Appalachian Word of the Week -- DIVAN

My aunts and my mom

 Whether you call it a DIVAN (pronounced DYE-VAN, with a flat “i” sound, couch, sofa, or even davenport, this week’s word is the center of an Appalachian family.

It’s where people meet, eat, talk, watch TV, nap, or fight.

Also, when you grow up and leave your mountain home, it’s where you sleep when you come back for a visit. That could be a contributing factor why your visits are short and far between.

After years of service to the family and friends as the main piece of furniture in the living room, the divan then often gets relegated to the front porch for its second life.

Granny's siblings

As the divan ages, it often gets covered with a quilt or a crocheted afghan whipped up by Mama or Granny. It may or may not contain the same colors as the original fabric on the DIVAN. At least it covers up the now threadbare spots and stains of spilled food and coal dust that have made the original fabric unsightly.

No matter how old, uncomfortable, or downright ugly your DIVAN became, it meant home to your family. It’s where you learned to walk by holding on. It’s also where you first went sparkin’ when you were a teen. You also held your first baby on that DIVAN.

 

Mom and my niece at Easter

At my age, I tend to sink into the DIVAN and need a bit of assistance getting pulled out of the drooping cushions.

What did your family call the DIVAN? Do you have any special – or hilarious – memories of yours?

Here are some more photos of DIVANs through my family's history.

Mom and nephew ready for Halloween

My first birthday

My uncle's wife on their fancy DIVAN

Mom, not looking thrilled to have her photo taken

Me, being comforted by a friend's friends

An old family photo

Son taking a nap

Some things never change

Appalachian Word of the Week -- CRAWDAD HOLE

This week's word is CRAWDAD HOLE. If you grew up in the mountains of southeastern Kentucky, you probably know what a crawdad is. You also know about crawdad holes.

Photo courtesy of my friend, Corinne Milwee Farley

Crawdad

Crawdad Hole

CRAWDAD HOLES can be dangerous as you walk around. At least they are surrounded by mounds of mud balls to warn you. But, they certainly make the yard look unsightly. That's why my dad was constantly warring with the CRAWDADS.

He poured carbide into the holes and added hot water. It worked for a while. As the carbide started bubbling, the CRAWDAD would fly out of the hole to escape. However, Dad was waiting for them with his hoe. That CRAWDAD was no longer a problem.

I wrote a story about a CRAWDAD HOLE incident when I was a kid. I'll share it with you now.

THE CRAWDAD HOLE

            I closed my eyes and screamed until my four-year-old voice bounced off the mountains. In mere seconds, my mom, still in her robe and with pin curls crowning her head, and my dad, his face partially covered in fluffy mounds of shaving cream and with a razor in his hand flung open the screen door and ran across the porch. My mom twirled me around. I suppose she expected to find blood spilling onto the steps. Finding none, they shouted in unison, “What’s wrong?”

            “A snake!” I pointed at the concrete step just below where I stood and squeezed my eyes shut, perhaps thinking it couldn’t see me if I couldn’t see it.

These are the steps where I saw the snake

            Heaving a sigh and shaking his head, Dad said, “There’s no snake there.”

            Opening one eye, I gasped in disbelief. There was no snake. I looked at each of the eight steps and then into the yard beyond and could see no snake. “It was there. I saw it. It was all curled up in a pile.

            Mom said, “Ehhhh, It was probably a worm,” and turned to go back inside the house.

            “No, it wasn’t a worm. It was sticking its tongue out at me. Worms don’t have tongues.” I placed one hand on my hip and tilted my chin in the air, sure of my superior knowledge.

            “Ehhhhh, if there was one, it’s gone now.” Shaving cream dripped off Dad’s chin and plopped on the floorboards.

            “What if it bites me?”

            Dad sighed and walked down the steps, dressed in his shorts, wife-beater t-shirt, and bare flat feet to check it out. He knew I would never step into the yard if there was a possibility of a snake lying in wait. I stood on the steps and watched as he looked behind the concrete stoop and then peered into the crawdad holes that flanked the homemade flagstone walkway. Crawdads were a constant nuisance in our yard. Heaping piles of mud balls surrounded each hole that made them unsightly as well as a danger for anyone walking across the yard. The prescribed remedy was to drop some carbide rocks into each hole and follow that with boiling water. When it started bubbling up, the crawdad would either come out of the hole or die inside.

            “Well, Gert, just to make sure, why don’t you go put a pot of water on to boil and we’ll pour some down these crawdad holes. It coulda gone down one of them. What’d that snake look like, Karen?”

            “It was big and black and yellow stripied and was all curled up and sticking its pink tongue out at me.”

            “Sounds like a garter snake.”

            I stood on the porch and kept my eyes peeled for the snake as Dad went inside to finish shaving his face and Mom boiled some water. I didn’t want it coming after me, but I sure wanted to prove to Mom and Dad that I really saw a snake. It didn’t matter what kind of snake—it was a snake.

            Mom finally pushed open the screen door with her rump and maneuvered the oversized pot she used for canning, steaming with hot water, across the porch and down the steps.

            “Get out of the way, Karen. Don’t trip me with this water.” My petite mother grunted as she poured a little water into each hole. She stood back and looked at each one to see if a snake came out. Nothing happened. She was about to give up when my dad came back outside and suggested she pour the rest of it into the biggest hole right next to the bottom step. She leaned her five-foot-tall body nearly down to the hole and poured.

She was right about in the same spot when she poured the hot water into the CRAWDAD HOLE

            Just as the final dregs flowed into the hole, and her face was about twelve inches from it, the snake flew straight up out of the hole and into her face. She screamed as she jumped backward and flung the pot across the yard. Actually, we all screamed. I’m not quite sure what happened after that. There was a lot of screaming and confusion as that big pot continued to bounce across the yard and mom jumped up and down flailing. Dad grabbed the hoe leaning up against the porch and ran after the snake, chopping it into tiny pieces. I guess he wanted to make sure that little worm was dead.

Did you grow up with CRAWDAD HOLES in your yard? Ever find any snakes inside?

Remembrance

It's hard to believe it’s been two years. Two years since Mom breathed her last breath, just down the road from where she breathed her first breath 87 years before.

Mom as a young woman

Mom and her sisters

Mom and her sisters about 25 years ago

Mom and my brother, Larry

Snow covered her grave on the one year anniversary. I remember how much she hated the snow, hated winter, hated driving on slick roads. Summer suited her well. I remember the summer days she spent reclining on a blanket in the back yard, soaking up the rays. If I close my eyes, I can remember the fragrance of her suntan oil, mixed with the baking grass beneath her blanket. I loved sneaking up on her and spraying her with the water hose she kept handy to mist herself when the sun baked a bit too strongly. We both giggled and I ended up as wet as she.

Mom, reading in bed while doing her beauty treatment

Waiting for a quiet moment to pick up her book

In winter, when the sun barely shone, she huddled into her chair, wrapped in a blanket, in front of the heating stove and read books about castles and romance. Her Gothics, she called them. Years later she moved on to Stephen King and similar authors. She always had a desire to be scared out of her wits--and to share that fear with me. I remember sitting on the sofa late at night watching horror movies with her and then dreading having to go into my dark bedroom alone to find the string to the light bulb that dangled in the center of the room.

Mom and me

Mom and me

A trip to Florida in the 60s to visit Uncle Johnny

A Mystery Trip I took Mom on to the Smokies

So many things I now wish I had said to her. Also, quite a few I wish I hadn’t said.

She wore her opinions on her face like her favorite shade of lipstick. If she liked you, you knew it. If she didn’t, well, you knew that, too.

I didn’t know most of her friends by their names. I knew them by her nicknames for them. It was obvious how she really felt about someone by their nickname; like Blabbermouth or Stinky. When I chastised her for being so judgmental, she informed me she wasn’t judging, she was observing.

Dancing was one of her favorite pastimes. When the music started, she was on the floor dancing. She especially loved dancing with young men with dark hair and “hairy faces.”

A kiss from a visiting singer

We had a few adventures together. Like the trip she made to NYC to visit me. I took her to see "Dracula" on Broadway. She loved it so much that she insisted upon waiting outside the stage door to get Frank Langella’s autograph. When he emerged into the alley, she ran up to him for the autograph and when he leaned down to her five-foot frame to hear her talking in her Kentucky twang, she grabbed him and laid a big kiss on him. A few weeks later, Mom passed out in the streets of Harlan and Dad took her to the hospital. They discovered she had been hemorrhaging and needed a blood transfusion. I laughed and told her, “That’s what you get for kissing a vampire.”

Life is short. Grief is not. I still have days when I wish I could call her one more time. Hug her one more time. Shop until I drop one more time with her. Hear her stories one more time.

I recently spent some time in Florida during the Christmas season. I kept thinking how much Mom would love to be there, basking in the sun. 

I still find myself picking up an item in a store and thinking Mom would love this and then remembering...

I thought it would get easier over time. It doesn't. I still have moments when my heart wrenches inside my chest like a wrung out dishrag and tears come. Thankfully, the space between those moments has grown longer.

I regret I didn't get to say good-bye. I wish I could have sat and held her hand during the process. I long to tell her I love you, Mom.

My joy comes in knowing where she is. I prayed for her salvation since I was twelve years old. I didn’t know until the last few days of her life that she was confident in where she would go when she passed. So, one day, I will see her again.

I miss you Mumsie. Keep dancing.

Dancing at the Christmas party one month before she died

Appalachian Word of the Week -- SNOWCREAM

My childhood front yard

The appropriate word for the week, considering this is the first day of Winter, is one of my favorites -- SNOWCREAM!


As a youngster in the mountains of Harlan County, KY, I lived for the days when a massive snow covered the landscape. Not only did I enjoy playing in the snow, sliding down the mountainside in a saucer sled, and building a snow fort with my brother, but I loved making SNOWCREAM.


Of course, the process of making SNOWCREAM required us to collect fresh, clean (emphasis on clean) snow before anyone got outside and dirtied it up.


We gathered up all the largest pots and bowls from the kitchen and headed outside.

Now, there is a process to gathering snow. Since almost everybody around us heated their houses with coal, we had to first rake off the top layer of snow to remove the black spots of ash that had dropped onto the top layer. That completed, we began scooping snow into our bowls and pots.


Of course, we made sure not to scoop too close to the ground. Lots of dogs and wild animals used the ground for a litter box, so we made sure to avoid any yellow or brown snow. We also didn't want to get grass trimmings in our snow.


After gathering up all of our bowls and pots, we carried it inside to Mom, who was waiting with the bag of sugar, can of cream, vanilla flavoring and the salt box. She also had the hand mixer ready to get the job done faster.

She took the largest bowl and checked to make sure it was clean snow. Then she added about a cup of sugar and started mixing. Then she added pure cream out of the can. Some people make it with milk, but the flavor is nowhere near as good. Then she added vanilla flavoring and a pinch of salt. As the snow melted down, she scooped in more snow and the process continued until every bowl and pot of snow had been added to the mixture. She continued to add sugar and cream until the concoction was perfect and creamy.


She scooped out a bowl of snowcream for each of us and then put the main bowl into smaller bowls that would fit into the freezer for later.


Oh, what JOY to sit in front of the coal stove and eat that snowcream! Our fingers were numb and so were our lips, but we didn't care. It was glorious.

As we made our way through the main bowls of snowcream stored in the freezer, we sometimes added a bit of flavor to the mix. A favorite was Nehi Grape pop. We also tried peach pop, strawberry pop, or chocolate pop. If you don't know what pop is, you may call it soda or soft drink. Back in my day, we had some wonderful flavors available.


So, if you are fortunate enough to get a big snow where you live, why not give it a try and make some SNOWCREAM for yourself? Just make sure you watch out for yellow or brown snow.


Exact recipes don't work for our snowcream. You have to go by taste. If the mix is too sweet, add some snow. If it's not sweet enough, add more sugar. If it's not creamy enough, add more cream. You get the picture.


Have you ever eaten SNOWCREAM? Tell me about your experience.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- STEP-INS

My Appalachian word this week is STEP-INS.

Granny always used the term “step-ins” when she referred to a woman’s underwear. She thought the word “panties” was too crude. I always laughed when she said it, but I didn’t say “panties” either. I called them undies or unmentionables.

One of my aunts called them bloomers. It seemed that everybody in the mountains had a different word for the same thing. Now that I look back on those days when Granny was still around, I appreciate her use of step-ins a lot more than I did back then.

Whatever each family member called them, it was the dreaded gift to receive at the family Christmas party each year. Granny always gave me step-ins for Christmas. In my pre-teen years, few things embarrassed me more than having to open that gift in front of all the aunts and uncles and hold them up for all to see. Aunt Mona Jo seemed to get way too much pleasure out of making a big deal of the reveal. She raised her voice so no one could miss her and announced that Kurn Lynn (Karen Lynn) was opening her gift. Oh, what is it, Kurn Lynn? Oh, look! Ain’t they purdy? Kurn Lynn got some step-ins. Hold ‘em up for everybody to see.

If I didn’t hold them up (I much preferred hiding under my chair), Aunt Mona Jo would hold them up for me, high in the air. The laughter only lasted a few seconds but they echoed in my head for… years.

What did your family call them? Did you have any other unusual names for underwear?

Tradition!

Traditions. New Year’s Day seems to be filled with them. When asked why people repeat family traditions on the eve or day of a new year, most of my friends tell me it’s because “that’s what my family did.”

But why? Is it because we feel all warm and fuzzy about memories of our childhood and simpler times? Is it because we feel closer to those we love merely because we repeat a tradition? Or do we believe there is some hidden truth in those traditions that compels us to repeat them “just in case” they are relevant to the success or failure of the coming year?

I’ll look at my traditions and see if I can figure it out.

Last night I stayed up until the ball dropped in Times Square. It is tradition. I even attended those dropping of the ball zoos when I lived in New York City.  I stood in the massive crowd of loud, drugged, drunk, revelers in freezing weather (sometimes in snow) just to watch a giant apple drop in Times Square. Yes, I lived there before the gorgeous high-tech Waterford crystal ball made its first appearance. As an introvert, the crowd was not an easy challenge for me. The pick-pockets and gropers didn’t make it any easier. But, it was “tradition.”

Apparently, it is not an important tradition for my husband. He fell asleep and I sat by myself at midnight, cheering in the new year alone while thousands of New Yorkers screamed and kissed beneath the Waterford ball, freezing their tails off.

I reminded myself that I’m not the only person who did that last night. I should feel fortunate that he was just lying in the bed asleep and not gone forever.

Then there’s the food. My mother told me from childhood that we must eat black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day. When I complained that I hated them, she pointed out that the more you eat, the more money you’ll have during the year. Then she told me it was up to me to eat as many as possible so that the family wouldn’t end up in the Poor House. How’s that for incentive?

Being from the mountains of southeastern Kentucky, at least we didn’t have to eat sauerkraut (yuck!) or greens swimming in vinegar (double yuck!). I guess I should feel fortunate I only had to eat black-eyed peas. Of course, my favorite part of it was the fatback used for seasoning.

Today, I still find myself cooking black-eyed peas. Instead of fatback, I use the hambone from Thanksgiving. I have developed a taste for the peas now, sorta. Anyway, even though I am the only person in my current family unit who will eat them, I still spend the day cooking them. Today, I added a couple of potential traditions (it's never too late to start a new one, is it?)

First, I thought it would be good to JUMP INTO THE NEW YEAR with frog legs. Dad used to go frog gigging often when I was a child. I loved watching my mom fry them in the old black skillet and watching them jump around in the skillet. You know they taste like chicken, don't you? Well, I think it's a good tradition to encourage us to jump into the new year full of excitement, expectation, and hope.

My next new tradition is my favorite vegetable--fried green tomatoes. Okay, so they are technically a fruit. They are green and I will consider them a vegetable for the sake of tradition. They will take the place of the greens most southerners have on January 1st. 

So, why do I celebrate traditions? Perhaps there is something inside me that believes we must continue traditions as our way of not giving up on the promises of our youth. Perhaps it is because the traditions connect me with family members who have already passed. Maybe it’s because traditions are what make me feel connected with my family, past and present. Or, perhaps, traditions are what give us hope that the unknown future of the coming year doesn’t matter as much as the unity, support, and love of our families. Just maybe, traditions solidify hope. Whatever the reason, it gives me an excuse to make a big deal out of tradition and eat food I usually don't eat.

Some of you may think you must repeat traditions because your dead relatives will haunt you for the whole year if you don't. I rather doubt that one, but it needed to be said. And some of you may believe you will have bad luck if you don't eat certain foods on a certain day. You are the same people who cringe when you step on a crack (break your mother's back), break a mirror, or a black cat walks across your path. Enough said about that...

No matter why we honor tradition, there's no harm in it. And it might, just might, draw us closer together with our family, even if only for one day of the year. One thing you can be sure about--tradition will outlive those resolutions you made.

Happy New Year to you and your family.