The Manchester Enterprise: A Boy's Memories Bits of Clay

A Boy's Memories 7-14-11

Preparing for a long winter… a boy’s memories

By: Rodney Miller

I often wonder now, just how did we make it with so little money when I was young. There were always 10-12 hungry mouths to feed around the table and our table seemed to always be full. I give my parents the credit. Both worked hard all of their lives to provide for our large family.

There was never a shortage of something to do when I was growing up. It took a lot of everyday chores along with a whole lot of preparing for the long, cold winters. And in the summertime, that meant canning and drying anything that could be grown or found on a tree.

We raised a big vegetable garden. I would guess almost a half-acre more. Big enough that we could eat as much from it as we wanted in the summer and fall and still have plenty to put up for the winter.

Back then we never went to the store except for a few things we couldn’t grow like coffee, sugar, flour, salt, black pepper, etc. Don’t get me wrong, we would get an occasional pop or a candy bar but money was hard to get so we had to spend it wisely.

I remember Momma canning for weeks as the garden vegetables came in. All of us kids had a certain part of the whole operation. Take green beans for instance. Some of us would pick the beans and bring them from the field for the others to string and break-up. Then Momma would place the beans tight in Mason jars, add a little water and salt, screw on a lid and place them in the pressure cooker for the canning process. Some days Momma would can 50 or more quarts in a single day sweating over our hot stove.

I remember the old pressure cooker hissing like a locomotive as it let off steam, cooking and sealing the beans. Momma warned us time and time again to not mess with that old cooker because it was so dangerous. She had heard a tale of one cooker exploding and killing someone.

What green beans we didn’t use to can, we dried to make shuck beans. We did this two ways. Some we strung and broke up like the ones we used to can and then place them on a bed sheet in the hot summer sun to dry.

Other times, we strung the beans and laced them with a needle and thread through the middle of the bean into long two or three foot strands and hung them on nails tacked into our front porch to dry. Our porch would be lined completely with many strands of drying beans.

When the beans were dry, Momma stored them in pillowslips or gallon jars to keep until she was ready to cook a mess. There wasn’t anything any better than a big pot of shuck beans with a piece of fatback cooked in them on a cold winter day.

We also dried apples in the sun for Momma’s delicious apple stack cakes. Her cakes would be 8 to 12 layers thick. Her cakes were so good that just a smell would make your ‘tongue slap your brains out!’

Momma also canned a lot of tomatoes. Some were quartered and canned for stewing but most were converted into tomato juice. We used a lot of tomato juice. Momma made macaroni with tomato juice at least twice a week, vegetable soup, slumgullion, tomato gravy, chili, and last but not least we drank it often long before V-8 was ever popular.

She canned a lot of pickles of all varieties: dill pickles, hot pickles, and my favorite, sweet pickles. You couldn’t set still and eat ‘em, they were so good!

Most of the cabbage went into sauerkraut. I have always loved kraut especially when it is cooked with wieners or smoked sausage. I’ve always been told that soup beans and kraut were really good for the heart.

We canned lots of corn, beets, and peppers. Why, Momma even canned pork sausage and sealed the jars with pork fat.

We gathered every thing we could find and made it into jams and jellies. Strawberries, black berries, blue berries, raspberries, peaches, apples, plums, and cherries were picked when they were at their peak and canned until needed.

We gathered walnuts and hickory nuts to crack around the fireplace and use in Momma’s cakes and desserts. They were are fresh in January and the day they were gathered.

Yep, things have changed quite a lot since those days. But one thing is for sure; I have never forgotten where I came from and what I was taught as a young boy. You don’t have to have a lot of money to make it. But, you must be willing to work hard if you don’t want to go hungry.

Last Updated on Wednesday, 13 July 2011 12:53

A Boy's Memories 6-23-11

With the ending of another school year, my thoughts recently turned to a small rhyme all the students used to say on the last day of school.

“School is out! School is out!

The teacher turned the monkeys out.

One went east. One went west.

One went under teacher’s desk.”

It really was like a bunch of monkeys had been released from their cages. Summer vacation meant summertime fun. But one thing was for sure, no sleeping late. We were up at daylight. We had to be if we wanted any breakfast. There weren’t any fast food restaurants to go to for a meal plus, we didn’t have the money if there had been.

Daddy had to be at work at 7am so Momma was up before 6 preparing a big breakfast. Not a wimpy breakfast like toast and juice or a bowl of cereal. She fixed a he-man’s breakfast every morning, school or no school.

Summertime meant running, jumping, swimming, fishing, camping out, and a lot of heated basketball games. And that was in between mowing the grass or sweeping the yard, hoeing in the garden, and picking blackberries or huckleberries.

We hardly ever wore shoes or shirts in the summer, only a pair of short pants or cut-offs. My skin was a tanned as an Indian’s. I hardly ever got sunburn.

My bare-feet were as tough as leather. I could “scratch-off” in gravel and never flinch. I could cut pieces of skin out of the sole of my feet, and never bleed. Now, I can’t walk on blacktop with out some kind of pain in my tender feet.

We swam a lot when I was young, sometimes in a strip pond in the Hensley Hollow, sometimes in the creek and, as I got older, in Uncle Gib Thompson’s pond. That swimming hole was over 50 feet deep with clean, cool water. We worried our parents too death, I’m sure swimming in that pond.

Our basketball games were fierce. When you match brother against brother, it was always a no holds barred match. Most ended up with someone mad or sometimes even blows being thrown. Miller’s hate to lose at anything, so when it’s a game of Miller vs. Miller it was sure to be a “Battle Royal”!

Summertime was the best time of the year to make a little extra money. We started picking berries in late June or when the blackberries got ripe. We used Partridge Lard buckets for picking containers. Blackberries would bring us fifty cents a gallon. When we worked hard we could pick 2-3 gallons each a day if we were the first pickers in a good briar patch.

After a day in the briars we headed to the pond to wash off as many chiggers and ticks as we could. But no matter how hard we tried, we always ended up with some in hard to scratch places. Chiggers seem to know exactly where to hide. Momma would sometimes use her keen eye and a sewing needle to pick-off as many as possible but it was a losing battle. Once they were dug in, it was hard to dig ‘em out.

When we couldn’t stand the itching anymore (from the ones she couldn’t find), out would come the finger nail polish and we would paint on a little to smother them out. That seemed to always kill the chiggers but you could sure tell they didn’t like the nail polish at all. They tried to dig in deeper and deeper and for a few minutes, the itching was almost unbearable. I don’t miss that part of my childhood.

Late in the evenings in the summer I remember chasing lightning bugs with a Mason jar trying to capture as many as possible. It’s a wonder if any survived. Later we would tear off the tails, when the light was on of course, and smear them onto our skin. I looked like a Day-glo Timex watch all lit up but the smell was awful.

We had mud-ball fights and even ate a few mud-pies. I’ve always thought Paw Paw mud tasted better than any other. We shot slingshots at Carnation Cream cans. We swung on grapevines and walked on stilts.

We seined the branch for minnows and crawdads. We gigged fish and frogs and caught mud turtles. We sailed the creeks on car-tops. Summertime was never dull to say the least. There was always something to do.

Summer was a time without many responsibilities, without many worries, without a lot of rules and I was never in too much of a hurry to stop and have fun. Today I cherish every moment of my childhood summertime and those many memories of that long ago time.

Last Updated on Wednesday, 22 June 2011 12:51

The little green ashtray… 6-16-11

Back in 1964 President Lyndon B. Johnson created the Office of Economic Opportunity or the O.E.O. as most knew it. R. Sargent Shriver, who also served as its first director, created the office.

The OEO was responsible for administering most of the “War on Poverty” programs like Head Start, Job Corps, Community Action Programs and VISTA. Here in Clay County they brought us the Horse Creek Community Center.

The Community Center was headquartered in the old Horse Creek School building between Hima and Sibert. The building isn’t there anymore. It was bought and torn down by the congregation of the Horse Creek Baptist Church to make room for their new church and for more parking.

The Community Center at Horse Creek opened in the mid-60’s and stayed in operation until around 1973. When I was growing up the Center occupied a big part of my spare time. There was always something to do there.

The Center had one of the first volleyball and blacktop basketball courts I had ever seen. Before that, all the games we played were on bare ground. I found out that I really liked volleyball even though I had never played it before. But volleyball never came close to my love of basketball.

The ball court was a large ‘full court’ setup with two goals set on either end of the blacktop. But because of the numbers of players there every day, usually separate games took place on each end. Sometimes the winner of one court would challenge the winner of the other court for the championship each day.

It was a long way away from the basketball games we played at home as a kid. I remember the first basketball goal we had was a 20 inch bicycle rim nailed to the barn and an onion sack for a net. The rim had to be re-nailed often because it couldn’t stand up to the basketball hitting the rim time and time again.

Usually the rim hung downward so much that the ball had a hard time going through the rim because it hit the side of the barn and bounced back out instead of falling through. But I thought it was really something being able to touch the rim, even if it was only 8 feet off of the ground.

Later on, after running into the barn a few hundred times, we got a real goal and put up a backboard made from a wooden grocery skid on a locust pole in the driveway. Then the danger was the barbwire fence that kept in the livestock was only a few feet away from the goal. We learned real quickly that there could be no pushing under the goal.

There was always something going on at the Community Center. The first project I remember doing at the center was attending a “Pottery Class”. I was probably 10 or 12 and knew nothing about pottery but I decided to give it a try. The class was just before Father’s Day and I thought it would be nice to make something for Daddy.

Working with clay seemed simple. My first thing I decided to make a coffee cup for my father. Daddy loved his coffee and I knew he would get lots of use out of a mug. But it didn’t take long to figure out the cup was to complicated to get just right, being vertical and all. I couldn’t get my cup to stand up or even close to being round. I found out clay has a mind of it’s own.

My plans then changed. I decided Daddy would love an ashtray just as much as a coffee cup. Daddy also loved his Camel cigarettes. The ashtray, being mostly horizontal, was more forgiving of my talent. I molded the clay in the shape of a small boat with the edges built up to hold a lit cigarette.

My instructor then asked if I wanted to decorate the clay piece with a design or something to give it a personality of it’s own. I thought about it for a while and remembered a dish that Momma prized for its artistic beauty. The dish had a bunch of grapes surrounded with a vine.

“Yes, I would,” I told the lady, “I want to draw a bunch of grapes growing on a vine.”

“Great choice, Rodney,” the lady answered.

I worked on the grapes and the vine until I got them looking just right. One good thing about clay is, if you don’t get it right the first time just wipe with a damp cloth and you have a new palette instantly. My artistic talent was a little rough then but all I saw was a masterpiece.

The ashtray and then in was put into a kiln and fired. The next day I applied a green glaze to the piece and then it was placed in the kiln again to fire the glaze. It turned out perfect. I was so proud of my Dad’s ashtray.

I wrapped the ashtray up in a paper bag and carried it home carefully and handed Daddy his Father’s Day gift. My Dad said he loved it and somehow I really believed he did. He used the ashtray for years and then it just disappeared.

Years went by and I had given up hope of ever seeing the ashtray again. Then, one day after my Daddy died, I was going through some things upstairs in my parent’s bedroom. There, in a corner of Dad’s closet I found the ashtray wrapped up in a towel, broken. I gathered up the pieces and carried them downstairs to show Momma what I had found.

Momma smiled as a tear streamed down her cheek as I unwrapped the towel. “I broke your Daddy’s ashtray by accident years ago and never had the heart to tell him about it. You know how much he loved it. That was the first Father’s Day gift he had ever gotten. I hid it in the closet years ago and just about forgot about it.” Momma said wiping her eyes with her hand.

I told Momma that it was okay that she didn’t tell him because I could see that it was hurting her more now that Dad was gone. She asked if she could keep the ashtray and of course I told her that she could.

Twelve more years went by and finally Momma to passed on. I then went back to her house looking high and low for the ashtray but couldn’t find it.

I think about the small gift every Father’s Day that meant so much to my Dad and later so much to my Momma and wonder what became of it. I guess I’ll never know but it was comforting to know my Daddy really did love that little green ashtray, even more than I ever knew.

Last Updated on Wednesday, 15 June 2011 12:52

Memorial Day…a boy’s memories 6-2-11

Memorial Day…a boy’s memories

Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day, is a day of remembrance for those who have died in our nation's service. There are many stories as to its actual beginnings, with over two dozen cities and towns laying claim to being the birthplace of Memorial Day. There is also evidence that organized women's groups in the South were decorating graves before the end of the Civil War. A hymn published in 1867, "Kneel Where Our Loves are Sleeping" by Nella L. Sweet carried the dedication "To The Ladies of the South who are Decorating the Graves of the Confederate Dead".

While Waterloo, N.Y. was officially declared the birthplace of Memorial Day by President Lyndon B. Johnson in May of 1966, it's difficult to prove conclusively the origins of the day. It is more likely that it had many separate beginnings; each of those towns and every planned or spontaneous gathering of people to honor the war dead in the 1860's tapped into the general human need to honor our dead, each contributed honorably to the growing movement that culminated in Gen Logan giving his official proclamation in 1868. It is not important who was the very first, what is important is that Memorial Day was established. Memorial Day is not about division. It is about reconciliation; it is about coming together to honor those who gave their all.

Memorial Day was officially proclaimed on May 5, 1868 by General John Logan, national commander of the Grand Army of the Republic and was first observed on May 30, 1868, when flowers were placed on the graves of Union and Confederate soldiers at Arlington National Cemetery. The first state to officially recognize the holiday was New York in 1873. By 1890 it was recognized by all of the northern states.

The South refused to acknowledge the day, honoring their dead on separate days until after World War I (when the holiday changed from honoring just those who died fighting in the Civil War to honoring Americans who died fighting in any war). It is now celebrated in almost every State on the last Monday in May, though several southern states have an additional separate day for honoring the Confederate war dead: January 19 in Texas, April 26 in Alabama, Florida, Georgia, and Mississippi; May 10 in South Carolina; and June 3 (Jefferson Davis' birthday) in Louisiana and Tennessee.

The first memories of Memorial Day at my home were our trip to the cemetery where my Momma and Daddy’s kin were buried. All of my grandparents were laid to rest in the same cemetery, the Herd Cemetery at Sibert. My Daddy and Momma wanted to be buried on the property they live upon for over 60 years on Paw Paw.

Dad, a WWII veteran, placed a large flagpole on the grave site he cleared from the forest just a few years before his death. Dad loved his country and fought to protect it from Hitler, a mad man who wanted to take over the world.

Dad was wounded twice in Northern Italy but was luckier than many of his fellow soldiers. Many never made it back home. Dad enlisted with his cousin William Sibert who was just one of the hundreds of thousands we call “causalities of war”. William was killed in Europe.

Dad had two brothers who also served for their country William (Bill) Miller served during the Korean conflict and James Edward Miller during the Vietnam War. James was also wounded in ‘Nam on the Fourth of July.

Two of my brothers also served in the military. My older brother Ronnie was drafted during the Vietnam War for the Army but choose to enlist with the Marines. He in now retired after serving 30 years. My younger brother Anthony enlisted in the Army and was stationed in Germany for two years. He pulled his four years and is also now retired.

I was a little more luckier that Ronnie. I missed the draft and never served in the military. I too would have gone like my family before me if I had been asked to do so but choose a different path. I started a family at a young age and did my best to provide for them.

The traditional observance of Memorial Day has diminished greatly over the years. Many Americans now have forgotten the true meaning and traditions of Memorial Day. At many cemeteries, the graves of the fallen are increasingly ignored or neglected. Most people no longer remember the proper flag etiquette for the day. While there are towns and cities that still hold Memorial Day parades, many have not held a parade in decades.

This Memorial Day please don’t forget all of the fallen heroes who have made the ultimate sacrifice with their blood so that we can live free in this great land we call America or the lucky ones whom have made it back to their home to live another day. My Daddy always said, “Freedom don’t come free. Somebody has to fight for it. And that somebody is the American soldier.”

Last Updated on Wednesday, 01 June 2011 13:12

Memorial Day

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