Those Gunshots I Heard Took Lives, Part 1 : The Raid

We were in bed on a Monday night. 

We were almost asleep when I heard what I naively thought was firecrackers. I sat up in bed and looked out the windows towards our neighbors' property to the east. 

"I wonder what Dan is up to now? Lighting firecrackers at ten o'clock at night?"

My husband pushed me back down in the bed and told me what I was hearing were gunshots, not firecrackers. Thus began one of the more surreal episodes of my life.

The news media reported it quite succinctly.

We lived within easy eye/ear/gunshot distance of the home that was raided that night.

Paul Harvey used to have a segment he called "The Rest of the Story" on his radio show. I am going to give you my version of the rest of the story about the shooting that occurred that night, and the events of the following days and weeks.

{It has been 13 months since I wrote the above words. That is how difficult January 12. 1987 is for me to write about.}

Moe, my husband, was dressing as quickly as he could but before he could button his shirt there was a knock at the back door. He admonished me to stay in the bedroom, which I gladly did. I heard the door open, a few muffled words exchanged, then he returned and asked for my car keys. I handed them to him, asking who was at the door and where was he going. He said it was Carol (Dan's wife) and he would be back when as soon as possible. I could hear her on the phone, but not what she was saying. They left, and within minutes the sirens started.

The phone rang, over and over. Moe called, said he was at the 76 Truckstop and that he would be home as soon as possible. Freddie called and wanted to know what was going on, he heard chatter mentioning our neighbors by name on the scanner. Sheila called and wanted to speak to Moe. Freddie came home, and told me they were blocking the road  (we lived on Midway Road) at the intersection of Midway and 25th. Another friend called and said they were apparently going door to door and asking people to evacuate. The authorities did not knock on our door that night, nor were we interviewed or questioned for weeks following the raid.

After what seemed like hours but was probably no more than 30 minutes, Moe returned home. He had drank a cup of coffee at the truckstop, then driven home by a route that approached the house coming from the west instead of east, thus missing the roadblocks - one was at 25th and Midway, the other just above our driveway at Christensen and Midway.

Moe cautioned me to stay on the west side of the house, should a stray bullet come through a wall or window. 

There were shadowy figures of men in black ski masks, bullet proof vests and carrying semi-automatic weapons moving around in the area between our house and the home to our east where Dan and Carol Hunt lived with her son Skipper. 

Emergency vehicles came and left their driveway, there were police vehicles - Fort Pierce City, St. Lucie County and later FHP everywhere. 

There were helicopters with searchlights circling overhead, there were sporadic bursts of static from a bullhorn followed by "Dan Hunt. Please come out. This is the police, Dan Hunt, please come out."

At one point Moe went out the front door and was approached by a man in the riot gear described above. He asked Moe his name, and if there was anyone else in the house. Moe replied in the affirmative and it was suggested we go elsewhere for the night. Moe said, no, this is our home and unless we are ordered to leave we would prefer to stay. That was the extent of our direct interaction with any authorities.

Sometime around maybe 2 or 3 AM, there was another burst of gunfire and flashes of light and then billows of smoke from Dan and Carol's mobile home. The police had breached the stronghold, so to speak. 

Moe told me, over the course of the night, what Carol had said to him when he drove her out that night. According to him, this was her account of the events in her home that culminated in the death of her husband and two police officers:

They had finished their dinner, and were watching television in their great-room. Dan had built on extensively to their single-wide mobile home, and the great-room was not part of the original structure. Carol had a poodle, and her son Skipper had a rottweiler named Kilo. There was a knock, insistent banging, at the front door and Skipper called out that he would answer the door and put Kilo in his room. Dan and Carol heard loud voices, then a gunshot. Dan retrieved a weapon from a drawer in a table by his chair, told Carol they were being raided and to get out fast. She grabbed her purse, her poodle, and climbed over the 6 foot fence at the rear of their house and ran through the yard across to our house and knocked on the front door. She told Moe she thought the DEA had raided them, and that Skipper had been shot and she needed a ride up to the corner of Midway Road and US1. She called someone from our phone (I presume to arrange for someone to pick her up?) while Moe came to get my car keys. He took my car because his car was blocked in by mine. We agreed to wait to be asked before volunteering any information, and to tell the truth as we each knew it when questioned. 

At that time, I had no idea what my neighbors had been doing, or how much my husband knew.

I prepared for work, and went in at 6 AM ... the following days and weeks I will cover in Part 2 : After the Raid. 

* I am recounting this from my own memories, and using real names and dates where I can.

** Moe was my first husband, we were married from October 1986 until September 2001. He passed away in March 2002. He was 25 years older than me.

An Appalachian Tale : Beans and Taters, Taters and Beans

Earlier today, while browsing the internet, I read an article about pinto beans. Specifically, about pinto beans and their traditional front and center place on the dinner table in this region. As is wont to happen with me, a cascade of thoughts and memories started tumbling through my brain. 

We ate dried beans frequently, and by frequently I mean as many as four times a week, when I was growing up. I say dried beans because we did not just eat pinto beans. We ate October beans, Cranberry beans, and lastly Pinto Beans. We called them soup beans, or brown beans. We also ate navy(white) beans, Lima (butter) beans, split pea soup, baked beans, and kidney beans. But most of all and by far, we ate brown beans. The October and Cranberry beans were preferred because the soup/liquid was thicker the day they were cooked. This was important because we usually did not have leftovers.

Mom would task the children, Carol, Eddie, and me, with sorting the beans (we called it picking them) to separate any debris. They were then rinsed well, under cold running water, and left to soak overnight. Before she started working full time, Mom would cook the beans low and slow all day. She used a chunk of streaked lean to season them, and a bit of salt. Salt was added after the beans had cooked for a while, and the amount would depend on the saltiness of the streaked lean she used. Periodically throughout the day she would check the simmering pot of beans, adding more water as needed. There were times when she cooked the beans in a pressure cooker, but for the most part they were cooked in a big pot on the stove. It takes hours to cook beans correctly, a slow process of at least 6 hours. We tried a slow cooker, aka a CrockPot as well, but that left you with a watery broth with little flavor. I think the gradual adding of the water throughout the day gives the melding and blending of flavors time to develop better.

Daddy grew October beans in the garden, and Mom would can quarts of fresh October beans that were ready to reheat, adding your seasoning, when pressed for time. They were really tasty. We never bought canned Pinto beans from the store, like Luck's. We either cooked them from dried or fresh or used home canned beans. 

After I was grown and had my own kitchen, I experimented with added seasonings for beans. A splash of hot sauce and about a tablespoon of brown sugar added to a pot of beans near the end of cooking is my favorite addition. I also sometimes use a seasoning blend, like Lawry's seasoned salt, Jane's Krazy Mixed-up Salt, Tony Chachere's Creole Seasoning, or Old Bay Seasoning. 

So, after you have your pot of brown beans what else are you going to eat? Decisions, decisions. Mom would often serve Kraut and Weiners. What? You don't know Kraut and Weiners? Easy. Get yourself an iron skillet, add a spoon of bacon drippings, and a package of weiners you have sliced into half inch rounds. Once they have started to puff up and get a little brown, add a bag of sauerkraut from the refrigerated section of the grocery store. Not canned sauerkraut, and not the type with caraway seeds in it. Just plain kraut. Cook until the liquid is almost all gone. No need to salt or pepper this. 

Another, and, in my mountain raised opinion, the best accompaniment to brown beans is fried potatoes. Taters. The food that I grew up on. Fried, baked, boiled, mashed, creamed - Oh how I love potatoes. Fried taters are so easy. Hot skillet, bacon grease and butter, sliced potatoes, turn often, cover at first to cook faster, salt and pepper to taste, let them brown, turn them easy so they don't all break apart, add sliced or diced onion at the end so they don't burn. 

Slaw. Coleslaw. Shredded cabbage, a bit of shredded carrot. Dressing? Get a pint jar with a lid. Fill it about 3/4 full of mayonnaise, add 2 tablespoons of white sugar, 1 tablespoon of cider vinegar, a good squirt of French's mustard, 1 teaspoon of celery seed, a shake of salt and three or four grinds of fresh pepper. Put the lid on the jar and shake it well. This is a multi-purpose dressing, good on slaw, potato salad, macaroni salad, a dab for devilled egg filling. 

Meatloaf. When I make meatloaf, I use the leanest ground beef I can find. The most mess free way to make meatloaf is to add the ground meat (I only use beef) into a gallon size zip-lock freezer bag, add the other ingredients, close the top securely, knead it together with your hands, then turn it out into your baking dish. I take two eggs for about 3 pounds of beef, break them into a 2-cup measuring cup and use a fork to beat them enough to break the yolks. I then squirt in maybe 1/3 cup of catsup, add about the same amount of milk, a few shakes of Worcestershire sauce, and a good healthy dollop of either Heinz 57, Chili Sauce or A-1 sauce. I mix this together and pour it in the bag with the meat. I then add minced onion, minced green bell pepper if I have any, and about 2/3 cup of oatmeal (uncooked), torn white bread or bread crumbs. The catsup and steak sauce should keep you from needing salt or pepper, but you can add some if you want. Bake at 350f for about an hour, top the last 15 minutes with a glaze of catsup and brown sugar if you want. Sometimes I make large patties of the meatloaf mixture and we have meatloaf patties. Easier for leftovers that way.

Bread. I prefer cornbread with beans, but plain sliced white bread will do in a pinch. I also like biscuits with beans, big fluffy drop biscuits. Cornbread is a personal choice, some use the boxes of Jiffy Mix, I like Martha White Buttermilk Cornbread mix. I like it baked in an iron skillet, I have one of those sectioned cast iron pans that makes individual little triangles, lots of crust that way!

Fresh green onions from the garden, or sliced Vidalia onion. Sliced tomatoes. Sweet pickle relish, green tomato relish or chow-chow. 

Beans and taters, taters and beans - My ideal menu is:

Brown Beans w/green tomato relish

Fried Potatoes w/onion

Meatloaf

Coleslaw

Sliced garden-fresh tomato

Green onion from the garden

Cornbread w/butter and honey

Iced Tea 

Pound Cake w/fruit 

Vanilla Ice Cream

Hungry yet????

Monday Adieu

A clear glass dish
Holding Gemstones of Spring -
Deep Purple Blackberries
Magenta Raspberries
Royal Blue Blueberries
Burgundy Strawberries
Sprinkled with sugar, glistening like diamonds
Briefly
Then slowly liquefying in the pink juices of the
Strawberries

Warm from the oven
Just baked butter cake
1-2-3-4
Simple is best,
Just a splash of vanilla at the end

Ice Cold metal bowl bearing
Cloud-like mounds
Just whipped cream
Barely sweetened

What better way
To bid adieu
To a Monday?

~Ellen Apple 05-19-2014

An Appalachian Tale: Family Reunion

Family reunion. The very words stir a stew of emotions in me, floods of memories that bubble just beneath the surface of my consciousness suddenly pop to the top and inundate my mind. I know that people from other regions - countries - cultures have regular gatherings of friends and relatives, but there is a special atmosphere that permeates a family reunion in the southern United States, and especially in the Appalachian Mountains of southwest Virginia. I am not sure how long the reunion tradition will survive - the children and grandchildren my generation are raising seem to derive less pleasure and gratification from the inundation of relatives and stories that begin with "Do you recall the time ...".

For me, there are different types of reunions, different times and occasions that bring people together for food, fellowship and familial bonding.

There are seasonal occasions - Thanksgiving, Christmas/New Year, Easter, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day.

There are commemorative occasions - weddings, births, specific birthdays, anniversaries, funerals.

There are planned reunions, bringing relatives from far and wide together, maybe once a year, every two years.

There are spontaneous reunions - all of a sudden you realize that 10 or 12 people you are related to are all in easy driving distance at the same time and you pick a location and, voila, reunion.

Both sides of my family, the Smiths and the Slades, were and to some extent still are, excellent at reunions. I am going to share a few memories of reunions from both sides, because they are both similar and different.

The Smith Reunions Remembered

My father was one of eight children, and three of his sisters lived out of town. He was also 17 years older than my mother, so my aunts and uncles had grandchildren that were my age. When children and grandchildren came home to visit from out of town in the summer, we would have a reunion at my grandparents house, later when they had passed we would usually gather at my Aunt Ger's house. 

Grandaddy Smith's birthday was the first week in August, and we had reunions several times around that time of the year to celebrate his birthday. I specifically recall having birthday parties/mini-reunions for him in Narrows a few times, after he had gone into the nursing home there following the death of Granny and his subsequent aging and failing health.

Earlier, before Granny Smith passed, we would all be at their house. This was especially convenient for my immediate family because we lived just one house down from Granny and Granddaddy. They had a really large yard, plenty of room for lawn chairs and picnic tables and impromptu games of tag or hide and seek. They also had a wonderfully landscaped yard, off of an impressively sized back porch. There was a cherry tree, underneath which was a swing. At least once I remember my Aunt Zelma cooking a giant pot of chicken chow mein for us to feast upon. I know we ate other food, a lot of it. Salads, burgers, hotdogs, chicken, cakes, pies ... but when you are young the food takes a backseat to the memories of people. Except the chicken chow mein, I always remember that!

Uncle JT and Aunt Connie lived on a farm and we had a few family get-togethers there. Uncle JT had a stocked fish pond, and we would catch and release fish and thought we were grand fishermen! It was there that we also made homemade ice cream with a hand cranked ice cream freezer - the best ice cream in the world, but exhausting to crank at the end of the process. 

Aunt Ger also lived within walking distance of our house, and I remember the family times at her house the best. She too had a large yard, and lots of outdoor sitting and eating spaces. One of my favorite pictures of Daddy is from a reunion we had there. Aunt Ger, along with Aunt Zelma, Aunt Susie and Uncle Norman all hosted indoor family gatherings at one time or another - fall/winter weather meals. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve - more formal eating but still love and laughter flowing right along with endless cups of coffee and glassed of iced tea.

We had cousins (the Vernons) who lived in Texas and when they came to visit it was usually in the Autumn, for the glorious fall leaves I imagine. The family time with them was more intimate, usually at Aunt Susie's. The conversations and eating would last late into the night, everyone hating to leave because it would be so long before we could see them again.

Our Smith reunion is now called the Cousins Reunion, and we will be gathering on July 12 in my hometown at a Methodist Church. I am going to try my darndest to be there. I think some of my relatives from Florida will be coming!

The Slade Reunions Remembered

My mother grew up with two brothers, but both of her parents came from large families and the reunions for the Slade branch of my family were well attended. Aunts and Uncles from both the Cundiff (MawMaw) and Slade (PawPaw) families would be in attendance. I recall one reunion in particular, I was in my early teens. There were many people there, and I am not sure they were all kin. 

[All of our reunions for both sides would have attendees who were not relatives, but close and dear friends that were like family. Mountain people are flexible like that. We take into our hearts, homes and families people and call them Aunt, Uncle, Cousin, Granny and never think twice about it.]

My sister and I were playing croquet with Uncle Henry Bowen's daughters, Betty and Barbara. I do not remember the pairing, but the one I was partnering with and I both got the giggles and were acting silly. Virginia Carol and the other sister got so mad at us, especially when we won the game. This was in the summer, and there were torrential rains accompanied by thunder and lightening as well. We played and talked and ate watermelon and sweets and hamburgers far past dusk. This particular reunion was held at the home of friends (could have been distant cousins - I am not sure. That is another wonderful thing about being from a mountain town or community, you have lots of distant relatives.)

Many of the Slade memories for me center around the farm, and it was sold and my grandparents moved to "town" when I was 12. The farmhouse had a big front porch, loaded with chairs, many of them rocking chairs, where one could sit and see forever it seemed. MawMaw was an excellent cook, and it seemed as though she fed half of the community on Sunday after church. The adults would eat in the dining room, and the children in the kitchen. There were large tables and ample seating in both rooms. She made delicious cakes, and the meat and vegetables both were always from their own bounty. But her breads - oh my! Cornbread, biscuits, yeast rolls - she was a master at breads.

Since my grandparents passed away in 1986, my brother Steve has taken the mantle of patriarch of the family and has been generous with his time, and home, to try to keep our family bond strong. We have had a few reunions at picnic shelters, but the times we gather at his home have been memory makers for sure. His son and daughter both value family, so I anticipate we will continue to stay in touch with those dear to our hearts, both near and far. 

I may not have always been the best and most attentive daughter/sister/cousin/aunt I could have been, but I promise you, I appreciate and treasure these people and these memories so very much. They are a big reason I am able to sit here and have good memories to share, and that is a gift beyond measure. 

Not Middle-Class & Not Average

I read an article earlier on a news website, speaking of how fewer and fewer Americans are self-identifying as middle class. When I was coming up here in these mountains, my mother's family were for the most part rural people, farmers really. My grandfather supplemented his income by driving a produce delivery truck at one time, and in his later years he was a custodian at a high school and at times a school bus driver. He and my grandmother sold milk, buttermilk, eggs, and butter to people who lived "in town", town being the two Bluefields, Virginia and West Virginia. They worked long, hard hours, growing almost all of their own food and supplementing their income through the sale of livestock, sheep and piglets. They raised cows, chickens, hogs, and sheep. They grew oats and feed corn, had fruit trees, made molasses from cane they grew, harvested honey and berries,

My father was born in Bluefield, WV, but the family moved to Richlands, Va., my hometown when he was very young, I want to say 7. His father worked for N&W RR. He was the third of eight children and they were not rich, perhaps middle class but not rich. My grandmother kept house, supervised the collective gardening by the children, and was a seamstress. My grandfather was away from home a great deal, and the looking after of their milk cow and chickens were her responsibility as well.

Both families were hard-working, and achieved much through their labors and ethics. I am not ashamed to be from either branch of the family tree. We did not know we were not well off, we did not know we were statistically poor, below average, dipping close to the poverty line at times. Daddy worked as long as he could, then was on Social Security Disability. After my baby brother started school, Mom entered the work force, and did not retire until she was 68. We had food, clothing, and there was a family vehicle.

For the most part, though I claim 5 brothers and a sister, there were three children on the household growing up. We managed to have a happy childhood, and the "things" we did not have really did not affect us adversely, in fact I now believe the effect on our adult selves was very beneficial. On the one hand, we know how to make-do when circumstances are not ideal, but we also have an appreciation of the blessings and opportunities we encounter. 



I have also been reading a great deal online recently about the question, or issue, of privilege. Specifically, white privilege in present day America and the impact on the majority of Americans who do not come from a ethnic, cultural, social or economic background that benefits from white privilege. I am not sure that I was or am underprivileged, but I definitely do not feel I am or have been the recipient of white privilege.

I carry in my heart and soul a pride in who I am, and the people and place I am a product of. There has been adversity and hardship in my life, but I do believe two things :

1. Adversity and hardship in some form or fashion is a part of being human, not a curse or judgement placed upon certain people.
2. It is how we approach, contend with, and learn from our adversities and hardships that mark the difference between success and failure, not how many "things" we accumulate.

That is all for now, just trying to keep it real from my perspective.

There is a restlessness in me

There is a restlessness in me
A yearning 
A longing
A thought fighting to be free

I sense a loneliness inside
A chill 
An emptiness
As if I have lost my guide

Looking around I cannot discern
The instigator 
The catalyst
How desperately I yearn

My soul is but a mirror
A reflection
A contemplation
Drawing warmth nearer

My answers will rest within
A child
A rainbow
Just where they have always been

~ Ellen Apple 04-30-2014

An Appalachian Tale – Morning on the Farm

I am writing this as a 55 year old, and the farm was sold when I was 12, so I am not in possession of the details of acreage, price, etc. All I have are memories of a young girl, and bits and pieces gleaned from conversations throughout the years. We said hail and farewell to both of them the year I turned 28, and I beg the forgiveness and understanding of my relatives for any inaccuracies or inconsistencies in these remembrances.

MawMaw and PawPaw married young. They had 4 children, losing their firstborn as an infant. MawMaw was a farm-wife, multidimensional and adept at numerous tasks. PawPaw was a farmer who supplemented his income by various means throughout their life. At times he drove a produce truck, worked as a school custodian, and drove a school bus.

Early in the marriage they lived in a small wood frame house on the farm where he was raised. When their little family outgrew the little house, opportunity arose to purchase a farm of their own and they lived there for about 40 years.

For a young girl, having a farm on which to spend a summer week or two is akin to heaven. My older sister, my younger brother and me, we had opportunity to live the stories we read in school. Trees to climb, rocks to clamber upon, water to splash and fields to explore. There were dairy cows, mules, pigs, chickens, ducks and sheep. They had an apple orchard, a plum tree, blackberry canes and wild strawberries.

The garden was a cornucopia of fresh herbs and vegetables, I shall try to name all I remember eating. Disclaimer: My father and mother had an extensive garden at our home “in town” as well, so if it were not raised on the farm, it was at home. Everything listed I have eaten straight from the garden.

• Tomatoes, yellow, red, cherry (we called them tommy-toes)
• Cucumbers, pickling and larger ones as well
• Bell peppers, green usually but there may have been red
• Dill
• Sage
• Corn, sweet yellow and silver queen
• Cabbage
• Lettuce
• Onions, scallions (though we called them green onions) and regular 'cooking' onions
• Beets
• Cauliflower
• Yellow crook-neck squash
• Zucchini
• Pumpkin
• Cushaw melon
• Butternut squash
• Peas, green ones that you shell and sugar snap
• Beans – green, lima, october
• Potatoes
• Carrots
• Parsnips
• Sweet Potatoes
• Eggplant

As you can see, we ate well. My mother and both grandmothers were prolific at home canning, and we had jams, jellies and preserves, relishes and pickled vegetables in addition to the usual canned tomatoes, beans and such.

So much to tell, so much to share. I have decided to focus on a typical early morning as I have reconstructed in my memory to attempt to share the joy and love, the sweat and tears, the day to day life my grandparents shared up on their mountainside farm. The beauty and grit of a life shared for over 50 years.

The day began early, long before the rooster would herald the rising of the sun. Roy made his way to the kitchen, where the old cast iron cook-stove was cold and silent. He used the lid lifter to set aside the two eyes, then the long rectangular section to access the fire box of the stove. He laid a fire as he had more mornings than he could count, using the supply of kindling kept in a pail behind the stove and adding a few sheets of crumpled up newspaper to catch the flame from the wooden kitchen match. Once the kindling had caught fire, he would lay on a few pieces of firewood, or lumps of coal, to get the stove heating up. If it were a chilly morning he would sit in a slat back chair by the stove as he pulled on and laced up his brogans. He wore a pair of bibbed overalls over his short sleeved work shirt and a t-shirt that is now called a “wife-beater”. In the front pockets of the overalls were his pipe, a tin of tobacco, and a box of matches. Examples of what an old cook stove looks like are shown below.

About the time he was dressed, Ethel came in the kitchen, having gotten dressed while he was starting the fire. She was wearing a simple cotton dress she had made from yardage that came in the form of feed-sacks, a bright cheery floral print in hues of blue with bright green leaves. Her apron covered most of the front of her dress, also made by her hand. She always trimmed the generous sized pockets with lace or rick-rack, and the apron strings were made long enough that she could tie them in front. It was easier to keep the apron secured as she went about her day. She was wearing a white slip under the dress, and her support hose were rolled at the knee rather than being attached to garters. Her footwear was an old pair of canvas shoes, slip-on because she disliked the aggravation of tying a pair of shoes. The rubber soles helped her keep sure footed when she was going about her housework.

Roy made his way to the barn to do the morning milking while Ethel set about preparing breakfast. She put ground coffee in the basket of the percolator, filled it with water and set it on the stove to brew. An iron skillet was set on the stove as well, soon to hold either bacon or ham and sausage. She turned to the Hoosier cabinet to begin making biscuits after she had set the biscuit pan on the table, ready to receive the light pillows of dough she would produce.

(At this point I will attempt to describe in detail the making of the biscuits. I stood at her elbow, being in her way, so many times as she did this. She made biscuits every single day, sometimes twice.)

There was a flour bin built into the cabinet, with a sifter attached. She held the bowl in one hand as she sifted the flour into the bowl. The flour (I think) was self-rising. About 8 cups of flour went in, and then she added a generous tablespoon of baking powder to the flour and lightly mixed it in with her fingers. Using a serving spoon, she measured out 2 heaps of solid Crisco shortening onto the flour and began to work it into the flour with her fingers. Once she had done this for a bit, she began to add fresh buttermilk, ice cold from the refrigerator, stirring it into the flour in with a steady and practiced motion. When all of the flour was wet, and the dough was formed (wet but not sloppy is the best way to describe the consistency) it was turned out onto a floured dough board. She would turn and pat the dough, forming it into a flat disc before using the heavy wooden rolling pin to quickly roll it out about ½ inch thick. The biscuit cutter was an old evaporated milk can that the bottom had been cut off of to make a sharp edge. The top of the can was left intact, and the two triangular holes that had been made with a can opener to pour the milk would emit little bursts of flour dust with each swift cut of dough. She worked in a circular pattern, leaving little geometric shapes of dough between each round. After placing the cut biscuits on the waiting pan, she gathered the scraps, cut another set of biscuits and used the second set of scarps to make one last biscuit, called the hoecake. I always wanted that one, because it was bigger, and uneven in texture, I always thought it tasted the best. I would also nab little bits of raw dough and eat them. She tried to convince me the raw dough would make my belly swell and burst but I never believed her. The pan of biscuits (probably at least 30) was covered with a towel and left to rest while she waited for the oven to be the right temperature to bake the biscuits. When I bake biscuits now, I like 425-450 f to get a good color and crust, so I guess this was about the temperature she was waiting for. I think there was a thermometer on the oven door but I am not sure.

She made the gravy in the skillet the sausage and bacon had been frying in, using the grease from the meat for the roux. I did not know the term roux when I was young, I just knew you took out the meat, sprinkled in enough flour to soak up all the grease, added a dash of salt and a good shake of pepper, stirred it around so it would not burn or taste raw, added crumbled sausage, and stirred in milk so it would not lump. When all the milk was added and you had the consistency you wanted, you let it bubble slow, stirring it occasionally, while the biscuits baked.

Right about the same time the biscuits and gravy were ready, the coffee has finished perking. Roy came in, washed up at the sink, and Ethel cooked the eggs, fresh eggs from the hens they raised. They had a successful though modestly sized egg business, and actually sold fresh eggs, milk, buttermilk, and butter to a regular client base 'in town'.

I know this sounds like a lot of food, but before their children were grown there were 5 mouths to feed, and sometimes more because they had fostered less advantaged young men in their teens several times. Once the grandchildren came along, my mother's two oldest sons lived on the farm full-time, and they had very healthy appetites. Farm chores build healthy bodies, and healthy appetites. By the time breakfast was consumed, the cows (upward of 6 or 8 I believe) had been milked by hand, the cows had been fed, as had the mules and/or horses.

Hogs and chickens and other feeding was done after breakfast, but the milking was done at a regular time, and the milk was brought to the spring house for Ethel to process. Many chores, hard work, all day. Every day chores, no weekends or holidays. Seasonal variations, but irregardless of weather or season the daily responsibilities were ever present.

Health, age, and the approaching adulthood of the two grandsons all played a role in the selling of the farm, and when I was 12 that wonderful part of my youth went away. I am so grateful to have been able to experience firsthand those moments, and I have many memories yet to share of that farm on the side of the mountain at Bluestone. But those will wait for later days.