LEAVES TURNING BRING BACK MEMORIES

As a young child I don't think I paid much attention to the change of seasons, except for winter which brought snow and Christmas. Life in the Blue Ridge Mountains could be a challenge no matter what season. As I grew older I found myself looking forward to fall when we were surrounded with brilliant reds, golds, and vibrant oranges.  The sounds are still playing out in my memories---the Blue Duke Marching Band,  the shouts of anxious fans for the game to begin,  the cheer leaders cheering on the crowd to join in the,"Two bits, four bits, six bits a dollar, all for Dublin, stand up and holler." 

Then there were the smells---the spicy aroma of slow cooked apples and cinnamon that magically turned into apple butter---buttery smell of corn popping--my mother's pumpkin pie, fresh from the oven.  If we were lucky she would make an applesauce cake with a mixture of aromas--walnuts, gathered by the children who carried the tell-tale stains from the tannin in the walnut covering.

There were always school events and fund raisers to attend in the fall.  How I recall those Cake Walks in the school basement.  Soon it was Halloween and trying to put together the scariest costume ever.  We had never heard of Trick or Treat. My church usually gave a great party.  We would "bob for apples," except for those who didn't want to put their faces
in water.  Many of the adults took part by dressing up.  Some of them were masters of disguise and we could never guess their identities.  When the took off their masks we laughed ourselves silly.They had fooled us again..

There was always a lull after Thanksgiving until about two weeks before Christmas. The beautiful colored leaves were gone, frost had killed the the fall flowers and the landscape was bleak.  Decorations and Christmas merchandise were not placed in stores until closer to  the big day.  Christmas was not near as commercial as it is today.  it seemed so long between Thanksgiving and when Santa Claus would arrive.  I'm certain our parents tired of "how many more days until Christmas?" This is a good place to add that most of the parents in my little part of the world developed a way to keep the children from dwelling on the dangerous places their fathers worked---some were coal miners and many worked at the 'arsenal where gun powder and other explosives were manufactured.  Deadly explosions could and did happen.  We didn't talk about it but we knew the danger was there. We were Innocent children who liked to be with other children roaming the hillsides, wading in the creek, and playing in the snow.

It was not a perfect childhood but it was one filled with good memories.

Your comments are encouraged.

Darlene Bays Eichler
Teacher of Memoirs
Writer of Books

THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE

     It could have come out of the story "Hansel and Gretel" with its many colors on the gingerbread trim.  Sometimes the colors changed as if by magic.
     When I was a child we made the ninety mile trip from Belspring, to Bedford, Virginia, my Dad's boyhood home, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  There were no interstate highways back then and most of  the roads were two lanes.  When we went to our grandparents we traveled Route 11 a good portion of the way.  Those ninety miles seemed almost endless to a small child.  To anticipate certain sights along the way helped to pass the time.  One of my favorites was the Gingerbread House.  I wanted to ask my Dad to stop on the side of the road so I could look at it closer.  I never did.  I turned my head and looked as long as the house was in sight.  Every time we passed it, which was about every two months, I made up a different story about the little house.  The stories always seemed to end up with me as a character. I wondered about the family who resided there.  Once in awhile I would catch a glimpse of a person on the tiny porch or in the yard.  What fun it must have been living in the little fairy tale cottage.
     In a few years the interstate came along and we didn't go by the Gingerbread House on the mountain on our trip to see our grandparents.
     Asa the years passed it's memory faded.  Just recently I thought of the colorful house and wondered it it was still standing.  I did what most of us do today;  I googled it and lo and behold sources came up giving information on the house and its former owners.  As far as I could determine the house is still standing, but not as in its colorful past.  I learned, also, that the reason it changed colors so often was that a local paint company used it to advertise their product.
     I carry only a picture in my mind but the little Gingerbread House along the side of the road remains one of my favorite childhood memories.

My Grandmother’s Dress

     As I cautiously touched the tip of the iron to the fragile dress, I wished it could tell stories about my grandmother and the special occasions she wore it. I turned the dial to silk and held my breath as I slowly smoothed the wrinkles from the ninety-seven year old fabric.  This was the first time an electric iron had touched this hand sewn piece of my family's history.  No doubt the fabric and lace were bought after the tobacco crop was sold in the late fall.  The tiny stitches were made by a young person whose sight was sharp.  Perhaps by my grandmother herself,

                                IF THE DRESS COULD TALK

     The dogwoods bloomed early that spring of 1914 in the foot hills of the Blue Ridge.  She had always loved the Spring with its bursts of new life, and palettes of color.  She counted the days until the grass of early May was thick and soft as velvet.  Off came her shoes, her feet taking great pleasure in their freedom.  But something was not right this year...no walks to find snowdrops or early daffodils who resided near the warmth of the chimney, no singing of little ditties.  Not even her little son born the day after Christmas brought the sparkle back to her eyes.  Her family was concerned.

     Ethel Davis Patterson was born in 1897, the oldes of three girls and one brother.  Called, Sister, by her family, she was a happy, fun loving child.  Life was hard on a Virginia tobacco farm but h er parents acritficed to see that their children were well fed and dressed appropriately.

     Sometime in early 1915, a widower with several young children started paying attention to the pretty, oldest Patterson girl.  I don't know the full story since I had not been formed.  But the story told around the community was that he courted her as if he were a young man.  In the early part of that year they eloped.  It's here that the story starts to become clouded with gossip and assumptions.  For whatever reason the young bride did not move into her husband's house.  In a little more than nine months she gave birth to a healthy baby boy.  It was a difficult birth and her health seamed to worsen as the days and months passed.

     The little baby  began to grow and thrive in the care of his grandmother and two aunts.  Sister couldn't help but smile when she looked into his dark eyes.  Everyone tried to help her take her mind off her oppressing illness.  She needed a new dress, one that fit.  She ate very little and had lost weight.  Fabric and lace were bought at the local mercantile.  That's when I came into existence.  Her Mother cut a pattern from and old dress, carefully measuring each part.  The sisters, helped with sewing, making the tiniest stitches imaginable.  I will never forget the day the dress was finished.  All the women gathered in the bedroom, helping Sister to get dressed.  I fit like a glove.  Her waist was barely nineteen inches.  She looked beautiful with her dark hair and high cheek bones, her Indian heritage quite evident.  Someone remarked, "She should have her portrait done."  Although that was an expensive venture, her parents found the money to have it made.  I have a feeling they knew she would not be around much longer.
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     Much to my sorrow Ethel passed away in childbirth a few months later.  She and the little boy were buried in the same coffin.  He family never got over her untimely death.  I was gently folded and put away in a trunk until many years later, Ethel's granddaughter retrieved me to accompany her to Memoir Class.  I am glad. Ethel would be, too.

HANDMADE DRESS

ETHEL PATTERSON BAYS--1915