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 - Conveyors

This week's word is CONVEYORS. The conveyor is how miners got coal from an underground mine to the coal tipple (that we talked about last week). I've seen conveyors that stretched from the entrance to the mine all the way down the side of the mountain to the tipple. I've even seen one near Pineville, KY that crossed the main road.

Crummies, KY conveyor stretching down the mountain to the tipple

Although trucks can also be used to transport the coal, I remember how fascinated I was watching the coal travel along the conveyor and drop into the bin of the tipple, to then be released into a train car. Most conveyors are enclosed, though, so the coal doesn't slip off.

Benito Mine, Benito, KY

You may wonder how the coal gets to the conveyor from where it’s mined.

A couple of years ago, I had the opportunity of visiting a coal mine and seeing for myself how coal is, or was, mined. That mine is no longer in operation.

As I did some research for a novel set in the Appalachian coal fields, I took a tour of Portal 31 in Lynch, Kentucky in Harlan County. I climbed into a people mover as it drove us into the mine and down further and further. Not a great experience for anyone who is claustrophobic. 

People mover that takes miners (visitors) deep into the mine

My tour guide who I discovered was a former classmate. We've both changed a lot in 40 years.

One of the vignettes with a mule. That ceiling didn't make me feel safe.

A map of all the tunnels through the mountain. 

Some equipment needed in the mines

Along the way, we stopped at vignettes of life in a coal mine from the early days of mining there. The days when they had mules to pull the coal out of the mine. We also saw the early methods of getting the coal out of the mountain using dynamite and pick axes. Those were the days when fancy gadgets didn’t help shore up the roof to keep it from collapsing on them and they had no modern devices to alert them to gas. It was especially dangerous since they used caps with carbide lamps to light the way. Those flames could be fatal if gas was present.

Miner from Lejunior Mine

I remember my dad used a carbide miners cap to go frog gigging at night. I miss those days of fresh bullfrog legs for dinner.

When the coal was extracted from the mountain, it was then transported by cart (motorized in modern days, mule-powered in the older days) through the tunnels and outside the mine to the CONVEYER.

The CONVEYER was started up, the coal was loaded onto it, and it carried the blocks up or down the mountain to the tipple.

I won’t get political about it, but mining today has changed from just the deep mine method. There is also strip mining for seams of coal near the surface. However, the one that breaks my heart, since I'm a girl from the mountains, is mountaintop removal. It’s sad to see the tops of my beautiful mountains and the forests that once covered them completely wiped out to reach the coal. Yes, they are forced to replant when they are finished removing all the coal available, but I can’t help but think it is very much like what happens with a mastectomy. The coal is gone, but so is much of the tissue. All that’s left are the scars and the memories.

Coal mining seems to be disappearing from the mountains, though. Men and women have lost their jobs and have few to no opportunities to provide for their families. The economic and social make-up of the area is deteriorating.

It breaks my heart. But, true mountain people always find a way to survive. Above the fog, the sun still shines. Beneath the mist, the mountains still stand—even if they are a tad damaged in spots. There’s always hope for tomorrow.

Photo by Author Sandra Aldrich

Do You Only Sing When You're Happy?

Apparently, the birds are under the misconception that it’s Spring outside today. They are twittering up a storm. I love to listen to them sing. It reminds me of my life.

Although they’ve just spent a brutal winter, more brutal than usual for the South, they flit around with renewed energy, ready to proclaim their joy in a warmer day.

I’ve had a brutal winter, too. It’s been one of great loss for me. But I, like those little birds, find myself joyful and thankful for the blessings the Lord has provided during my lean season. If I could, I would join those birds in the trees. I’d flutter my wings and sing at the top of my little bird lungs the unique song the Lord gave to me.

But then, maybe I am doing just that.

The flowers are springing up, the season of singing birds has come, and the cooing of turtledoves fills the air. (Song of Solomon 2:12--NLT)

I'm one of those people who doesn't keep their struggles a secret. I share them with others because I know we all struggle. 

At one of my lowest seasons, I struggled alone. There was no one to share my burden. I nearly gave up.

Then, a friend who had smiled and stayed cheerful during a season of cancer we all knew would destroy her physical body one day soon, allowed herself to cry in front of us. 

Believe it or not, that act of honesty validated my personal pain and gave me hope. 

As I searched through scripture references about singing, I noticed something I had never realized before. All of the passages speak of singing praises, thankfulness, and honor to GOD! We aren’t to sing because we are happy that something went our way. We aren’t to sing because we accomplished something great and wonderful.

We SING because God deserves our songs.

Perhaps that is why the birds sing today.

They are praising God for providing food and shelter during a difficult season.

They are praising the Lord for allowing them to survive the difficult days and giving them the hope of another Spring.

Yes, I can do that, too. I can praise Him and thank Him for bringing me through the dark, cold and scary times of my life. I can thank Him for never leaving me alone in that pit of despair. I can praise Him for the sunshine of this moment or the promise of sunshine some day.

I can even praise Him on those days when I'm not certain if Spring will come at all. Because I know one day Spring will be eternal.

3. O LORD, You have brought up my soul from Sheol; You have kept me alive, that I would not go down to the pit.
4. Sing praise to the LORD, you His godly ones, And give thanks to His holy name.
5. For His anger is but for a moment, His favor is for a lifetime; Weeping may last for the night, But a shout of joy comes in the morning. (Psalm 30:3-5)

What has the Lord blessed you with today? Sing your song of praise in the comments section below.

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. 

Why Bother to Deck the Halls?

Why do we celebrate Christmas? Why do we go to the trouble to deck the entire house, inside and out? Why do we drive ourselves nuts attending every concert, play, church program, and party we can fit into our already overbooked calendars? Why do we spend more money than we have budgeted, driving us into debt, just to buy gifts we don’t like, so how can the recipient possibly like them? We’re stressed, overextended, depressed and miserable—and it’s all so we can say Merry Christmas!

Decorating and shopping have become a burden for me as my health issues limit me. However, I love both. I love the colors of Christmas, the smells, the sparkle, the music, and the snow (even if it has to be fake here in Atlanta). I also love the programs and parties. Again, my health makes attending them a hardship.

The Christmas season is emotionally devastating to many people. It is the season of depression as we face the realization that our Christmas is not the perfect Christmas. It’s also the season when the loss of loved ones smothers us in pain. Stress, loneliness, anxiety, depression lead many suffering souls to the brink of suicide.

So, again I ask, why do we celebrate Christmas?

Most Christians would heartily say it is the season to celebrate Jesus’ birth. I agree. It is the main reason many of us honor the season. But what about all the other trappings of the season? Surely, there were no ornament encrusted trees and decorative items filling the stable. There was no rendition of “Jingle Bells,” “Here Comes Santa Claus,” and “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” wafting through the hay-filled stalls.

This morning, I found myself regretting the fact that instead of taking care of my “Christmas To Do” list, I was sitting in the waiting room of my mechanic. 

When I entered a beautifully decorated lobby, with an electric fireplace, one thing was immediately obvious. The only Christmas decoration was a tiny USB-powered tree on the counter. 

Amusingly, he mentioned something about not being in the mood to put up the tree, especially since it was stuffed into a closet, blocked by pallets of antifreeze. He also mentioned that he’d had a lot of negative things going on in his life this year and he just couldn’t “feel” it.

I waited as they checked why my air conditioning wasn’t working (on a 31 degree morning). As I waited, my mind wondered as to why we SHOULD decorate for Christmas. After all, with my recent back injury, my decorations were still swimming around in the back of my van, waiting for a helpful elf to carry them into the house for me. Thoughts of being satisfied with a tree without the ornaments and a front door wreath was almost palatable--and sensible. And then it hit me.

The reason we should decorate is the same as the reason we don’t feel like decorating. It's because there are so many people experiencing suffering right now that we need to do that one little thing that can get their attention—even if for only a moment. For in that one moment, a seed of hope can be planted. In that one moment, a spark of meaning can ignite. In that one moment, a person who might not have survived otherwise can be distracted from their desire to give up. In that one moment, we might direct one lost soul to the real reason we celebrate Christmas. 

I walked over to the counter and told Dave I thought he should put up the tree. Then, I told him why. A couple of minutes later, he took a flashlight into the storage area, moved the antifreeze out of the way, and dragged out the Christmas decorations. When he came into the lobby with the boxes, his face beamed, “Yep, I need to put up the tree.”

So, as you get out there and run yourself ragged, don’t forget. One tiny act of celebration can save a life. So, smile, pass out a piece of chocolate to a stranger, wear a ridiculously overly decorated sweater, put a jingle bell on your jacket, switch your phone's ringtone to a Christmas song, wear a Santa hat, pay for the order behind you in a drive-thru, put glitter on your face and see who notices, or look someone in the eyes and tell them...