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.

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

 

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

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

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!

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

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!