I left my parents house for good in 1966, so in almost 50 years I’m sure there are many things I have forgotten. But when I think back on those Christmas’s at our family home just east of the Blue Ridge Parkway, the very first thought that comes to mind is just how awful our Christmas trees were.

We never bought a tree, Daddy always went to the woods and cut one. Daddy’s criteria for a good Christmas tree must have been this; It must be pine, or in that family, and it must have more than three branches. I can remember being with him as a small boy and thinking, (and perhaps even saying), that tree has too many gaps where there is no limbs!

The fact was that we were somehow predestined to have a much less than perfectly shaped tree, but the tree itself was only the beginning. As far back as I can remember we had the same lights, with the same metal reflectors.

The bulbs went through the reflectors and were held in place when the  bulb was completely screwed into place. The ones above look exactly like the ones we had.

After about the first 5 to 7 years the paint started to wear off the bulbs so many of them were just clear bulbs with a bit of obstruction from bits of paint that had not worn off yet. Then there was the silver strand of garland, and the red.

We never had more that I remember, just one silver and one red. You can imagine after seeing this picture what this garland would look like after several years of use being crammed into a box and dragged out over and over for years. They were pretty ratty looking!

We also had the same ice cicles which were strips of thin aluminum foil I think. They looked like this. They too started to look pretty bad after several years of use. 

I don’t remember Daddy ever buying more decorations for our tree. Why should he when we already had perfectly good stuff? We also had a few colored balls to hang and some years we strung popcorn on sewing thread and put it on as well. We had a large star for the top, made of tin, with a bulb in the center. Every year our Christmas tree was…., well…, it was “there”.

Now to clear my dad’s good name, I am not much better at choosing native trees and decorations than he was. If not for the female species, nothing in my life would be pretty. As a teenager I too harvested some monstrosities for yule trees.

Those trees were ugly, but they were ours, in our living room, and we were very happy, and I was content. I knew my parents loved me and that was enough to make Christmas beautiful.

My Daddy’s “stuffing” is a very fond memory. He always helped Momma in the kitchen, especially if we were having company or a special meal. He could make the very best dressing I have ever tasted to this day. Momma’s signature squash pies were a staple too. ‘Nothing like them this side of heaven! We listened to Christmas music on the Admiral radio at  night and had pop corn. Later, after we got a TV, we enjoyed the varaity shows and stayed up late on weekend nights, sometimes ’til 10 o’clock.

I remember hearing Santa, ( I had known the truth for a few years I think but had not told anyone thinking that if I did the toys would stop coming), on Christmas eve and even though I had some way found out, I could hardly wait until morning to see the hand-me-down bike Santa had left. It was my cousin’s bike, he has out grown it, so Daddy painted it and gave it to me, and I loved that bike!

My parents did the best they could with what they had. Nobody had informed us just how poor we were so we were content and felt blessed.

As I write this post my house has so many sparkling lights on it that when I fire them all up the city of Monroe dims a bit! A 7 1/2 foot lighted tree sits by the fireplace and it is decorated to a tee. Carol has a nack for making things look just right. We are blessed people and Christmas is still fun, blessed, and I look forward to complaining again next year when Carol tells me it’s time to get the stuff out of the attic again.

If I could do it all again I don’t think I would change a thing about my childhood. My parents were good “salt of the earth” kind of people who loved big though they had little their whole lives.

These are precious memories.

Merry Christmas,
Royce

One of the most amusing things about living in the hills of Western North Carolina was the peoples language. The mountain slang that one learns almost by osmosis is funny, ignores most rules of grammer, but communicates thoughts very well.

On certain occasions, some of my country folk would try to sound more sophisticated and educated than they were and it usually did not end well. Two stories are forever burned into my memory that Illustrate this point. A woman who lived near Marshall, N.C. was approached one day by the new preacher who said to her, “Miss Martha, I saw you in town yesterday. You were in the pickup and passed while I was parked by the court house. I blew my horn but I guess you didn’t hear me or didn’t know it was me”. Her response was, “Well, I’ll say! If Id’a knowd it wus you I’da retched out ‘n woven atchie”.

Then once I was listening to “Swap ‘n Shop” on WGGI a.m. radio from Gaffnie, South Carolina. Folks would call in to the show’s host Uncle Bud and tell him what they wanted to sell, how much, and give their phone number. One morning a lady called and Uncle Bud asked “What are folks doing this moring over in Spindale”. The lady replied “Oh, we’re just sitting here on the back porch having our morning coffee and eating some Fig “Newtings”. She obviously wanted to sound rather dignified on the radio.

A preacher freind of mine called these kinds of snafus as “skinning your ignorance”. I agree, it leaves you pretty naked for the world to see your lack of education.

Royce

“Spring has sprung, the grass has risen,
she wants her’s and he wants his’n.”

A young fellow was driving by the farm house of an older gentleman in Barnardsville, N.C. and suddenly his tire went flat. He pulled partially onto the shoulder of the road and after a few moments of rattling around in the trunk of the ‘62 Impala he started to lift the corner of the car with a bumper jack.

The offending tire was on the right rear and each time he would get the wheel almost high enough to remove it the Chevy would ease back just enough to partially fall off the bumper jack leaving it attached to the bumper at about a 45 degree angle. Since the car was on a sharp incline the frustrated, and now sweaty and dirty, young man decided he would have to “scotch” the left rear tire to prevent the repeat of his previous attempts to jack the car up enough to remove the flat and install the spare.

He started to look around and could not find any stone larger than about fist size, much too small to stop a “led sled” on a steep incline. He surveyed the area and noticed an old man sitting on the porch near where he had stopped. He called out to the old man, “Hey, is there a rock around here big enough to “scotch” my wheel so I can get this @#$%$## flat changed?”

The old man, in a calm voice replied, “Nope. It got bad cold last winter for two weeks and we burnt every one on the place”. The young fellow just looked at him for a while like a calf looking at a new gate, and said nothing. What do you say to a statement like that? The old man didn’t utter another word, never smiled.

Finally after a long trip across a barbed wire fence, across a pasture, and into the creek and back again, a suitable rock was found and the operation was complete.

Royce

This is one of a few posts I will write about my time in Barnardsville, N.C. back in the late 1960’s.

The meeting place for the town’s brain trust to gather and share their ignorance was the general store on the north end of town. The front of the store was decorated with the mandatory places for the locals to sit and talk. In this case it was some old well worn church pews. I once heard the following tale while perched there listening to tale after tale.

The fellow began, “I hooked a big rainbow up near the North Fork bridge yesterday about 2:00 and caught the same trout again about 4:00 right above the old Burleson home place”. Someone asked, “How did you know it was the same trout?” He replied matter of factly, “It was wet with sweat from the fight I had with it up the creek!”

Royce

It was in the 1920’s at a rural farm house tucked away in the Hills of Yancey County, N.C. where a young boy ran screaming into the house “Mama, Bill cut my finger off!” Grandma Fox, who was not too excitable asked “What did he do that for?” The reply was “I dared him to”. “You fool, you deserved it” was his mama’s reply.

She went to the ash heap where the remains of the cook-stove wood fires were dumped and with a piece of flower sack material, she bound the ashes onto the stub that moments earlier was a finger and sent him on his way.

My uncle Fred Wheeler told me this account of childhood misfortune when he was in his 80’s and this is how it happened. Uncle Fred and his brother Bill were splitting wood for the stove. Fred, ever the mischievous one, placed the index finger of his left hand on the chop block and said to Bill “You’re a chicken if you don’t cut it off”. Calmly Bill said “Hold it right still” and whack! went the double bit axe and the finger was cleanly severed.

Despite a missing index finger on his left hand Fred would become a pretty good banjo and guitar player. He like two of his brothers became a preacher and was a carpenter for all of his adult life until he got too old.

This is the first of many tales I can tell about my Uncle Fred Wheeler. He passed away at about 93 still as full of life and laughter as when he dared the wrong boy to do something foolish.

Royce

The summer of my 16th birthday I spent 2 weeks with a friend in Old Fort, N.C. He told me if we would go to church on Sunday night we might be able to walk two girls home from church. Of course I excitedly agreed.

It was quite an experience. The girls lived 3 to 5 miles from the church, mostly up hill. My friend Frankie claimed to have worn the soles of a good pair of engineers boots that night. It was great, I actually held the girls hand for a bit before we got to her house. We awkwardly said “bye” and began the trek back down the mountain walking along the gravel road in the darkness.

In my youth and before, this was a very common way for boys to get to know girls. In fact my mom and dad met at church and dad asked mom if he could “walk her from home from church” and a romance was kindled that lasted for almost 50 years until dad passed away.

Another romance that began on a walk home from church lasted several years and the now middle aged couple visited on Sunday afternoons at her parents house. As they were swinging back and forth on a porch swing, the fellow said to his lady “You know, we ought to get married”. Her reply was “God! I’d love to if we could find anybody that’d have us!”

Royce

Last Saturday I traveled back to the hills of Western North Carolina to bury my mother; back near the place of her birth in Yancey County. She is buried beside my dad and he beside my mom’s dad, Grandpa Fox, whom we affectionately called “Papa”.

Funerals and the surrounding events have changed over the years. It was customary in the early years to have the deceased body in the home for a day or two before the funeral and burial. As a 22 year old insurance salesman I was shocked when I was invited into a home to find a casket with a body in view in the living room. No one seemed affected by it but me. It was business as usual except for a casual “Aunt Mary passed a few days ago” or something similar.

One of the customs that has seemingly also died over time is the “Settn’ Up”. In about 1968 a neighbor’s son passed away and one of my in-laws asked me the next day “Are you goin’ to the settin’ up?” up at Joe’s house? Although I had heard of the rite familiar to earlier generations of mountain folks I had never had the pleasure. I asked a few questions and eagerly agreed that I would. I am so glad I did.

I along with several friends, family, and neighbors arrived just after “supper time”. As night approached folks started to leave and finally by about 9:00 p.m. there was the dead boy’s father, a brother, me, my brother-in-law, and perhaps two or three others. Into the night there were words of consolation, prayers for the grieving family, and then memories were shared about the deceased. There were stories of his youthful achievements, funny family stories, and then as the night turned to early morning, the tone changed to absolute hysterical laughter for a few hours.

I don’t ever remember laughing for so long as one after another would share a funny story, a joke on a friend, something a neighbor had done, etc. You would never have guessed the host’s son had committed suicide the day before. By today’s standards it seems like strange behaviour but I sensed something very loving and therapeutic was taking place. I believe the commitment of those folks who had come to “Set up all night” combined with the tears, prayers, and humor helped to get the family well on the road of grief we all must travel.

That was my only “Settin’ Up” but I’d do it again. I think it was a good thing.

Royce