Camp Meetings

The old Primitive Baptists and their churches were very unique, to say the least. From weeklong camp meetings to the brass spittoons conveniently located at the end of each pew, these churches and their members certainly create some intrigue.

The camp meeting began with the early pioneers and their need for religious services. Early on, these settlers had no physical building in which to attend church. They would simply hold services in a designated area at a designated time. Like a modern revival, camp meetings would last for days. Living more than a few miles away from the meeting location meant a rough horse and buggy ride or either a long walk back and forth each day. Rather than endure these daily journeys, many camped out for the meetings duration, thus the name of camp meetings. 

Later on, after actual churches had been built, the camp meeting tradition continued and much of the preaching was held inside. In some more affluent areas, the luxury of outhouses were even added.

There would often be several preachers at these camp meetings and often each would speak for hours. As soon as one was finished preaching, another one started. As I mentioned, some of the more modern camp meetings were held inside. Not that the number of speakers was limited, but the seating in the picture was found behind the pulpit of an abandoned Primitive Baptist church. I can just imagine four sweaty, tired men sitting back there waiting for their turn to talk and yell about fire and brimstone. I can picture them dozing off but giving an occasional reassuring sign to the congregation by hollering “Amen!”.

One of my favorite jaw flapping buddies once told me that he remembered the camp meetings that were held at the church just up the road from where I live. He said that people would come from as far as 20 or so miles to attend. The attendees would from a large circle with their wagons and the camping area was inside this ring (much like cowboys would do when herding cattle across the country).

Primitive Baptists, or Hard Shells as some called them, differed from place to place. In my area they dipped snuff and chewed tobacco in church, hence the spittoons at the end of each pew (I can imagine that one’s spitting abilities could be judged by the amount of spit that adorned their pew neighbor’s shirt!). Back to the variances. Primitive Baptists used real wine for communion; however some members took this a bit to the extreme. As my above mention buddy once said “Some of em communed every day! Several times a day!”

The last service held at the Primitive Baptist Church up the road from where I live was a funeral service for a Mr. Wells in the 70’s. After the death of the last living church member, the church was simply forgotten. It remained as a sort of time capsule for over forty years; pews, chairs, altar and spittoons arranged as if service were soon to be held. In 2010 the church began to fall in. Thankfully, the items inside were rescued and given out to family members of those buried there.

These items are now sacred pieces of history to those that posses them. Although these things will not last throughout time, there are memories and stories that can be preserved forever. One such little story includes another unique aspect of the Primitive Baptists as well as some mischievous little boys. Stay tuned!

Hand-prints In Time....or In A Bowl

Bowls.

What was it with Aunt Deanie and bowls? Most of the time she ate out of a bowl and she made me do the same. They were very pretty bowls, but bowls all the same. Good thing I am not one of those “oh no my peas touched my taters!” kind of folks because by about midway through dinner you couldn’t tell where your peas ended and your taters began.

Turning on the faucet to wash your hands at Aunt Deanie’s was a no no. Every morning Aunt Deanie filled her big blue bowl, which I now proudly have on display, with water. She then placed the bowl and a bar of soap on a towel that she had laid on the counter. This setup served as the hand washing station and the water was not to be changed until she deemed the water “dirty.” Normally the water wasn’t “dirty” until late in the afternoon.

I loved washing my hands in the bowl. Of course I now wonder just how “clean” my hands actually were when finished washing.

After Aunt Deanie died, at age 93 (she had appendicitis and would not let the doctors do anything about it), we found little bowls of buttons, bowls of nails, bowls filled with sewing needles, bowls of keys to who knows what and bowls filled with little doohickeys and thing-a-ma-bobs. Like most of her generation, she was a saver of any item that could possibly have any use at all in the future. After all, who knows when you might need a bowl full of miscellaneous keys?

Last week my girls and I, as well as one of my nieces, put some new flowers on Aunt Deanies grave. As we walked by her grandparent’s graves and then her parents’ graves; I thought about a very special bowl. I had been using this dense, homemade, concrete bowl as garden décor. There in the cemetery I recollected upon the bowl and what Aunt Deanie had told me about it. Aunt Deanie said that her mother made it and it was the only thing left that that really reminded Deanie of her Mom. Aunt Deanie picked up the bowl and with tears in her eyes placed her hands inside the indentions made by her mother’s fingers.

Aunt Deanie used this bowl to water her chickens. Long after the chickens were all gone, the bowl continued to rest under the spigot. I don’t know if the bowl was kept outside because it evoked too many emotions or if was simply left there in case it were ever needed again to be used as a watering bowl.

I can tell you that the bowl is no longer in my flower bed, but now sits in my China cabinet among my much daintier and delicate pieces. Although the bowl is definitely not China; it is, to me, one of my most valuable pieces. It now stands as a reminder of the little things that make life wonderfully weird and simply grand, like family (yes some of you are big weirdos and that’s why I love you!), bowls and even peas touching your taters.

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Name That Picture!

We take pictures at birthdays, graduations, holidays, vacations and other special events. These photographs create a record of life and solidify our memories. School pictures are taken every year. T-ball, softball, basketball….you get the point.

Most of us omit writing names and dates and other important information on the backs of these photographs. We think that we will always recognize the people in the pictures and we fool ourselves into thinking we will  remember the whens and wheres and whats. Future generations that may inquisitively view our pictures are rarely considered. 

I often find myself looking through a photo album and asking myself, “Now was that my daughter's 2^nd or 3^rd birthday party?” Thankfully, I am a photo freak and the answer can be found on the back of the picture. I HATE writing names on pics. It drives me crazy (short trip), but it is a must do! I have begun printing entire photo books with the names listed below the picture, rather than individual photos, so I can avoid the monotonous hand labeling process. 

I have around one-hundred lonesome, old pictures that are sadly, unlabeled. These scenes and these people were important enough to be photographed and I know I share a connection with them, somehow, but their exact kinship, in most cases, will forever be a mystery.

I am very thankful to two of my best buds, Chris and Ben, for helping me put names to some of these faces. It’s amazing the stories that can be evoked by a 60, 70, 80+year old picture. Simply amazing.

Now folks, please do your kids, your grand-kids, your great-grand-kids, etc. a favor. Print your pictures!  Write the names and any necessary details on the backs of your pictures! Hopefully we’ll all be lucky enough to have at least a few descendants that actually care about these things as I do.

Now to the current picture in question, which HAS NOTHING WRITTEN ON THE BACK.  I am thinking the people in this photo are probably Compton’s and if I ask the right people I can probably get some names. However what perplexes me more is what the heck they are doing. Initially I thought it was a glass bottom boat.  Then….the only other thought that came to mind was that they were sitting around the #23 mining shaft waiting for the door to open so that they can snap pictures of a  gnome riding by in a mine cart, however that is probably not so.

Maybe the caption to this photo is an easy one that I am just not getting. Anyone who can fill me in, has any guesses, etc. Please post. 

Bootlegged Chores

Moonshine making was still a very profitable business in the 50’s, especially in The South. Mr. Washtub (affectionately named by his customers because he made his stills out of #2 washtubs) has long been gone to the distillery in the sky, but his memory and maybe even some of his fire water….lives on.

Now children of farmers, like myself, help on the farm.  Naturally or unnaturally as it may be, children of moonshiners often helped with the family business of making shine. Most of the chores were limited to buying sugar or maybe hauling in the wood used to keep the cooker burning.

Mr. Washtub was either a very smart business man or a very bad parent, but who am I to judge? One of Mr. Washtub’s sons, Bud, was delegated to be the delivery boy. At the young age of seven, Bud often ventured out to do his chores in the wee morning hours. “Boy you get that money before you hand them the package,” was Mr. Washtub’s primary rule when it came to Bud’s primary chore.

As far as I know, no deep psychological issues were developed due to Bud’s childhood chores. Actually, his experiences developed him into a unique, loving and fully southern character.  He is definitely worthy of the common southern title, “one of the best men I know.”

I’ll close with a quick tale that is too short to stand alone.

Mr. Washtub and a cousin of his were on the way home from a dance in the Springhill Community. There had been a big rain while they were at the dance and the bridge at Mt. Ida had washed out. The bridge itself had dropped down about five feet. Mr. Washtub always carried around a Beretta gun in his back pocket. When he jumped down to the bridge, his gun went off. Luckily, Mr. Washtub escaped with only a hole in his britches. 

Chore Charts and Chopping Cotton

Chores. Ahh, the word most dreaded by my children.  Whenever I hand out the chore list, without fail someone always simultaneously develops a stomach ache, or headache, or some similar illness. I am not sure if they have developed an allergy to the paper that the list is printed on or what? Although I do have a sneaking suspicion that these are only excuses. 

Putting up the dishes, wiping the table off, folding laundry, etc. These chores are a bit easier than my duties as a child. Not that I didn’t sometimes enjoy my chores, but feeding pigs every morning and helping to put out feed for 70,000 chickens takes a bit more effort than folding underwear.

 

Now, an introduction to my upcoming story.

Children’s chores, say seventy years ago or so, varied greatly from modern children’s chores. Seventy years ago children from farm families picked tobacco, pulled corn and/or chopped cotton.  Many children here in The South (Yes The and South are supposed to be capitalized! LOL) were still wringing out laundry and hanging it outside to dry. Other children…..well some of them had some very, let’s say unique chores as you will see in tomorrow’s story!! Stay tuned!

Plowing Through the Past

There are only about a thousand stories I could tell from this one picture, but I’ll try to stay focused. As we all know, years ago (as my Daddy would say), most folks farmed for a living. There wasn’t a lot of monetizing within farming one-hundred years or so ago. The main intent of many of these farmers was to put the fruits of their labors directly on their family’s table. I’m sure this middle buster on my mail box helped fill many plates. I have always wished that I lived back in those days of working to live and not living to work; that is until someone reminded me there was no indoor plumbing.

Middle busters were used with what is called a Georgia stock plow. The Middle buster was one of a few different “sweeps” that could be used with the plow.  The middle buster, with the help of a guided mule and plow, created the rows and the furrow in which the seeds were planted. Another sweep was used to cover the seeds up after they were, of course, planted by hand.

The stock to this middle-buster would have been made of wood and is probably long rotted away. I had the pleasure of stumbling upon this piece of history a few years ago while treasure hunting in the woods around my house. I am sure the person who used it long ago never thought it would be put on display and be considered such a treasure to someone.

The majority of the antiquated “decorations” inside and outside my home are not just adornments. They are all prized pieces with stories begging to be told. Until the next treasure speaks to me……….

Sights and Sounds From My Front Porch....ahhhhhhh

Boots....Feeding America and My Heart

Boots. Not cowboy boots. Just boots .Growing up, I did not know there were there boot styles outside of the cowboy kind.

When the UPS man delivered the big box from Sheplers, I knew it had Daddy’s boots inside. Okay sometimes it was a hat. No, not a cowboy hat, a hat. Same story, different tune.

Boots, boots…back to the boots.

Without opening the box, I could describe the boots to the T. Always the same brand, always the same style. Like his choice of boots, my Daddy is consistent. He gets up with the chickens every morning, literally.  There are no weekends for him. Farming doesn’t permit sleeping in. He works steadily, and loves consistently.

 Each morning after working the chickens, (chicken farmer slang for picking up the dead ones, adjusting curtains, foggers, feeders and checking and re-checking everything) he feeds his barn cats. What’s a farm without barn cats right?

My girls love feeding the cats with Poppa and they look forward to this time with him. They depend on him for hugs and compassion when in trouble with their Momma.  They look forward to “helping” him and they know their help will be greatly appreciated. They bank on their Poppa to randomly give them a dollar to put in their pockets. (No pun intended).  His boots are always put to good use. They are used to help feed America.  God has used my Dad to develop good character in his children and grandchildren. Although Daddy does not realize it; God uses him as a living historian and many of the stories he has shared will be used on this blog. 

Work is slow, but the bills are coming in hot. Prior to this week, I was up to my ears with work. Thankfully my eyes are an abnormal distance above my ears and I could still see a bit ahead into the future. I knew some downtime was coming and  this blog deal has been in the back of my mind jumping up and down screaming “take time to work on me, please!!” for quite awhile now. 

Today was my first “slow” day and the first thing I thought of this morning was writing a blog entry. Nothing really came to me so I decided to put a few items up for auction on Ebay to help take up the financial slack. Kamryn has outgrown her favorite pair of boots and they are now up for bids. I took the first snapshot for the auction, previewed it in the viewfinder and boom……first blog entry catalyzed! Taking a trip into town to pick up some farm supplies and then…..blogging about boots!!!