I walked the hills without no shoes

(never did have no shoes)

I rode the trees in the wind

And smelled coal every day of my life

 

Black-eyed susans blessed by heart

High-reached water blessed my tongue

And the wide sky taught me to dream

 

I walked the hills without no shoes

Into woods only the deer knew

I rode the trees in the wind

And smelled coal every day of my life

While the wide sky taught me to dream

 

In the quiet of hidden meadows

Black-eyed susans broke my heart

High-reached water awoke a lasting thirst

For I smelled coal everyday of my life

 

I walked the hills without no shoes

(never did have no shoes)

but I rode the trees in the wind

and the wide sky taught me to dream

#CoalCountry #ChildhoodandHills #Childhood

Though she never excelled in music, athletics

Or any of those other roads to fame,

In our town, she is very, very special.

Dorothy never went to school beyond eighth grade.

Yet, somehow, she learned all the skills

She needed to handle problems large or small.

Everyone in the town knew who Dorothy was.

Need some sugar? Here, take this bowlful home.

She volunteered to do all the cooking

When we had the fundraiser

For the volunteers’ uniforms.

Remember when she got that bad curve repaired?

That county commission sure got mad at her.

That stormy winter night her neighbor, Mary Jo,

Took sick and Dorothy rushed her to the hospital?

She got there just in time, in spite of icy roads.

She brushed aside all offers of reward, saying,

“Hon, I was only helping a good neighbor. Hon.”

How often did she help you in some way?

When I cut my finger playing mumbly-peg,

She bandaged it so well that it quit hurting.

My friend Billy got his wagon repaired

And little Joey Adams, such a poor baseball player,

Got to play the year she managed the team.

All of this because our Dorothy cared so much

About her neighbors and her friends.

She would volunteer whatever needed doing.

Don’t you wish your town had a Dorothy, too?

#VolunteerandValue

When the First World War began, my mother was not yet two years old. When it ended, she was six. My mother shared with me the story of a WWI veteran,  a man she called Old Charlie.

Charlie was sent to the trenches which stretched north and east from France. He was a hometown boy from Wheeling in West Virginia, but his heritage was German. His family, like many in this industrial town, were immigrants. My mother grew up in neighborhoods where, in addition to the many Irish (like her cousins), there were Germans and Poles. During the war, as in many US towns, the Germans and the Poles of Wheeling were often ostracized, or worse. But it was an American uniform Charlie wore to battle, and as an American he fought there.

Like many, Charlie returned damaged. We call it PTSD now, but then it was “shell shock.” Charlie had been a quiet lad, a gentle soul, before the war. Afterward, he became the neighborhood’s drunkard. Unlike many alcoholics who lash out at their demons, Charlie would often slip quietly into a stupor murmuring a melody. It was always the same tune, one well-known.

None of the neighborhood children were afraid of him, though many shunned him. Adults who had known him before the war, generally pitied him. He may have been homeless, but my mother might not have known as she was just a child. She told of mornings when she passed Old Charlie slumped in one doorway or another and reeking of alcohol. She remembered clearly the song she heard him singing as she passed. It was familiar to her, though the words he sang were German.

You see, the one memory that persisted for Charlie was of a single night in that war. It has been written about before, made much of and also diminished in the telling. But Charlie was there, and he never forgot that moment when across the battlefield came a song. Above the trenches from where Charlie shivered, he heard a song he had heard each year in his home sung in the language of his parents.

The words Old Charlie sang in his drunkenness with tears running down his face and heard clearly by my mother as she passed him slumped in any handy doorway were “Heilege nacht, stille Nacht….” The song my mother knew as “Silent Night.”

#WorldWar1Memories #PTSD

When I think about trick or treating as a child, the memories slide through my mind like the rapid images in a montage as I age before my eyes. The film moves from my youngest age when I wore my regular clothes through to years when my costume was homemade of bits and pieces—aprons, scarves, Dad’s shirt, Mom’s skirt—to the older years when I wore a few that were store-bought. This reflects the improving finances of my family.

I was seven the first time I had a ‘real’ costume, one I was proud to tell my school friends about days before Halloween. I never wore it. That day at school I broke my arm. I remember how unhappy I was that the costume sleeve would not, could not fit over my cast. I would rather stay home than walk around in my own clothes, wearing a cast (and being in pain), explaining to any friends I met why I was not wearing the costume I had bragged about. That was the worst Halloween ever. I did not even care about the candy. I just wanted to go home and feel sorry for myself. The worst Halloween ever.

Within the blur of memory there are some treats that stand out. My mother’s friend who lived at the back of a lot and at the top of a narrow hall stairway made special treats just for the children of her friends. I went home sometimes with popcorn balls and other times with candied apples or peanut brittle. The last two I tried but never really liked. My mom loved them, so I gave them to her. She and my grandmother also shared the popcorn ball which had a flavor less strong than caramel corn. I preferred my popcorn salty, though the sweet variety was okay.

My mother always urged me to share my Halloween hoard with the family or my friends at school. I do not remember being really bothered by letting go of some bits of the treasure—the pieces I did not really like any way. What did I like (and keep)? Bubble gum was always good.

 

#Halloween #HalloweenandTrickorTreat #TrickorTreating #HalloweenTreats

The smells of fresh mown hay, corn roasting,

Ginger in warm apple cider mixing,

Colors in leaves on the nearby trees

Proclaim Indian summer is upon our land again.

The smoke from the burning of fallen leaves,

Follows wherever I go.

The pumpkins, wheat straw and the setting sun

Have all been brushed with a golden tint.

When a glimpse of the Aurora Borealis

Catches my eye as I sit listening

While a wind song plays on the chimes above.

The magic of the moment is such

That across the field I seem to see in sight

A bronze chested warrior striding through.

I will miss this Indian summer when it’s gone.

 

#NativeAmericanDay #AutumnPoem