Saturday, March 16, 2024

CELEBRATE SPRING




This morning the sun rose like wildfire over Brasstown Bald.  Hyatt-Mill Creek sparkled as diamonds at the Holcomb Farm.

Black cattle dotted the verdant pasture and songbirds performed a cantata in the woods.  Even the rain crow joined the chorus.

The earth burst forth celebrating spring.  Bradford pear trees licked giant ice-cream cones, the cherry trees danced with pink streamers, and maples wore  strands of  rubies.  Daffodils popped up with lemon drops.

Dogwoods could hardly wait to debut and explode with hundreds of blossoms like crosses.  Tulips lifted weights through earth's dark tomb.  They adorned colorful garments in adoration of new life.  The fragrance of flowers filled the crisp, pure, mountain air.

I savored the first sparrow tail butterfly of spring.  She flitted through the purple phlox.  I chased her across the emerald grass, but she retreated to the forsythia bush glowing like a pot of gold.

The earth threw a party today.  She celebrated new life, beauty, and the joy of God's creation.

I grabbed a bottle of bubbles and blew through the wand.  Dozens of delicate circles dazzled like rainbows and rode the wind.  They rose to the bluebird skies, and still, we rise!

Wishing my blogger friends a very happy Spring!


Wednesday, March 13, 2024

HAPPY ST. PADDY'S DAY


 

UNICORNS CELEBRATE ST. PADDY'S DAY

Jack Frost threw
a party last night,
thousands of diamonds
sparkle on my lawn.

Whipped cream covers
the limbs of dogwoods,
marshmallow clouds
float through sapphire skies.

My tea kettle hisses,
I sip spiced-apple cider
and hang a shamrock
on the frozen window

flickering with snowflakes.
Winter takes her last stand
and carves ice sculptures
as tulips shiver in the wind.

I huddle under bundles of blankets
and dream of unicorns
wearing emerald shamrocks
on horns glittering with gold.
                    --Brenda Kay Ledford

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY TO MY BLOGGER FRIENDS!

Tuesday, March 5, 2024

Spring Bursts Forth


 

The pine trees
with their green palms
have kept the faith
during a cold, bitter winter.

This morning bluebirds
lift melodies on a breeze,
jonqils pop up as lemon drops
through earth's dark tomb.

A white-tailed deer
sails over a greening field,
Hyatt-Mill Creek laughing
as bunnies tumble on dandelions.

A blood-red sunrise
sets the mountains afire,
dogwoods wear white crosses
and celebrate the risen Lord.
                 --Brenda Kay Ledford

I wish all my blogger friends a Happy Easter and beautiful Spring!


Friday, February 16, 2024

Christmas in Matheson Cove


 My new children's picture book, Christmas in Matheson Cove, is at press now.

I'm very excited about the release of my family history story.  Catch the Spirit of Appalachian is printing the book.

More information is upcoming.


Wednesday, February 14, 2024

Up the Walnut Tree

My sister, Barbara Ledford Wright, is the guest writer on my blog.  She's an award-winning writer and has been published in many journals.  Her story is about our family growing up in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Up the Walnut Tree
Barbara Ledford Wright

    Huck Finn explored the Mississippi River, but Reuben Ledford (our uncle) loped through the Matheson Cove barefooted.  He was born in 1927 in Hayesville, North Carolina.  This story takes place when he was ten years old.

    Reuben hauled his coon dogs in a little red wagon and he smoked rabbit tobacco in a corncob pipe.

    Bob and Minnie Matheson Ledford (Barbara and my grandparents) forbid their children to smoke.  "I'll take you behind the corncrib if I catch you smoking," threatened Bob.

    Reuben snickered and swiped red hair from his freckled face.  He took a pocketknife from his overalls and sliced a Black Ben Davis apple.

    "We want a bite," begged Ronda (Barbara and my father), Ralph, Reba, Rena, Ray, Robenia, and Robert.
    
    "If you want any apples, get'm yourself," said Reuben.

    Reba tattled, "Daddy, Reuben stole an apple from Ed Murray's orchard."  Bob ordered Reuben to march to the corncrib.

    Reuben took off like a jack rabbit and climbed a walnut tree.  It was near the spring.  Minnie dropped her bucket of water.

    "Reuben, get out of that tree!  You'll break your neck."

    "Heck no!  Daddy's going to tan my hide."

    By this time, Bob reached the walnut tree.  He heaved for breath and wiped his face with a red bandanna.

    "Get out of that tree!  I'll whip the shirt off your back when I catch you!"

    Reuben unbuttoned his shirt and slung it to the ground.

    Bob's face turned ruby.  He skidded on a walnut hull and landed on Ole' Blue, the hound dog.  It howled and Reuben laughed.  The children held their breaths.  They couldn't disrespect their daddy.

    Bob struggled to his feet and limped toward the log cabin.  He shook a finger and yelled, "I'll get you, boy!"

    Years later when Reuben was a grown man, he remembered that he got a good switching that day.  His behavior improved and he respected his father from that day on.

This story is reprinted from:  "Our Southern Memories," March-April 2024

If you like this story, please e-mail my sister.  She's recovering from a knee replacement surgery, and would love to hear from you.  Her e-mail is:  bwright22441@gmail.com


 

Friday, January 12, 2024

THE APPALACHIAN SERENADE

 

My mama and daddy when they were married on June 26, 1938 in Towns County, Georgia

                ********************************************************

I grew up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of western North Carolina.  One mountain custom was serenading a newly married couple.  This loud and upsetting event occurred during the night of their wedding.

Shivaree dated back to sixteenth-century France.  A couple was teased on the wedding night.  Appalachian folks called this raucous, spontaneous celebration serenading.

The community serenaded the couple about a half hour after they turned out the lights.  Neighbors circled the house, and made a loud noise.  Folks banged on pots and pans, rang cowbells, and even shot guns.  They shouted for the couple to come outside.

Sometimes the serenaders carried the bride in a tub, and the groom rode a rail.  One custom including parading the couple to the country store where they were treated to snacks.

The community serenaded Mama and Daddy (Blanche and Rondy Ledford), when they married on June 26, 1938.  Neighbors circled the red-plank house.  They banged on dishpans, sang, and rode my parents across Swaims Road in wheelbarrows.

After the serenading, they held a shindig.  The mountain women prepared tons of food for the celebration. Mrs. Lacey Groves, a neighbor lady, brought her delicious, made-from-scratch marble pound cake.  The men picked guitars and sawed fiddles while folks danced the night away.

This old-time mountain tradition has passed away, but remains as a favorite memory how the community serendaded newly married couples.

by:  Brenda Kay Ledford

This story appeared in:  Our Southern Memories Journal; Volume 18, January/February 2024

Wednesday, November 29, 2023

THE HOLIDAY TOUR


 The Golden Club  was offering a holiday tour of Little Switzerland, NC.  Mama and I donned our Christmas sweaters and boarded the bus.  We were giggling like two children.

A merry group of senior citizens greeted us.  Everyone was decked out in festive garbs.  Some wore reindeer antlers, others were dressed as elves, and ornaments flashed around the necks of passengers.

Anticipation mounted as we crossed the Blue Ridge Mountains.  We were making good time until two women delayed our trip.  The bus waited 30 minutes in the parking lot at Ingles for the ladies.  Finally, they looked in their rearview mirror and discovered the bus was already there.

Someone muttered, "Good night!  Looks like they could have seen something big as a bus!"

Mama and I were so exhausted when we got to Little Switzerland, that we went straight to bed.  At 2:00 in the morning,  Mama headed to the restroom.  She pulled, yanked, and banged on the door.  She couldn't open it.

I was groggy, could hardly speak.  "Mama, stop! That's not the bathroom.  It's the door to the adjacent room.  Those two ladies who  delayed our trip are there."

 Mama muttered something about "the old goof balls," and finally found the door to the bathroom.  Despite the obstacles, we had a jolly, holly trip to the beautiful alpine village that was decorated and decked out like Santa's workshop.

This story first appeared in:  To All a Good Night, a poetry and prose anthology, printed by:  Old Mountain Press.

                               PEACE, JOY and LOVE

                                      to

                        You and Yours

                  THIS CHRISTMAS!

                      Mama and Me Celebrating

                            THE HOLIDAY

Wednesday, November 1, 2023

November


 The golden glory of fall
retreated to the somber
season of winter's icy hands.

Trees gave up their garments
of bold, gaudy colors,
bronze leaves rode the wind

and spread a patchwork quilt
of brittle foliage across
the forest floor tucking nature

in for a long slumber.
I searched my attic
to decorate for November.

The pilgrims carried a cornucopia,
Native Americans wore deer skins,
orange turkeys bore salt shakers.

Outside my office window,
a flock of wild turkeys marched
to gobble grain scattered when farmers
harvested the cornfield.
                        -Brenda Kay Ledford

I wish my blogger friends a very 

Happy Thanksgiving Day!


Wednesday, October 11, 2023

In Memory of Mama




 Today if Mama had lived, she would be 101.  She passed away two years ago and I still miss her.  We were best friends, took trips together, went to church together, we enjoyed each other's company.  Some people may think I "should have" gotten over the grief, moved on with life. Sure, life goes on and I must go on, too.  But today I grieve the loss of Mom.  Of course, I believe she's in heaven, but I still miss her.  Always will.  I've written a poem about her and posting it in celebration of precious Mom.

Blanche, Blue Ridge Woman

I am from home-canned jellies,
from Ball jars and Blair food coloring,
I am from a log cabin
tucked away in the Trout Cove.

I am from black-eyed Susans
pulsing in the fields,
I'm from pumpkins and squash
piled in orange and yellow heaps.

I'm from mountain dulcimers,
Granddaddy Shook sawing the fiddle,
clogging in the old red barn.
I'm from  moss-covered rocks,

swimming in Brasstown Creek.
I'm from Shady Grove  Baptist Church,
Richard Powers leading shape-note music,
and Daddy planting crops by the signs.

I am from the Blue Ridge Mountains,
water-bath canning, jars
of peaches  and garden produce
sparkling like gems in the pantry.
                 --Brenda Kay Ledford



Wednesday, September 20, 2023

FALLING INTO FALL

 


Gems glitter on grass,
royal-blue ribbons herald fall,
sunflowers drinking light.

A wedge of geese honks,
cornstalks rattle their fingers,
Joe-pye weeds dancing.

Pumpkins dot the patch,
the old wagon is loaded.
Mama's pie baking.

Ghosts fly through the skies,
stars sparkle on black velvet,
a barn owl resounds.
                 --Brenda Kay Ledford



Wishing all my blogger friends Happy Halloween!

Wednesday, August 23, 2023

Signs of Fall


     It's beginning to look a lot like fall here in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Western North Carolina.  There's no holding back autumn.  The first trees to turn are the walnuts.  Golden leaves flutter on the wind as the sunflowers lift their cups to drink light.

    A wedge of wild geese honks over the cornfield that glitters like copper.  Goldenrods waltz beside Hyatt-Mill Creek babbling past the Grove Farm.  Shewbird Mountain wears a purple shawl in the distance.  Cardinals spear red berries from the dogwood trees and lilac asters bring bouquets to Swaims Road.

    The evenings grow cooler and our Hayesville High School football team plays their rivals.  Our local church holds a luncheon for the Clay County Schools and I wear gold and black to support the Yellow Jackets.  I pick up a cake at the Ingles Grocery with the message:  Bless our schools!

    Each fall my heart is drawn toward the school.  As a retired educator, I will always long to teach kids.  I can almost smell the chalk, hear the kids treading down  the hall, and standing at the door greeting each child to my classroom.  My heart fills with love for my students.

    Fall is a beautiful season.  I love the bright colors, the wildflowers, football games, pumpkin pie, apple cider, and the Fall Festival held in our mountain town.

    Some call it autumn, others call it God!

Saturday, August 5, 2023

Sunflower


 The first sunflower of August 
lifts a cup to drink light,
a Full Sturgeon Moon stamps
its fingerprint on royal-blue skies.

Golden coins spin from trees
on a pine-scented breeze,
walnuts plump to a carpet
of needles, squirrels gather food.

A wedge of wild geese honks
over the cornfield glittering with copper,
lilac asters bring bouquets to Swaims Road
as Hyatt-Mill Creek laughs through

a tunnel of Joe-pye weeds.
The tempo of nature increases:
creatures rush and prepare for winter,
kids get supplies, gear up for school.
                 --Brenda Kay Ledford

I wish all my blogger friends joy as autumn approaches.


Tuesday, August 1, 2023

Town Creek--the Little Mountain Stream


 

TOWN CREEK

Goldenrod waltz on the wind,
Tusquittee Mountains stretch their arms
to the crystal-cobalt skies.

The backwoods stream gurgles
over arrowheads the Cherokee Indians
carved at Spikebuck Town.

The poplar trees wave
their golden fans, the earth
cannot hold back fall.

Through the verdant valley,
beside an old-red barn,
the Town Creek murmurs.

She is just a brook,
no one looks up to her.
Wild geese honk in v-shape 

above the Lake Chatuge.
Your waters, little creek,
are the heart of her soul.
             --Brenda Kay Ledford

My daddy was a Baptist preacher.  One of his wise sayings was:  "Little is much if God is in it!"