than the largest industrial areas in America and many Third World countries.

At the left, New Boston sprawls along the Ohio River. Above right, Lulu and Frank White ( Mamaw and Papaw).

Well, I don't know if things have been quiet in Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegon recently, but there's been a whole lot of ruckus in my hometown, New Boston, Ohio - and even national publicity about this tiny town where nearly all the able-bodied men have worked in its steel mill over a span of 86 years, women knew how to cook beans and greens a dozen ways, and kids didn't know things were better anyplace else.

Many, if not most Ohioans do not even know New Boston exists. It helps to point out that it is just east of Portsmouth, which is about 85 miles south of Columbus, surrounded by the foothills of the Cumberland Mountains.

As you turn left into Portsmouth, off Route 23 to Route 52 East, it is such a short distance to New Boston that only a small sign saying NEW BOSTON (often unnoticed) indicates you have reached it. When I was growing up there in the '40s and early '50s, it appeared to say "Pop. 500," but the numbers were too rusted to trust. Its current population is 2,340.

Wedged in by the hills on its northern border, there are less than a dozen streets before you reach its other perimeter, the flood-prone Ohio River. The rest of the town is bound by and interwoven with large parts of a monolith once called Detroit Steel. It made rods and bearings when I was there. The remaining parts of its smokestacks and ovens are now called New Boston Coke.

I believe The Mill (which was all we ever called it) originated as a "company town," for its main street and a couple of small arteries used to be lined with brick row houses. They appeared to have been built no later than the '20s or '30s. The grade school, high school and the Police Department resembled most public build-ings erected as WPA projects during the Depression.

Houses such as the one I shared with my grandparents, Lulu and Frank White (Mamaw and Papaw) were usually small one-story frame buildings, most of them optimistically painted white. It was impossible to keep them truly clean inside or out. Attempts to sweep The Mill's ever-drifting black soot off the porch were as constant and futile as Mickey Mouse's nightmarish mopping in Fantasia.

The only source of income for most people there, The Mill usually operated around the clock. At night, blast furnaces emitted such intense heat, the sky was red. Smokestacks belched black clouds of their waste and noxious odors. Unidentifiable noises were part of the air, punctuated by whistles to mark changing work shifts.

Our house was only a half block away from a part of The Mill where workers came to take their breaks. Situated many feet above the sidewalk where I roller-skated, it was an open section enclosed by a large iron mesh screen. Men hung tired arms against the diagonal openings, and pressed their heads against them to inhale a few minutes of "fresh" air. Great wires in the background were speedily moving metal objects to an unknown destination. Even then, it reminded me of a prison, and the men of caged animals.

Silence in New Boston, when it came, was ominous. It meant The Mill had shut down production for unknown reasons. These intervals sometimes lasted several weeks, and meant great financial hardship for their duration. I have written here before about how members of my Baptist Church prayed for The Mill to resume its terrible work.

Native New Bostonians always realized their existences were at the mercy of God, the Ohio River (which carried coal barges past the C&O tracks, unless it flooded the entire town, as it did in 1937) and above all, The Mill. Without it, few families would have money or food. There was always a sense that lifespans were affected and limited by that, but we didn't know how much so in comparison to those of "outsiders."

Now, after all these decades, we have tangible proof. In their January 12 and 17, 2003 issues, The Columbus Dispatch revealed that New Boston Coke, the last bastion of its ancestors, processed up to 600,000 tons of coal into coke for other Midwest steel operations in the 1990s alone. EPA findings showed it released more than 5,357 tons of benzene and other toxic substances into the air throughout that decade, rather than the 60 tons the company claimed in a 1996 report.

According to the EPA, that made the air quality in New Boston worse than the largest industrial areas in America and many Third World countries. Airborne benzene can cause leukemia and anemia, and the risk of exposed people for develop-ing cancer is one in 500 people. In other urban industrial areas, the average is one case per 100,000 to one in one million.

The mind-boggling news spread from The Columbus Dispatch to national media outlets, including NPR's "All Things Considered." Never heard of New Boston, Ohio? A lot of people have now. But they will forget it soon enough. Just numbers and meaningless statistics without faces attached. Based on these findings in an Ohio EPA suit, Judge William P. Harsha of the Scioto County Common Pleas Court leveled a blistering $2.6 million judgment on New Boston Coke. Who will get the money? Chances are, nobody, not even the EPA, least of all the townspeople, and certainly not the stream of struggling workers over the past 86 years.

New Boston Coke filed for bankruptcy this past June after locking out striking members of the United Steelworkers of America, Local 2116. It is now closed, and there is no expectation that it will ever reopen or any indication that another industry will replace it.

The union's president, Dave Payton, said workers always knew the job was dangerous and that some of their members got cancer, but they were "more concerned about keeping (our) jobs." That statement is a litany I heard the entire time I lived there. The risks posed by The Mill, sensed and experienced, had not been calculated at that time. They were willingly borne for the only livable income available.

People who are unfamiliar with the history and heritage of Appalachia may well ask, "Why would anyone live in such a place to begin with?" The simple answer: "This is our home."

Despite all the hardships there, we clung not only to our relatives, but to our neighbors as an extended family. This custom has probably changed by now, but we never locked our doors. It would have been considered an insult to our neighbors. It was assumed that our belongings and food would be shared if needed.

When The Mill shut down periodically, and weeks might pass without paychecks, John Sanford, the town grocer, strung a long width of clothesline across the front of his store and put his own credit card system (interest-free!) into place. Folding receipt books were used to record each family's purchases, their names placed on the covers -White, Skaggs, Maple, Cotton, Duncan - and secured with clothespins. Once The Mill resumed operation, Mr. Sanford was repaid.

Each reprieve was celebrated with the restoration of fried chicken on our tables come Sunday dinner time. Mr. Sanford purchased live chickens from nearby farmers and put them in his backyard during the week. On Fridays and Saturdays, people bought them and took them home to be slaughtered, plucked and cleaned early in the morning before they were fried in cast iron skillets. The texture and succulent flavor cannot be imagined by anyone who has never bought chicken outside a supermarket.

My grandmother, Martha Lula White, was a working woman, an anomaly in that time and place. Mamaw rose at 5 am every weekday morning before going out to hang wallpaper. She was the most gentle person

I have ever known, but when she chased those birds around the backyard with a hatchet, determined as Lizzie Borden to perform her task, the feathers really flew. She had learned about survival in an earlier time, and it was not refined.

Our home was unusual in that our family unit was smaller than others: just Mamaw, Papaw and I lived there most of the time, although Uncle Bud and Aunt Renie spent almost as much time in our house as in their own "apartment." Renie liked that word. It sounded fancier than their fraction of a rowhouse.

In large families, as most were, the elders were the focus of loving attention and honor, always accorded the most comfortable chair in the house as a symbol of their seniority. Food was often carried to them, placed on folding TV trays, while the set was tuned to programs of their choosing. This did not preclude conversation; everyone carried morsels of news from the neighborhood to keep them in the stream of life. Granny Alexander (my father's mother) was hard of hearing, but made sure she missed nothing by asking repeatedly, "Who got shot?"

The Mill was a Man Thing. It was something rarely discussed at home. All the women needed to know was whether or not the men were working and which shift, so dinner would be ready as soon as they came in the door. My mother once told me that during the 1920's, when "the union" was being debated, there were a lot of bloody fights in town, particularly on Saturday nights at the bars. Otherwise, the details of the job were considered irrelevant once their work day had ended.

After years of living in New Boston, people acquired skin the hue of soot as they aged. When people grew ill, or were dying, they were cared for at home by a primary caregiver (virtually always a woman), while other relatives and neigh-bors could be relied on for "spelling," i.e., providing her with periods of rest, making sure that a friend in need would not suffer alone. There are now nursing homes in Scioto County, so things have probably changed somewhat in that regard, but at that time it would have been considered shameful to take your loved ones to strangers to spend their last years and hours. I believe it is still considered a last resort in many Appalachian families.

So, yes, New Boston was "home," and still is to most of those 2,340 people officially considered residents. Now that the coke processor has closed, though, more of them will probably have to move in search of work, just as there was an exodus in the '50s to Columbus and those other "cousin cities" (places where a relative found work, and sent out word to those back home).

Portsmouth, technically divided only by a measuring line, is a much larger, more business-oriented city, although the economy there is never steady, especially now.

The last bastion of employment for those who want to stay "home" is the state penitentiary at Lucasville, not far north on Route 23. However, those jobs are rarely vacated until retirement or death. The Taft administration's state job cutbacks may affect the number of guards, but only as a last resort, as more jobs fade into the nebulous state being called a recession.

But in New Boston, where the economy has always resembled a recession, if not a Depression, those who are able to remain there will stay, even if it means longer commuting to jobs in other towns.

It is Home, that's why.

Appalachian Ancestry

Our forebears date back to the English and Scots-Irish people who first moved into Virginia in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. Gradually, they migrated northwards to the Blue Ridge and Cumberland Mountains, and by the early 1800s, others explored and settled into Kentucky and West Virginia. For generations, they clung to the bottomlands they could farm while cherishing the beauty of the mountains and maintaining both their independence and clannish ties.

After the Civil War, "Gilded Era" profiteers explored the area and found priceless lodes of coal and immense stands of virgin timber. They knew the people who lived there did not want to leave their homes, so they offered to let them live on the land forever while they paid them as little as 50 cents an acre in exchange for the mineral rights to land. The industrialists proceeded to ravage the land around them of coal and timber, and repercussions of that process continue to this day.

I once covered the aftermath of an explosion at a coal mine in Hyden, West Virginia which killed more than a dozen men, most of them related. When I sought out the mine's "owner," I found he leased the land from the Ford Motor Company, which had bought it decades before to use timber for their buggy wheels. Ford is probably still reaping a profit on that original 50 cents an acre investment.

Deep coal mining continued full bore until after World War II. By that time, the primary sources had played out and only a few underground operations and strip mining remained. It wasn't enough to support much of the population then. Regretfully, migrants began the move North to look for work.

Many of them came to Cincinnati, Columbus, Cleveland and Detroit at that time. It has been estimated that perhaps a third of Columbus' population originally came from Appalachian roots. By now, that first tide of migrants is largely "assimilated" into Columbus' lifestyle and mores. Succeeding waves of people from the hills, and by the late '50s and the '60s, others settled in clusters of "their own people" in the south end, the Bottoms, and parts of what is now Victorian Village and the Short North. Renovated houses on Third Avenue,

for instance, used to house many Appalachian migrants who often met at The Godman Guild for both material help and companionship. I interviewed some of them for Columbus Monthly.

Inevitably, the upscale housing and wonderful restaurants, art galleries and boutiques which line High Street south of Fifth Avenue displaced them. Even at that time, though, they were aware of the scorn their accents and customs evoked from their new neighbors. "I don't mind if they call me a hillbilly," one woman laughed ruefully, "as long as they don't call me a damned hillbilly."

Those who have remained in southern Ohio's industrialized river valley, notably New Boston, Ironton and Ashland, Ky., clung to the steel work - and later to exposure to plutonium in the federal government's nuclear facility at Piketon (known to natives as "the A Bomb Plant" - also risked its hazards to remain in a bonding beauty that outsiders can never see from highways.

For them, thankfully, the State of Ohio park system has preserved more than 60,000 acres of virgin timber, trees and roads winding around the tops of hills overlooking the Ohio river. Shawnees once camped there and watched the white newcomers come to displace them. In spring, the countryside is glorious as dogwood and redwood trees bloom. In autumn, the woods catch fire with color. But it is only back in the hollows and creeks, where frame and trailers stubbornly park there (abandoned only long enough for the waters to recede)

that people know the land year around. They cling to it, themselves (fiercely independent) and "their people." Family ties, and even disagreements, are closed to others.

This is what I recall most strongly and lovingly about my home. After nearly 50 years living here, I now call Columbus "home," but in my soul, it will always be New Boston.

&endash; Betty Garrett Deeds

(From the February '03 issue)
Bye Bye Snowbirds

If my husband, Danny Deeds, had not died four years ago, I know where we would be right now: Daytona Beach, Florida.

As snowbirds go, Danny took flight rather late in life. Decades of working as a country club manager, theatrical entrepre-neur, owner/operator of The Maramor restaurant, administrator of the Wolfe family's Wigwam, along with his compulsive workaholism, kept him indoors so much that his hobbies amounted to only two: gambling (mostly investments in the Lottery system) and golf. And if it were not for his love of golf, it is quite possible that he might never have seen the sun in his entire 79 years.

As Thurber once put it, he was not "at one with nature." Trees made him nervous. He thought they should be "cut down so things would be neat." The outdoors was a place where apartments and houses were built, the material of theatrical scenery, and where holes were dug, by necessity, on stretches of real land so he could play golf.

Golf is best played in sunshine and reasonable warmth. In Columbus, that meant he started the earliest possible day in the spring, playing throughout the summer and up until the holes filled with ice come winter at The Rivera Country Club, an Italian-American enclave which took the Austrian-born Deeds in as honorary (as well as paying) member and re-named him Deedsiano. The group were comrades on the Riviera course for at least three or four decades.

At one point, around 1963, Danny visited one of his retired buddies in Daytona Beach, at least ten years before his own retirement, and became convinced he should buy a place there. Sunshine whenever he wanted it. That made sense to Danny, so he bought a condo in a posh settlement named Spruce Creek.

Secluded and surrounded by armed guards 24 hours a day year-round, the condos were often located on man-made lakes. The spacious grounds planted with gorgeous Blue Spruce trees contained numerous mansions with hangars as well as garages, for many of the residents settled there to use their private airport - John Travolta was one of them.

Well, in his first ten years or so as an owner, Danny visited his condo no more than a half dozen times to decorate it (resembling an Art Deco set from a Fred Astaire movie) and played golf. The rest of the time, he pursued his punishing work schedule, and did not officially take up the November-May schedule and lifestyle of Florida's snowbirds (most of them from Ohio) until his retirement.

His next-door neighbor, Erv Hardison, a native of Tennessee, was an accountant and lifetime Air Force Reservist. He spoke as slowly as most Southerners reputedly do. Relaxation was Erv's art form, while Danny, the non-stop worker and worrier, only stopped twitching when he picked up his golf clubs, using the miraculous firm and steady stance and aim he had developed.

The Odd Couple, as his wife and I called them, became great friends. They greeted the dawn together and returned to their condos and helpmeets only when dinnertime neared. They would start the day with breakfast, usually at the Cracker Barrel, a franchise "down home" restaurant where they dined on cholesterol-clogging courses of bacon and ham, 2 or 3 eggs, home fries, scalloped apples and biscuits and gravy.

Erv liked to shop at local bargain emporiums such as Sam's Club and Wal-Mart. They would browse around an hour or so, finally leaving with Erv toting one or two purchases. Danny just watched and walked, and they chatted in Viennese-American and Confederate camaraderie before enjoying the highlight of their day on the golf course. Occasionally they went out in the evening to Greyhound races next to the Daytona Beach raceway and enjoyed a few "wagers," most of which Danny lost. His specialty was poker; his facial expression was legendary for never changing.

Meanwhile, Erv's wife Marguerite and I would go out to lunch, bargain movies, and to the beaches, Flagler Beach to the north was a delightful break from the commercialism of the famed Raceway belt - the big annual race was one of its seasonal highlights, with the newspapers and the locals turning out to get a glimpse of celebrity racers and actors such as Paul Newman. The other highlight at the end of snowbird season was called Bikers Week, with good reason. Nearly half a million bikers from around the world descended on the town, along with the college breakers.

Otherwise, Marguerite and I spent our spare time, which was all the time except for when we prepared dinner, driving around the "city" streets watching other snowbirds drive. It was the most palatable alternative to walking along the beach and seeing people who had reached at least seven score and more, male and female, unabashedly displaying their sagging bosoms, bellies and pasty limbs to the sun and anyone who cared to watch the parade. I rather envied their total lack of self-consciousness, but found the sight depressing. (Being of Baptist background, I do not even feel comfortable wearing shorts outside my home.)

Not to mention driving. There is some law, or lack of law, in Florida which permits people of any age to continue driving without renewed testing for fitness. The result, if you value your life, gives new meaning to defensive driving maneuvers, especially "assured clear distance." In Daytona Beach, that meant staying about a half-mile behind the closest driver in front of you: just close enough to see that someone was ahead of you, but far enough away to save yourself when octogenarians of all ages suddenly decided they might like to go to a shop 4-6 lanes to the left of the one they were driving in.

I could never see whether or not they used their signals before cutting across the highway; I just watched in amazement and horror the bold swath the spontaneous driver made without a backward glance. These maneuvers were not as frightening as the drivers who, while proceeding north on the highway, decided they might like to go south instead, making U-turns around obstacles of almost any variety.

Danny Deeds, who seemed to have gotten his license out of the proverbial Cracker Jack box, always insisted on driving the 1989 Buick Skylark, which I subsequently inherited and treasure.

"The Goddess" has more electronic and computerized gadgets on it than the craft in the film 2001 - white with posh red interior, sleek lines, very sporty indeed. But Danny didn't really know what to do with it. He had no idea what the knobs, buttons, and gadgets were for except to turn on the radio or roll down the driver's window. The sunroof stayed shut because Danny never knew it opened. That didn't stop him.

He also had a notoriously poor sense of direction. When told he was going the wrong way, he would proceed at 65-75 miles an hour (often with his left wheels on the brim of a concrete median, with the right wheels on the road) and assured people: "Don't worry. As long as I have gas, I am never lost."

Well, I have not returned to Florida since Danny's death. But it pleases me to think that he is now where he can play golf any time he likes, and the scenery is all painted to his theatrical liking, preferably the backing for a Strauss or Lehar operetta.

As for me, six weeks of Florida in winter could seem like heaven. But after six months of palm trees and aimless, boring living, my snowbird wings moulted. Frankly, my dears, I just didn't give a damn anymore.

obetsydeeds@aol.com

(From the January '03 issue)

Shopping Is War!

Columbus is not exactly the ideal place to live if you :

1) are a Democrat

2) have chronic sinusitis, or

3) hate to shop.

As for sinusitis, years ago when I asked my now deceased doctor what I could do about my lousy sinuses, he said: "Suffer." He might as well have said the same thing about being a Democrat. If you're going to stay in Columbus - and I plan to do just that - live with it.

That leaves shopping. And boy, do I love to leave shopping - altogether when possible, and quickly when unavoidable. Except for bookstores or an occasional antique shop (and it's too late to buy more antiques when you've become one), I'd rather vote Republican than go shopping when it's not absolutely necessary.

Do you know how hard it is to avoid shopping malls and stores of every conceivable ilk in Columbus? I once read an article about the square footage of retail space available for each person in Columbus, and all I can remember is that it was more than my house contains.

Well, maybe a little less, but not much. That's because Columbus is filled with thousands of shopaholics who actually enjoy wandering through stores crowding every perimeter of this city, even when they don't buy anything. They consider it recreation! I consider shopping about as leisurely as going into battle. And as William Tecumseh Sherman said, "War is hell!"

Unavoidable: Supermarkets. Come rain, snow or blizzards, at least once a week, and often two or three times a week, I'm back at the grocery store "stocking up," or returning for things I forgot to buy, or replacing the things I shouldn't have bought in the first place.

Actually, it's guerilla warfare, so I dress in my personal camouflage: a rumpled trench coat older than Columbo's with a black beret on my head, not from Kohl's but the Montmartre in Paris. Quelle class! I travel in my '89 Buick Skylark, aka The Goddess, sporting less than 60,000 miles on the odometer, although blemished by numerous dents and dings from unruly shopping carts at Big Bear and Kroger's.

As I slowly circle the rows of parked vehicles, watching carefully for cars blindly backing out of parking spots, there are inevitably several spaces which appear empty until you try to drive into them. Then you see the shopping cart sitting there.

Most of the time, these carts are left simply because people are too lazy or inconsiderate to take them to the nearby corrals emblazoned with big signs which ask people to bring them there. But I have also discovered that it is a favored technique of drivers, who don't want their cars to be dinged or dented by someone parking next to them, to place the cart in the empty space. It's a protective but hostile defensive technique. Right away, it's en garde.

After stepping out of my car, dodging puddles of water or slush on a damp day, I brace myself and venture through the doors (trying to remember not to enter the exit) and behold the ghastly florescent lights, the chaotic crowds weaving up and down the aisles, and the muzak floating.

If it's a real stock-up trip, I try to make a "must have" list, but don't always bother because I lose them. Other people do too. You find the pathetic notations stuck to the carts you pick up as you enter, along with coupons and other trash. I make a point of checking for the cart that's not wet or handicapped by one non-working wheel, but often discover the problem too late.

Nearly everyone has certain aisle route patterns established from previous usage and tries to hew to them. I no longer stop at the patent nostrum counters near the entrance as often as I used to because someone touted Dollar General stores to me. You can buy decongestants and over-the-counter meds as well as grooming and cleaning supplies for half the price you pay at the supermarket, and as advertised, many of the store's generic versions of name brand items sell for $1.

Anyway, back at Big Bear, following my battle map, I tend to go to the fresh produce section first. After hyperventila-ting at the prices on most citrus fruits and tomatoes now, I try to establish the cost of a small amount by weighing a few items. These I place in a plastic bag which I tear from a roll, but must try - with great and sometimes useless frustration - to open at the end which says OPEN AT THIS END.

Do you have a problem handling these? I feel like the village idiot struggling with the things, while bystanders watch my distress with ill-disguised amusement and contempt. I have since discovered a helpful technique which I read about in Heloise or some household hint column: Put your hands on some of the produce being sprayed and get them sufficiently moist so the plastic will cling to your fingers, allowing you to open them. Victoire &endash; small one.

I try to pass the crowded deli and carry-out counter quickly, but invariably find myself asking folks to "excuse me, please," so that I can continue on. Then the ritual of penance begins. Have you ever noticed how often you find yourself saying "Sorry," and "excuse me" as you maneuver around others' carts, and they're saying "Sorry" and "excuse me" as they try to make their own paths? It's done so often that there's a perpetual mumbling of words along with the formations of the carts which gives me the feeling that a fiddler and a caller should appear and say, "Now, dosey-do and all hold hands�" And I don't even have a partner except a stranger caught up in the same maze.

I actually enjoy stopping at the bakery, looking for freshly baked sunflower seed bread, which vanishes fast. The commer-cial brands are at the other end of the store, so you have to try to remember to stop there if you still haven't gotten bread. The prices of bread and meat (well, nearly everything) seem to have risen exorbitantly over the past few months as the recession (which isn't supposed to be really bad according to news stories on the latest statistics) clearly indicate that fewer people are working for less money. Reminds me of Orwell's 1984 with Big Brother shoving truth down a memory tube while reciting the Big Lies which will keep the masses content.

It is while weaving through the maze of canned and preserved items, trying to compare prices and find missing price labels that I begin to enter a fugue state reminiscent of Pavlov's rats looking for the aisle with a door that will open and show them cheese. This is aggravated by the fact that the aisles where I think some item is stored isn't, and I can't find anyone to help me find it except other confused shoppers, asking, "Excuse me, do you happen to know where the Karo syrup is?"

If I leave my cart to find a store worker to give me the information, I often return to where I was sure I left my cart, but it's no longer there. Then I'm off to find it by searching through other aisles, wondering if my memory failed me or someone else has accidentally taken my cart and continued shopping. I am sometimes guilty of doing the same thing. This is not good.

It's about time to surrender, I figure, and once I have my own cart in hand, head for the checkout lanes. Why are there always so many more lanes closed than open? Why do people with tiny carryout baskets loaded with 30 items line up in the Express lane, thinking they will get checked out faster?

Why do I always get in a lane with only two or three carts, thinking I'll make a speedy exit and find I'm behind someone who has 73 discount coupons to cash in which will take a half hour to process, but when I try to back out, it's too late? Other people are behind me. It's a no-win/no-win situation, but all of us who are there on unopposing sides are stuck in the battle.

Meanwhile, the "bad guys" are outside in the parking lot, having left their shopping carts in the space they just vacated. Well, I strike one tiny blow for civilization: I not only return my cart after I've emptied the groceries into my car trunk, but return at least one other cart that somebody else has abandoned back to the space marked for storing carts.

Then I steer The Goddess back home, shuck my trenchcoat and go about other business. Tonight it was writing this column and answering the phone, and I only now just realized - two or three hours later - that I am still wearing my beret from the Montmartre. I think I'll take it off, because I am not going back to the store to get the chunky peanut butter I forgot!

C'est le guerre.

e-mail Obestsydeeds@aol.com

(From the December '02 issue)

Kids and Trees

In 1946, my mother and stepfather pushed me and my kid brothers, Jim and Doug, into an old Chevy, turned North on Route 23 and headed to Columbus. I cried every mile of the way, because I had spent most of my life with my grandparents, Mamaw and Papaw, in New Boston.

Back from the War, my stepfather - and everyone else Down Home - found there was simply no work. The Detroit Steel Mill in New Boston was a rusty dinosaur that rarely operated. The alternative: move to Columbus, a big, clean city that had plenty of work and homes, a tall building with so many layers it looked like King Kong could climb it, and street car trolleys that moved people back and forth when cars couldn't.

Our old car collapsed just as we turned west on Greenlawn Avenue, marked on the south by acres of abandoned barracks converted to civilian rental homes. Arranged in quadrangles, these houses were already overflowing with families whose children would later be called Baby Boomers. Actually, it was more like an explosion on Deckebach Road, where we settled.

Outside our "quarters" was a vast sea of mud, devoid of foliage but blanketed with kids - babies, toddlers, pre-schoolers and a few grade school students. Each morning and afternoon, we kids had to walk across the Greenlawn Bridge, buffeted by wind off the river, to Stewart Avenue School. Nearby was Schiller Park, blessed with big trees, a stream with a bridge, and impres-sive statues of people with German names.

The Mecca where we'd moved was barren. Any ground with room for two or more kids was the site of playing and fighting, not trees, streams and statues.

The most memorable occasion of my early years there was an event the teachers at Stewart called Arbor Day. They explained the reference to trees. Every kid received a little sapling of a tree, about a foot long, species unknown, with instruc-tions to take them home and plant them.

Immediately, I picked a pot just outside our bathroom window and planted My Tree. That was the first time. On day two, I found it ripped out and lying on the ground. I re-planted it. And still again, that came to pass. Within two weeks, the ritual of planting/re-planting that battered tree made me more and more determined that it would grow to look like the trees Down Home and in Schiller Park. I put sticks into the ground and tied the sapling to it with rag strips. Those were knocked down. I persisted, building a stick fence around it, checking it at least once an hour when I was home. Down they came, but the tree remained miraculously alive.

One day, I'm wasn't sure why, I came home to find my tree still standing (well, leaning) right where I'd left it. Triumph! Mom didn't confess to me until years later that she had gone to every parent in the neighborhood and threatened to rip apart any kid who knocked it down again. Mom was not a bluffer and everyone knew it.

Over the next two or three years, my tree grew almost as high as the bathroom window. Unfortunately, I neglected to allot sufficient space for more than one side of it to grow without meeting the building. So the tree was lopsided, but by George, it was alive.

Over the years, I was shuttled back and forth from Columbus to New Boston where I stayed with Mamaw and Papaw. I eventually returned to Columbus permanently, graduating from Central High School in 1953 at the age of 16. I attended Capital University and later married the son of my beloved English professor, George Dell. We had three young children before we divorced in 1962.

I began working as an advertising copywriter near Broad and High, and on November 22, 1963, I was having lunch with a client when I heard about President Kennedy's assassination. I remember walking back to the office, wandering down the sidewalk in a haze, as did others, disbelieving and weeping.

That Thanksgiving weekend was the end of a kind of innocence in this country, as well as my own. I got up at 5 am to roast a small turkey before the kids left with their Dad, starting a long tradition of Turkeys #1 and 2 and Hams #1 and 2 in our respective households.

Alone, I sat glued to the television watching the nightmarish re-runs of the bullet or bullets turning Kennedy's body into a brainless puppet, while Jackie scrambled onto the back of the car to retrieve and hold his body together. The Dallas jail: Oswald's arrest; Ruby's executing him. Kennedy's body lying on a catafalque. The heartbreaking funeral procession led by a riderless horse while his wife held their children's hands.

I couldn't stop weeping.

Mom called. She asked if I intended to just hide in the house and cry. I did. I told her I didn't feel thankful about anything.

A short time later, she opened my front door and demanded I get into the car with her. I sensed how those neighbors must have felt when she visited them about the tree all those years before. I obeyed.

We drove in silence along streets that I wasn't really noticing when I asked, "Where are we going?"

"Never mind. We're taking a ride."

It wasn't until she turned onto Greenlawn and crossed the bridge that I realized she was turning onto Deckebach Road, now empty, barracks/houses long demolished. But she pulled her car surely over to the side of the road where our address had been.

We didn't even get out of the car. She just waited to see if I would notice. I was in a haze, so she finally turned my body to the right with her hands and asked, "Betty, what do you see?"

I couldn't believe it. There, a few dozen feet away, stood a tall, very one-sided tree. There were a few other trees scattered around what is now Lou Berliner Park, but I don't know when they arrived. All I saw was my Arbor Day tree from 1946. Asymmetrical or not, it had survived and matured.

"Now," Mom said, revving up the engine and the firmness of her voice, "don't you ever tell me you have nothing to be thankful for. Your tree lived because you persisted in re-planting and caring for it. Now you have three kids to raise, and you can't give up on taking care of them. You still have a lot of things to do with your own life. This is no time to give up."

She was right. Nurturing kids and trees is not for the faint of heart, nor the ungrateful. As the years spin past, and the grandchildren grow up too, it doesn't take Thanksgiving to remind me of that. p

e-mail Obetsydeeds@aol.com

(From the November '02 issue)

Nothin' but a Hound Dawg

For folks in New Boston, Ohio, and most of Appalachia raised on "The Grand Ole Opry" and radio comedies, the advent of television, ca. 1950, was a miracle few could afford at the time.

However, Aunt Renie brought conspicuous consumption to the hills when she married my Uncle Bud right after World War II. She was the first one to buy oleomargarine in a plastic bag with a squeezable button to make it turn yellow. Why not get one of them mahogany boxes with the little tube that showed moving pictures and Milton Berle in your own living room? Uncle Bud never said nay to her wishes. He was 6' tall, but she was 6'2" and not averse to violence.

So it came to pass that much of New Boston (pop. 500-something, the numbers were rusted) squeezed into their apartment to watch The Tee-Vee.

A highlight of that era was a show called The People's Choice, starring former child actor Jackie Cooper as Mayor

of a small town. When perplexed, he received advice from his pet Bassett hound dog, Cleo - who only talked when they were alone on the Tee-Vee screen. Cleo couldn't pass a GED, but neither could the Mayor, and she always saved the day for him. "Lock 'em up," she'd say.

Hooey! Folks slapped their knees, laughing, "I wish my hound was smart as that Cleo. I'd catch me every squirrel between here and Arnton." That was the ultimate compliment in a culture where a family's hound dog brought home game &endash; about the only meat to hit the table outside Sunday's fried chicken.

Fortunately, Sears-Roebuck, whose catalogue had long fulfilled folks' needs for stoves, tires, Sunday best clothes and laying-out suits, came through. As fast as you could say outhouse, they were selling "Cleos" like hotcakes. Renie "just had to have one of them" funny dogs or die. (Uncle Bud missed his chance there).

It was a legendary occasion when our family gathered at the Railroad Depot in Portsmouth while a wooden crate carrying Renie's prize was lowered to the ground. There was "Cleo," just like she looked on television. Hardly anyone there had ever seen a real Bassett Hound.

An authentic hillbilly hound dog is a Beagle - or 98% of the time the offspring of Beagles who messed around with half-breeds. They howl a lot, but settle down when table scraps are thrown at them. Aside from that, they're good-natured and eager to chase after squirrels and rabbits, trapping them up in trees where their owners can shoot the gamy varmints.

Judging by this Cleo - and the one on TV - Bassett Hounds are large, built low to the ground, have feet large as clowns'shoes, and long droopy ears that set off the most mournful face known to man. When everyone yelled, "Hey, Cleo, whatcha got to say?" this hound just bayed "OWWW-0000000." Well, she was new to town and probably didn't talk to strangers right away. It figgered.

The welcoming committee formed a cavalcade of cars full of relatives and neighbors who took her to New Boston. Uncle Bud and Aunt Renie led the way, Renie struggling to hold the Star in her lap (luckily large) and trying to strike up a conversation. Mamaw, Papaw and I followed in our '36 Pontiac. The only sound we heard over Uncle Bud's Chevy muffler was a more muffled OWWW-000000.

Since Cleo could not be kept in Bud and Renie's apart-ment, she was chained to our back-porch post. Queenie, Papaw's beloved hound dog, had her own distinctive howl, but from the day Cleo arrived, no one could hear any-thing but her moan.

Bud, Renie and their friends tried for at least a couple or three weeks to coax Cleo into "talking". I mean, they weren't ignorant. They didn't expect her to talk the way Cleo did on TV, but somehow they figured she could learn to imitate a few words - like parrots - if taught long enough. "HOW-DO?" they said repeatedly, along with some one-syllable words such as "YEP." Answer came there none, except OWWW-0000.

Finally, the attempts were abandoned as hopeless. People got so tired of hearing Cleo's mournful baying, that everyone on the block pitched table scraps at her. She got so fat she looked like a snowball bush (Aunt Renie called those Hi-geranias) with feet. And she still moaned.

She drove everyone nuts. Something had to be done.

I still can't believe Uncle Bud persuaded Papaw (who'd been scornful of this endeavor from Day One) to try to teach Cleo the Non-Talking Hound Dog to hunt. But come one foggy dawn, Papaw, Queenie, his best friend Marvel Sloane and Marvel's dog Sonny, led Cleo on a leash into the hills.

Hours passed. When none of the entourage returned by the time dinner ended, the tension in the house was awful. No one voiced doubts about the group's safety, but Papaw had never returned from hunting that long after dark. Mamaw got out her Bible and read silently.

Finally, thumping sounds and footsteps were heard outside along with Queenie's familiar howl. Everyone knew better than to rush to the door or make a to-do about Papaw's arrival. He came through the door silently, face dour as death, then sat down in his chair and parked his arms. After what seemed like endless time, he drew in and slowly exhaled his breath with ineffable scorn &endash; his trademark of disapproval.

"Renie," he announced, "that catalogue store hound dog is all your'n." Pause. "And I'm sure glad of it."

Bedtime arrived before he relented and told what had happened.

Sniffing knowingly through the woods, Queenie and Sonny treed a squirrel. Shotguns at the ready, careful not to make a sound, Papaw and Marvel staked out their shooting positions. Only then did Cleo, severely overweight and unused to walking or running, come stumbling along at full speed. Right on target, she bumped into the trunk of the tree.

"That dawg," Papaw said disbeliev-ingly, "knocked herself plumb out. Thought she was deader'n a doornail, but she was still breathing." While the squirrel escaped and Queenie and Sonny ran around in fits, "Me and Marvel, I swear it 'pon my honor, we had to pick up that dawg by all four feet and carry her home."

Walking to the door, he turned on the porch light and revealed the tragic spectacle. It was Cleo, all right, sprawled on her enormous belly with feet splayed out and her ears flopped over her unconscious head.

I never heard any of the words which passed later between Papaw, his son and his aggravating daughter-in-law. Given Papaw's nature, I suspect he took Cleo over to one of his friends who would make sure she'd be treated with kindness. All I know for sure is that the next day, Cleo's chain was hanging on the back porch empty. She was free of it.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Cleo had left the building.

(From the October '02 issue)

How We Spent My Summer Vacation

It was only June, but an angry sun, rainless skies and tropical temperatures made global warming seem underestimated. People huddled in air-conditioned offices and, when lucky, air-conditioned homes.

My son Rob, a home renovator, came into the house gasping every evening, skipping his ritual of running around the yard screaming death threats at squirrels who ate his tomato and Habanero pepper plants. No need. Nothing was growing. The mower left tracks like crop circles around the giant pine, but this was not a horror movie. No aliens landed.

Surprisingly, my daughter Emily and three grandchildren did. I had barely seen them in the three years since my husband died -just after we moved into this "cozy" ranch house he chose. After his death, I was too depressed to unpack boxes; some of them sat "as was" for at least two years.

About that time, Emily and the kids, all born and raised in Columbus, had reluctantly made a commitment to move to Virginia, and later, West Virginia. Mean-while, son Rob thought it best that he move in "awhile." He's still here, the boxes are unpacked, and I'm up and about again. He claims he's ready to move on, but for a parent and grown child, we live pretty amicably.

A real estate agent, Emily enjoyed life in Virginia, but a subsequent move to West Virginia proved disastrous. Tension grew, domestic ties unraveled and dissolved. She and a colleague I'll call Niles decided they would move to Nevada (Las Vegas and Reno are construction Meccas). The children were grieving and resentful, but Emily felt sure they'd change their minds later and enjoy the "adventure."

The plan: while Emily and Niles spent several weeks scouting prospects there, The kids - now teenagers - would stay here in Columbus with me and Uncle Rob until it came time to move to the other side of the country, a prospect which was a nightmare for them. The welcome result: a summer at Grandma's.

The three-bedroom, two-bath arrange-ment with family room had seemed plenty big for two adults. Three teenagers would fit easily, especially since Rob had established his quarters in the nearly full basement from the start. It was ideal for his waterbed, books, fourteen guitars, ampli-fiers and recording. It's not soundproof, but nothing's perfect.

With most belongings in storage, Renee (17), Sarah (15) and Daniel (13) brought only a few boxes and suitcases &endash; enough clothes to last a week before laundering, along with roller blades, CD's and video games, although all were quickly aban-doned when they spotted my computer, yelling "Yahoo!" for Internet e-mail, music, video games and gross cartoons.

Renee, 5' 7" with waist-length curly brown hair, resembles Botticelli's Venus. Her previous year's high school course in law enforcement led to plans for a second before graduation, then joining the Navy.

What, my Venus, a policewoman and a sailor? "Oh, I won't be on a boat," she explained, "they said I don't have to. I'll use my free college education to select a career on land." My brother, an old Navy man, chuckled, "Never believe recruiters."

Sarah, a fireball of energy, intellect, and action, sneaked undetected into my office with its sofa bed and settled there. That put her strategically closest to the computer.

Daniel was already supine on the family room sofa, nearest the best television and closest to the fridge. I had almost forgotten how teenagers stage unscheduled raids on it at least 23 hours per day. Unusually polite and affectionate in grade school, Daniel was now a study in hormones. He spoke few words in a bass baritone beneath a wispy moustache.

Aside from occasional verbal battles at the computer or the fridge, there was only one catastrophe in what now were crowded quarters. Sarah took showers and shampoos as long as her hair. The tub drain failed and water went pouring into the basement. Beneath it? Rob's computer. The hard drive works, surprisingly. The keyboard won't.

In spite of the growing dread of moving to the desert with gamblers, we enjoyed and cherished our time together. Sarah sometimes crawled into my bed at night, as she hadn't done in years. "I get lonesome," she said. I knew the feeling. We hugged each other, then quickly asleep, she wrapped her long limbs around me like an octopus. I woke up with a sagging sacroiliac.

As June vanished, melting into mid-July, Emily showed up - unexpected again. Without a "hello," she sobbed, "This is the worst thing I've ever done."

"You didn't like Nevada?" Rob asked.

"Oh, no, Vegas and Reno were great. It's Niles I can't stand!"

My previous counsel to "please just wait awhile" was now verified by brief exposure and experience. Her excuse to Niles for leaving (she swears) was that she developed a terminal illness and simply had to return to Columbus and be near her family the rest of her life. - Or at least the rest of an unforgettable summer.

During remaining weeks, Emily cleaned the house as if it were a commercial. "Mom, how can you live like this?"

"Wait 30 years and ask me." She also weeded dry flower beds, picking mean poison oak. (I tried not to consider it Old Testament justice.)

The kids were exuberant. Even Daniel hauled out some "cools." Exhausted Rob came home every evening looking forward to his share of the talk, laughter and music that spanned as many generations as we do.

Emily loves Bach and Schumann; I'm a Mozart and Gershwin woman; The kids veer between Britney Spears, 'n Sync and MTV footwork, and Rob plays classical guitar, blues and sometimes reverts to

70's amped stuff (Uriah Heep and Pink Floyd again?). But the best prevailed when Emily, Rob and I sang our favorite Beatles songs and passed that treasure to the kids forever.

Space and time ran out, of course, and Emily eventually found a house to rent for her family. It's neatly 15 minutes away.

As years move on, and them with it inevitably, it will be natural and accepted. But the Summer of 2002 is not likely to be forgotten, ever, by any of us.

Obestsydeeds@aol.com

(From the August 2002 issue)

Airhead and Klutzes Anonymous

Mom's eyes were aimed at me like BB's without a barrel. Holding her key ring, I felt she was daring me to open our front door. Six failures, one more to try. Fingers trembling, I inserted it gingerly. At first, it seemed to fit (thank you, God). So I shoved in the rest of the key, wiggling it this way and that, but the lock would not open. The key's serrated edges twisted and stuck inside, while the stem broke off.

"Betty," Mom said, gritting her teeth, "you are the clumsiest child I have ever seen." I heard that remark every time I broke dishes and glasses, hers and mine. Whenever I tripped over the coffee table, failing to perform a pas de deux or fell on objects that weren't visible or walked into walls, not through doors. My shins were rulers with bruises that marked the height of every object in a room.

I was also "the most absent-minded child she had ever seen." Lost my schoolbooks, pencils and tablets, but oddly enough I never lost the books I cared about. Automatically, each night she called, "Turn off the flashlight under the covers and put the books away. You'll be blind within a year."

Incredibly, I also lost the ration coupon for 5 lbs. of sugar, a priceless commodity during the War. She pinned the coupon to my dress. I arrived with the pin, but no coupon. No coupon, no sugar.

As time passed, and I passed through my own childbearing/rearing years, I became Mom's caretaker. She endured an unholy number of physical ailments and diseases, ranging from spinal surgeries to cancer of the middle ear to complications from kidney disease. Not a happy traveler in life, she somehow clung to it as if it were a cliff meant to hold her fingers. Many times, I found myself sitting beside her in Columbus hospitals after being told she would not live through another night. We learned how to laugh together as we cried, and I came to admire that once-intimidating toughness that was also her love. And she always got back up. Always. Until the last time.

When she died on December 20, 1982, my brother and sister-in-law accompanied me on a grave-shopping trip. Mom hadn't practiced pre-planning. She couldn't afford it, ever. But, just as she was a shop-till-she-dropped fanatic all her life, I know her hand was on my shoulder as I surveyed the cemetery's merchandise.

There were three lots in one row with a slight mound behind it, the closest thing we could get resembling the hills Back Home. The cemetery lot in the middle was "taken" and occupied. "Would you like to buy the other two?" the salesman inquired of the flanking spaces. "No," I said, "I'll take a single, please." I was feeling grouchy and distracted and didn't want to dwell there any longer. After writing a check for the grave and its "perpetual care," I took home a booklet entitled "Deed To The Estate." Inside was a number designating the only real estate Mom ever owned.

On the first Memorial Day after her death, I made a trip to her grave carrying a bouquet of Irises from my garden. She loved that stately flower. The cemetery was crowded with more visitors than residents, and brass ensembles here and there played taps and displayed our flag.

I thought I remembered the location, but had last seen it in a Christmas snow and a mind that was in a fugue state. I tried to check at the Perpetual Care office, but it was closed for Memorial Day. Finally, I found the right row. It was located near a stone building, and I spotted the slight ground rise behind it, but the correct grave was in doubt. The middle one displayed its permanence. The ones on either side looked very much the same. How could I be sure which was Mom's?

As I tried to calculate which mound looked sufficiently aged to have spanned the December-May stretch, I swear I could feel her watching me the same way she did when I tried to unlock doors. Meanwhile, I kept waiting for some of the people near me to move away, but the opportunity never came.

Finally, I surrendered and just lifted a corner piece of sod to check the one which seemed most firmly attached. The young man playing Taps stopped mid-melancholy. I knew a number of people were staring at me and gasping. So I dropped the Irises right where I was and sprinted to my car. Once inside, I bent down to search for my keys. After successfully turning the ignition and starting the engine, I roared out of there like an Indy 500 racer.

That's when I remembered the most scathing assessment Mom ever applied to me. "You're right, Mom, absolutely right. I don't know my ass (or anatomical aperture) from a hole in the ground." And when I finally found the deed in the safe place where I'd hidden it, turns out I hadn't. I only hope the stranger enjoyed the Irises.

Well, time marches on sufficiently so that I no longer check the footprints on my face. Many things have changed, but not my tendency toward absent-mindedness and what I've come to call klutziness instead of clumsiness. I now have at least seven pairs of glasses scattered around the house by various telephones and desks, all of them vanished when needed. If the glasses are there, then there's no pen or paper. However, I no longer have the self-centered conviction of youth that I am the only person suffering from these afflictions. I now know there are others struggling with klutzy conditions who just don't talk about it.

After falling from a ladder once while washing kitchen walls, I was taken to Riverside Hospital with a concussion. Even though my face was the only area that revealed signs of injury, turning a mottled hue of purplish blue, they said something about arteries. After CAT scans, a neurologist came to talk to me. He assured me I had a brain, making no editorial comments other than to note that I had traces of some small strokes that pre-dated the current "incident." Probably from one of my sidewalk pratfalls. I seized the opportunity to ask him about the airheaded klutziness syndrome. Did it have a physical cause that might lie in the billions of neurons in the brain - perhaps some "seconds" or placed backwards?

"Afraid not," he said, shaking his head and smiling. "It has nothing to do with the brain or anything else I can easily explain." Why was he so sure? "Because," he said, "when I told my friends I was going to be a brain surgeon, they all fell out laughing. I can't cross a room without falling on things, or play tennis without breaking a racket or tossing it out with the tennis ball." After numerous examples, he stated, "It's like poise and grace, except it's the opposite. Some people just have it, some people just don't."