HERE, WHERE I AM: SOUP--OR POTAGE, IF YOU WANT TO SOUND FRENCH

HERE, WHERE I AM: SOUP--OR POTAGE, IF YOU WANT TO SOUND FRENCH

MOUNTAIN WOMAN: SUNDAY FIRE

MOUNTAIN WOMAN: SUNDAY FIRE: Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves.... Elinor Wylie And so it has seemed, watching the wind scatter the fiery leaves...

SUNDAY FIRE

Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves....

   Elinor Wylie

And so it has seemed, watching the wind scatter the fiery leaves hither and yon,

as we sit under our Tulip Poplar watching.

I want to gather them  to me, hold them close.  Cling to this day.

Else lie among them, breathing in the scent of autumn hastening away.

GUEST BLOGGER: BARBARA BATES SMITH

When I first saw Barbara Bates Smith do her one woman show based on Lee Smith's Fair and Tender Ladies, I was so overcome that by the end, I needed a box of kleenex.  I think Barbara was a bit taken aback by my emotional response!   So was I.  I had become Ivy Rowe as I listened to Barbara become Ivy--girlhood, childbirth, widowhood, old age.  Each time I see Barbara perform, whether it's Lee's On Agate Hill or several of her short stories, I have a similar reaction, though I know by now to keep the tissue close by so as not to embarrass myself.  Or Barbara.

I remember Barbara telling about presenting Ivy Rowe in Lee's hometown of Grundy, Virginia.  The only correction Lee had to make during rehearsal was her pronunciation of "bury."  

 It had to be "burry."  Yes, indeed.  And I still remember the announcement in the Sylva Wal-mart a few years back, "Will the woman who wanted the chocolate covered churries please come to Health & Beauty."  Barbara offers her post on the rewards of performing Lee's characters, followed by a video of the closing scene of  On Agate Hill.  

And for those of us in the Jackson County area, Barbara will be presenting a Christmas program, Deck the Halls with Southern Writers at the new Jackson County Library in Sylva on November 29th.  She will read from work by Lee,  Allen Gurganus, Truman Capote and she's included one of my own poems.  Don't miss it.  And don't worry if your memory is as fallible as mine.  I'll keep reminding everybody about it.

Barbara Bates Smith as Ivy Rowe

Lee Smith

“She’s turned into a mountain woman. She’s moved to the mountains, she plays the dulcimer, she clogs, she’s taken up quilting.  She’s turned into Ivy Rowe!” That’s what prizewinning novelist Lee Smith has said about me. I’m proud of that. An actress by trade, I’d been touring with my one-woman show, “Ivy Rowe,” based on the spunky Appalachian heroine of Lee’s novel, Fair and Tender Ladies. And I’d moved to the mountains of Western North Carolina, a perfect base for touring. I’d taken a lot of teasing from my peers: “You’re just trying to become this mountain woman you’ve been portraying.”  Yes! And“Ivy Rowe” and I are still going strong with close to 700 performances.

Lee says that when she wants to empower a heroine, she sends her to the mountains. And I myself have become further empowered thereby—adding a musical accompanist and other Lee Smith works such as “On Agate Hill” to my repertoire.

Lee asks if I ever get tired of playing Ivy Rowe.  Never.  I love it every time. If six months go by with no Ivy, I get restless. This mountain woman both grounds me and lifts me up. The way she looks life in the face, says yes to it, makes mistakes, but always manages to “keep on keepin’ on.”  Sometimes I don’t know where she ends and I begin. I don’t care. I’m having too much fun.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0zHwGI2sZ20&feature=player_embedded#!"

Guest Blogger: Julie Brooks Barbour

View from Julie's grandparents' attic

The attic in the house where I grew up fascinated me, a treasure trove haunted by the past.   My grandmother's sewing machine sat under one of the windows, her cedar chest of old clothing waited back in the eaves, spilling  remnants of this woman I had never really known, herself a mountain woman who moved to south Georgia to teach school.

 I loved looking out the windows at the yard and tool house grown small and strange, as if images from a storybook.  The light that entered that dark repository always seemed to come from far off, to seem intrusive, as if darkness was the attic's natural state.

Julie Brooks Barbour, raised in the foothills of western North Carolina, has captured this ambiance of such an attic in all its mystery.  The photos, by the way, are from her grandparents' attic.  I can see that attic windows fascinated her as much as they still fascinate me.

My Grandparents’ Attic 

The only unfinished area in the house, the air held me close, 

pressing in, but I stayed, searching for what my grown cousins 

left behind: comic books, wood burning kits, marked pages

of schoolwork, scattered among boxes for safekeeping

or one day’s garbage, the only facts of their childhoods. 

They hit puberty before I was born. My father married late 

so I rummaged alone, needing to study a cousin’s 

handwritten vocabulary words, unfold game boards to trace 

the patterns of boredom, turn a geode over in my hands 

and stroke its spiny edges. The dark recesses of the attic 

peered from a far corner, accessible only by the ability 

to balance on plywood boards.  Lace curtains hung at the windows, 

gray with dust and dotted with dead flies, their cousins still trying 

to find a way out at the corners, greeting me each day 

with their small swarm. Those windows remained closed 

throughout the year, slanted summer sunlight adding to the heat. 

The few times she realized where I was headed, my grandmother 

begged me not to go up to that room, aware of its appearance, 

but I couldn’t stop. I had mysteries to solve: the rusted bed 

with its flattened, stained mattress, the tubes of old paints, 

stuffed animals boxed and waiting. Who was that room 

waiting for? My family told few stories. They related only 

childhood antics or what time dinner would be ready. 

The old secrets stayed hidden, washed away each time 

I cleaned the dust from my hands. 

Originally from Shelby,  Julie  received her MFA in Creative Writing at UNC-Greensboro. Her poems are forthcoming in Kestrel and Migrations: Poetry and Prose for Life's Transitions. She currently lives in Sault Sainte Marie, Michigan where she teaches at Lake Superior State University, and is founder and co-editor of the journal border crossing.  As a  sister alumna of UNC-G, I welcome her to my blog. Her poem carries me back to a place that continues to live in my memory.

Julie Brooks Barbour

MOUNTAIN HERITAGE DAY

              

REMEMBRANCES OF ANNIE LEE, continued.

by Norma Medford Clayton

(Re-reading Norma's eulogy for her mother makes me want to pull out certain sections and share some of my own memories about Annie Lee and her sister Willa Mae.  I expect I'll be doing that over the next few months. Norma's remembrances are like a large colorful quilt, the pieces holding all sorts of connections and patterns for each one of us.  If I were still teaching creative writing, I'd use it to urge my students to pick a piece and stitch it into their own stories.  I invite you to do the same!)

I  remember the love that you gave to all the children you babysat.  You always took time to read to them, answer their questions and you let them participate in whatever you did - sweep the house, make a garden, make biscuits, and help in the kitchen.  You allowed them to play dress up, play beauty shop or whatever else their imagination thought up.  It didn't matter that they got flour all over the kitchen and dusting powder in the bedrooms.  It didn't matter that the house wasn't immaculate, what mattered was that each child was treated as an important person and allowed to develop their imagination and perfect their skills.  And of course you made them take the inevitable nap!  These children will never forget the love and care you gave them.  You helped form their personalities and shape their lives.  Through your love and care you have touched many lives.

As those children grew up and started school you began to work more and more with your crafts.  You were instrumental in founding Dogwood Crafters, you helped with Mountain Projects, and you began to teach your crafts to others.  Soon you were known as the "Cornshuck Doll Lady."  You have shared your knowledge with people of all ages.  In particular you have made a lasting impression on school children as you taught them heritage crafts.

I also remember how frugal and saving you were.  "Waste not, want not" was your favorite saying.  You were the original recycler when recycling wasn't even known.  You found a use for everything (you even made beautiful dresses for us out of feed sacks).  I think Ron Blackburn compared our house to Hoyt Roberson's store - "It's in there if you can find it!"  I know we girls drove you crazy because we weren't as saving as you were -- but we always knew you'd have it if we needed it!

I also remember the yards sales we loved to "hit."  We've gotten some REAL bargains at them and it was a wonderful opportunity to make new friends and visit with old ones.  When you got home you would meticulously label your new "treasures" with the name of the person, from whom you bought it and you would date it.  

I remember all the craft shows that we've helped you with.  You always worried that it was hard work for us girls… and it was, but I enjoyed them just as much as you did!  I enjoyed the hustle and bustle of setting up, and I always enjoyed visiting with people as they passed by.  I remember how you always gave discounts or "freebies" when someone bought something from you.  You've probably given away more than you have sold.  That was what made you so special - you cared more about others than yourself.  You made your crafts for other's enjoyment not for your financial gain.  You were always willing to share your knowledge, your time and your creations.

I remember all the times "we girls" (and you always considered yourself one of the girls) would go shopping.  You didn't like to shop and hated to try on clothes but you always went because it meant spending time with us.  

You always enjoyed visiting your friends, as did we.   Often you would say "it has been awhile since I've seen…." and you would name the person. That was great when we knew where they lived but often we'd start out on our journey and I'd ask, "Mama do you know where they live?" and you'd say, "No, but we can ask somebody."  And we would.

I remember the times that you and I visited with our friends at the nursing home.  They looked forward to your wonderful, secret recipe cornbread!  And they so loved visiting with you.  And I remember the chicken sandwiches you bought for your little dog, Cessie, on our way home.

Mama, I could go on remembering all day. Anna, Carolyn and I had a childhood filled with love, laughter and a few tears.  We may not have had much money, but you and Daddy gave us the more important things in life.  You taught us to care for each other, to be a true friend, to be a caring person, to help when we could, to love and care for animals, to enjoy learning, to appreciate the value of a good education, to be honest, to be truthful, and to make the best with what we have. 

 I have seen you perform miracles -- you were able to create good meals out of basic ingredients; you were able to make beautiful dresses out of feedsacks; you were able to create all kinds of things out of practically nothing (I remember the igloo you made for my class out of paper mache and the top of a toy silo), and you managed to raise three lovely (if I do say so myself) daughters!  You were never too busy or too tired for us.  I will never forget as a small child, calling for you in the middle of the night and you'd always come.  What a wonderful feeling it was to know that you were there to take care of us.  I am grateful for all the things you've done for us.  I look back and realize how lucky we were to be born to you and Daddy.  We could not have chosen two better parents.  The older I got the more precious you became to me.  You were a quiet, gentle, loving, caring person with a creative mind and busy hands.  I admired you and I do wish I could have been more like you.  You were an inspiration to me.  Mama, thank you for all you've done for us.  We love you and will always treasure your memory in our hearts.