The Hills Around Me...

Called my brother Johnny one morning at 6:30. His wife, Eda said he had gone deer hunting and would be back soon. Since I'd been up since 5 AM, I wanted him to be proud of me. He says that anyone who sleeps past 5 AM misses the best part of the day. Johnny built a pretty deluxe deer stand last year and I betcha he's up there chewing tobacco and enjoying the morning--maybe even has a little heater and some coffee going.

Or, he's just sitting in those hills behind his Wiley Branch home looking up over the ridge for the sunrise and listening to the wind through the now barren trees. Looking down at the roofs of his and his son's home and to my old place. Maybe he's listening to the creek roll by. I've done that before. If you pay close attention, the sound is magical. The wind also has a special sound in those hills. It sounds differently each season, indeed, with any change in the weather. Dry leaves versus wet leaves. Frozen branches versus limber branches. Heavy rain versus a light shower. No leaves versus full blown foliage. Did you know that when it's going to rain, maple leaves give us a warning by turning their backside to us? While this may not be in the Farmer's Almanac, I learned it by listening to the old folks and doing my own observations. It's correct.

When I lived on Wiley Branch, I loved watching the sun come and go over the hills. Watching the movement of the shadows and the light was better than a clock. What happened to the little girl who never noticed a sunset in the coal camp of her childhood? I now seek harmony with nature, it was so much a part of my childhood. The hills are eternal and always offer something new for the observant eye.

As a child, I played all day in the hills, but never really noticed the sunrise and sunset. Maybe the sun didn't shine up "Official Hollow". Maybe that's why people said we had to have the sun piped in. Our hollow was narrow. Our yard was the hillside. We looked out the back straight up a hill where Indians lurked just beyond the forest line. When we looked out the front windows, we saw another hill.On that hill, we could see wooden steps winding high up to a big house reserved for company officials. Mr. & Mrs. I. C. Spotte lived there once. He was an engineer. They were interesting people who had survived the Philippine POW camps during WWII.

The Bradburys and the Strattons also lived in that house at one time or another. I baby sat for both families and felt very important. The women liked my mother and always gave her magazines like Look, Collier, and Life--real luxuries in that day and time.Toby arranged them in a flat cascade on the living room coffee table and we all read them religiously. I still read magazines from back to front. Remember the cartoon "Hazel" that was always last? I always read it first.

Back to the hill in front of our David home. Near the base of the wooden steps that led to the officials' house, was a little mountain spring. We loved to drink water there. This summer when I took my granddaughter Savannah to David, I was sad that the spring was dry. We picked up a couple of rocks as mementos of the trip to bring home with us. Further up the hill was a huge water tank on stilts. This was the water supply for the camp. Pretty modern in it's day, I suppose. On the left of the spring, further up, sat the "Club House" where international coal buyers were lodged and treated royally. There were no Holiday Inns nearby. Mrs. Ora Howard, assisted by Ms. Justine Dawson, a David native, ran the place just like a proper British Mansion. I loved to visit them. Having started reading the Brontes at age 12, I let my imagination run wild. Ms. Howard taught me to knit and to make macaroni and cheese with real "white-sauce", a term I had never heard.If she'd said "thickenin'"I may have caught on more quickly.

On the left of the Club House the hillside was landscaped into a rather formal garden. There I saw my first gold fish pond with Lilly-pads. That's also when I began to love Adirondack chairs. I remember sitting in the sturdy, solid wood, always white painted chairs. Beyond the pond up the hill was the Shepherd Family Cemetery. I wish I had paid more attention to this beautiful old-time cemetery. I went to school with many Shepherd children over the years.The long row of wooden steps that led straight up the hill may have made the steep climb easier for those carrying the casket. I'm sure the company built them to guarantee the Shepherds access once they had bought or leased the hilly land that formed our two main hollows.The Shepherds were pioneer royalty and had been on that land since--well, maybe since the late 17th or early 18th centuries.

We're still only half way up the hill, aren't we? Behind these two houses there were just trees, grapevines, little caves, all kinds of wild flowers, and big rocks. On the clubhouse hill, way up high was "The Devil's Stool", a famous gathering place for the boys in the camp. On the bull-dozed road leading down from the official's house, the boys tied a rope to a branch so that we could swing out over a cliff. Scary stuff back then. I fell off it once and sprained my arm. I was proud, though,that they let me try.

It was fun to play house in the hills where we'd "play like this rock is the table and play like that rock is the baby bed". "P'like this rock is the coal house". "P'like you're the daddy and there's some Indians attacking us". "P'like the baby is cryin". "P'like you get shot". "P'like I'm fixin' supper"."P'like this mud pie is cornbread." "P'like this stick is my horse". I wonder if little girls and boys still say "P'like"?

Some days we were Nyoka and Judy the Jungle girl--two of our favorite "funny book" characters;and some days, most days, we would enjoy a round of cowboys and Indians. There is no place better than the hills to play hide-and-seek, go-sheepie-go, or tin can alley as night falls. We played until dark. That was our only rule: Be home by dark.

I just don't have any memory of climbing to the top of the hill or of watching the sunset over the ridge as I did later in life. We were so immersed in our natural surroundings, we didn't look up except when lying on our backs looking at the artistry of moving clouds or looking for the trail of smoke that followed the planes that were finally breaking the sound barrier. Brother Rod was a Boy Scout and worked in the Civil Air Patrol, with other Boy Scouts, using binoculars to identify planes in the aftermath of WWII. They looked for each and every plane that passed over the camp and kept an official log. They were given access to a Company telephone (no one else had one) and were to report by phone if any planes aroused their suspicion. We felt safe with Rodney being in charge. He was all of 10-12 years old. I guess coal companies would have been enemy targets. Coal was important to the War effort so many of the miners were exempt from the draft. Daddy was one of those.

I'm missing Thanksgiving in the hills this year--the first time in many years--and the thoughts of Johnny hunting in the hills behind his house triggered all these memories. Later today, I'll post "The Walk" a poem by my Mother, Nova, who actually made it to the top of the hill. I wonder what she saw?

Until then,thanks for letting me share these memories with you.
I hope this is a good day for you and yours,
Peace,
Judy