Brownie Scout and Girl Scout Memories:1948-1959

We had both Brownie and Girl Scout troops in David. The boys had the Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts. We all learned the handshakes, the salutes, the mottoes, and the pledges.  (Brother Rodney, and other Boy Scouts, boys served as Air Rangers during and after WWII--they were to report all planes passing over the hills around David.

It seems the Brownie pledge was, "I promise to do my best to love God and my country, to help other people at all times, especially those at home".

If memory serves, the Girl Scout pledge was, "On my honor I will try to do my duty to God and my Country, to serve other people at all times, and to obey the Girl Scout laws". 

The Boy Scout motto was, "Be Prepared". For the life of me, I cannot remember our Girl Scout and Brownie mottoes.

The Company promoted the Scout activities and women and men, and sometimes college students from the community served as leaders. Princess Elkhorn Coal Company built two authentic log cabins with wrap around porches for our meetings and activities. The Girl Scout cabin was on the hill at the head of School House Holler. The Boy Scout Cabin was higher on the hill at the head of Official "Fisher" Holler. We called it Fisher and didn't know the Company had reserved this space for company workers, not Union Miners. Up in Fisher Holler, big beautiful houses looked down on our row of company houses. The better homes were reserved for engineers and superintendents.

In the summer we had day camp for 2-3 weeks and would go every day to the Girl Scout Cabin for  interesting activities and projects. We made pot holders and tea towels. We wove baskets from reeds soaked in water until they reached a pliable state. We spatter painted leaves--somehow by placing the leaf on a paper then holding a piece of screen over it and using a brush to spatter paint through the screen and onto the paper where it left a perfect outline of the leaf.  We had to be able to identify our native trees by their leaves and their bark. We went to the swimming pool for real lessons. though  most of us could already swim, thanks to the beautiful pool our coal miner fathers built. The things we could make with Popsicle sticks and cup cake papers was endless!

We learned folk dances from America and other countries. Anyone remember, "Heel and toe, heel and toe, slide and slide and slide and slide"? I remember the tune but these are the only words I remember.

We sang, "Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree, mighty, mighty king of the Bushes he. Laugh, Kookaburra laugh, Kookaburra  _____ ____ _____ for me".

And, "Sarasponda, Sarasponda, Sarasponda ret set set. Sarasponda, Sarasponda, Sarasponda ret set set. Ah dor a O!  A dor a Boonda O! Ossie Possie ret set set, Ossie Possie O! Boonda, boonda, boonda".

We made buddy burners by rolling strips of cardboard tightly into Vienna Sausage cans, then covering the cardboard with melted paraffin wax. For the stove, we used a 5-10 lb. lard bucket turned upside down, with a little door cut out so we could place the buddy burner inside. Light the Buddy Burner with a match and we could fry eggs or anything on the griddle created by the bottom of the bucket. Magic!

We made sit-upons by cutting squares of oil cloth which we joined together with the "quilting stitch"  leaving one side open , then filling the squares with old. newspapers and stitching the final side of the water-proof pad we would sit upon for outside activities. We sat on them at wiener roasts and cook outs. We cut green slender tree branches for sticking our wieners and marshmallows on to roast. A favorite food was a pork chop, a piece of chicken, or a hamburger patty topped with carrots and onions, wrapped in foil and placed under the hot coals of our fire. We played games and sang while waiting for our meal to cook. Of course, we learned to build a fire--tender, then kindling, then wood. I still have a small scar on my right thumb from when I was 10 years old and my axe slipped. Today, I bet they wouldn't allow a ten year old to cut wood. Anyone know?

We had a "permanent" Girl Scout camp, Camp Chatterawah on Dewey Lake (now Jenny Wiley State Park). I  was able to go two  summers--it seemed expensive, but was probably only $25-$50. I was 13 and in high school when I first went. I was amazed when they served white sliced bread  and butter with a meal. Butter on cold bread?? At home, we always had hot cornbread or biscuits. "Light bread" was for sandwiches.  But I loved it, still do Another food first was having rice for lunch or dinner (supper to me) with butter, salt and pepper. Before, I had only eaten it as a hot breakfast cereal with sugar and milk. .

At Camp Chatterawah, I learned nautical lashing and we built  railings up the hill to our tents by lashing branches together--the hill was steep and we could pull ourselves up with the "bannisters" we built.  I can still tie a few knots. We stargazed and learned the constellations while lying on our homemade bedrolls, I never had a sleeping bag. Did any of us?

Of course, we had to follow military rules for raising, lowering,  and folding the American Flag. A bugler blew Reveille at daybreak and Taps at sunset when we lowered the flag. I wish I could paint the awesome natural beauty around us. We were surrounded by hills as we stood at attention beside the lake--sunset, blue sky, shimmery lake--indescribable. We circled the flagpole and  sang to the tune of Taps,

"Day is done, gone the sun, from the lake, from the hill, from the sky. All is well, safely rest, God is nigh". Then our final salute, "Good night, Scouts".

I earned my canoeing and life saving badges during camp on the lake--although I never owned a GS uniform to properly display them. They brought in some tough football players, on summer break from college, to play our victims. My "victim" was a David boy, Wayne Dixon, a former Prestonsburg Black Cat who became a big football star at Morehead or UK, I've forgotten which. Big Wayne fought but I landed him on the pier all by myself. I think he must have helped me a little though. Thanks Wayne,for sure: RIP. 

I could go on for pages, but will stop. Maybe you can fill in some of my blanks. I'll close with one of the campfire songs we loved as we got older. This one was a hit with us--pre-women's liberation, of course 

"You made me what I am today. I hope you're satisfied.

You dragged and you dragged me down until the soul within me cried.

You shattered each and every dream. You fooled me from the start.

And, though you're not true, may God bless you.

That's the curse of an aching heart".

Good Night Scouts!

Cuddle Doon

"The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi' muckle fash an' din,
"Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues,
Your faither's comin'in."

My mother, Nova Hicks Bussey, had a great talent for reciting poetry from memory. She was expressive in the classical sense and made each poem come alive. After each recitation, she held us, me for sure, spellbound with stories of how the poem applied to life. We learned of the grief suffered by The Village Blacksmith--a very strong, feeling man. And, the aging man recalling the regret of the little girl who surpassed him in a spelling bee--Mother found many good lessons in School Days--after all, how often is it that someone unselfishly wants you to succeed, even at their own loss?

Little Nell taught us that mothers love all their children the same, whether they are lazy, industrious, helpful,or sullen. At the end of this poem, Mother would ask,

"Now, which child did the mother love best?"
We'd shout, "Little Nell!"
"No" mother would reassure us, "She loved them all the same".

What a relief to me, an obstinate child who yearned to be loved the same as the others.

Back to Cuddle Doon. How did Mother learn to recite it in the proper dialect? Over my life, I've often bragged how Mother could recite Cuddle Doon in the Gaelic or Scottish. I've asked many people if they know this poem. No one I talked to ever had.

They never heed a word I speak.
I try to gie a froon.
But aye I hap them up, an' cry,
"Oh, bairnies cuddle doon!"

The mother has her hands full with Jamie, Rab, and Tam as, at the end of a long day, she coaxes them to go to sleep before their father comes in from work. Mother wanted us to understand how it was with herself and her 6 children. I never asked Mother how she learned this poem. Most of her selections were from her youth when memorizing poems was a standard educational tool.

We studied poetry and memorized too, but none of my teachers ever mentioned Cuddle Doon. Teachers had their own biases of course. For example, a high school English teacher--in the 50s of course--wouldn't let me recite Anabelle Lee because Poe was an alcoholic.

I have wondered if the verses were handed down from her ancestors who came into Virginia from Ireland, Scotland, and England in the late 1700s. They traveled into the isolated, beautiful hills of Appalachian East Kentucky where they chose to settle, drawn to the lush, green mountains that reminded them of home and to the seclusion of the hollows and creeks that promised they could remain independent in their new homeland.

Just a reflection: In Thomas Hardy novels, characters often use words and phrases that I find familiar and similar to those found in Appalachian East Kentucky. I have determined that "hain't" and "ain't", drilled out of us as children,mean two different things and make logical sense when used in Hardy's native contexts. Of course, we, in order to be perceived as literate, learned modern day English.

Why did I not ever ask Mother where she learned Cuddle Doon?

Recently I landed quite a treasure trove of books from brother Rod and his wife, Helen. I was overjoyed! At home, I gathered all the books around me and began browsing--so many treasures. There was one of my favorite books,The Haj, (in hardback!), which I'll reread it soon to help me further understand the Middle East. There were 3 hardback dictionaries which I have already begun to peruse. And, One Hundred and One Famous Poems, published in 1958! I was excited to find many favorites like Renascence, by Edna St. Vincent Millay; Grass by Carl Sandburg; Paul Revere's Ride and Hiawatha's Childhood by Longfellow--

...and, suddenly, there it was, on page 90--Cuddle Doon by Alexander Anderson (1845-1909. With further research I found that Cuddle Doon was a familiar poem to the children of Scotland in the generations preceding me--my mother's generation. Enough said! I'd love to hear from anyone who may have had this poem recited to them.


Cuddle Doon

by Alexander Anderson

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi muckle faught and din.
"Oh try an' sleep, ye waukrife rogues,
Your faither's comin' in."
They niver heed a word I speak,
I try tae gie a froon,
But aye I hap' them up an' cry
"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!"

Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid,
He aye sleeps next the wa'
Bangs up and cries, "I want a piece!"
The rascal starts them a'.
I rin and fetch them pieces, drinks,
They stop a wee the soun',
Then draw the blankets up an' cry,
"Noo, weanies, cuddle doon."

But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab
Cries oot frae neath the claes,
"Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at aince,
He's kittlin' wi' his taes."
The mischief in that Tam for tricks,
He'd bother half the toon,
But aye I hap them up an' cry,
"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!"

At length they hear their faither's fit
An' as he steeks the door,
They turn their faces tae the wa'
An Tam pretends tae snore.
"Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks,
As he pits aff his shoon.
"The bairnies, John, are in their beds
An' lang since cuddled doon!"

An' just afore we bed oorsel's
We look at oor wee lambs,
Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck
An Rab his airm roun' Tam's.
I lift wee Jamie up the bed
An' as I straik each croon,
I whisper till my heart fills up:
"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!"

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi' mirth that's dear tae me.
But soon the big warl's cark an' care
Will quaten doon their glee.
Yet come what will to ilka ane,
May He who rules aboon,
Aye whisper, though their pows be bald:
"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!"


If you're still reading this post and know some of the Scottish or Gaelic dialect, maybe you can shed light o the quote below which was written into the memoirs of my grandfather, whose grandmother was from Ireland. (since she was Sally McKinney, I tend to think there's also Scottish heritage there)

Our wheat was ground into flour at home by the hand-mill or by horse power, then baked in “pones.” They called it biscuit bread. I remember Mother would say to us children, “Watch children, there might be a beard in that bread; there is a hole in the sarch". Does anyone know what this means? It's either an old dialect or a typo!

Love and Peace to all who read this!
Judy Bussey, July 17, 2016

Keeping House

Our house seemed big with 3 bedrooms, 1 bathroom, a living room, dining room, and kitchen. I sometimes wonder how much real area the house contained. It may have been very small. We lived in every square inch of the house and our chores were designed to make it as livable as possible for the 8-10 people who may have lived there at any given time during my childhood.

Every day we were expected to set the supper table for 8-10, just plates and forks if we could find enough.We played with spoons and forks outside digging in the dirt and making mud pies. We probably lost everything Mother ever had.She didn't say a word. One of Mothers creative endeavors was art and she started painting on the dinner plates. We had accepted it as routine to go hunting for plates and forks at suppertime.

The table had to be ready for bowls of hot food whenever Daddy was ready to eat. Sometimes he wanted to eat as soon as he got home from the mines but other times we waited until he did something or another outside. He liked to play with his little garden, or go "under the floor" to unwind a little. The food was always hot and ready on demand--Mother had that down pat. Amazingly, we all sat down together for supper, every day. No prepared foods--everything prepared every day, from scratch.

After supper, the girls raked out the dishes, cleaned the table, swept the dining room & kitchen, washed the dishes, scalded the clean dishes with boiling water, then dried them. Rodney & later, Johnny carried in the coal. I'm not sure what other chores the boys had. We always messed up the kitchen again finding snacks at night. Cornbread and milk or homemade fudge if we had the ingredients; or,ice cream & pop charged to Daddy's payday at the fountain.Sometimes, soup-bean sandwiches. We took whatever we could get.To this day, in Mexican restaurants, I say, "No frijoles, por favor".

On most Saturdays we were expected to clean the entire house--sort of. Mother was far from being a good house keeper but there were certain things we had to do--Toby laid out the cleaning rules, Peggy helped enforce them.The oldest were always in charge of the youngest. It took years for me to be "the boss".

Sometimes, we dug down into the sides of the couch cushions to retrieve bobby pins, marbles, pencils, combs, and brushes that we had already replaced by charging new ones at the Company Store. More than once Daddy asked us what we did with all this stuff. We could never find a comb or brush or bobby pins. " G'Damn", he would say over and over.

We swept the whole house--and put all the dirt into the trash, not sweep it out the back door, which was much easier. Then we mopped all the floors (every now and then we had to wax the hardwood floors).Toby made us dust and arrange the coffee table with the nice magazines Mrs. Spotte or Mrs Bradbury had given Mother. Karen and I couldn't do it to please Toby so were pleased when she and Peggy ran us out and we didn't have to clean inside anymore. We did a fun job, though; we scrubbed the front porch with water and soap. Karen and I laughed and played on the slick enameled surface in the soot colored foam before we had to rinse it all off with buckets of cold water.

Oh yeah, on Saturday, we made the beds and "shook" all the sheets. I wonder what may have been in them?

Once a year, Mother made us spring clean. Her idea of spring cleaning was to paint the dining room table, chairs, and cabinet; wall paper the living room and dining room--they got so dirty with the coal stove going all the time. We helped with the wall paper...cutting the roll of border, holding the sheets of wall paper covered with gooey paste so Mother could line them up. One year a product came out that was supposed to absorb the dirt from old paper when it was rolled up in a ball and used to wipe down the walls. That was an adventure in itself.

We also put all the mattresses outside to soak up the sun while we cleaned the bed-springs. The front room floors got shellacked or varnished--I never knew the difference--every year or two. They needed it badly because Mother let us roller skate in the house, crack nuts on the floor with a big rock, and, in general, do whatever we wanted.Somehow all of this got done, maybe half way done, but as Merle Haggard said, "Mama Tried".

I don't think any of us worked too hard.We spent every spare moment playing in the hills, at a friends house,in the gym, or elsewhere in the camp--until dark every day.

I watched David homemakers--my friends' mothers do laundry on Monday, iron on Tuesday, grocery shop with a list, and do preventative maintenance on their homes.We did none of that on schedule and I wondered why Mother was different. With a household of at least 8 people, there were always dirty clothes and always the coal dust covered work clothes Daddy wore underground every day. The washing was a back breaking chore and everything was dryed on a clothes line...even in the freezing winter. Mother got it done somehow. Things were washed as they were needed, ironed only when necessary. Folded at times, but there were no predictable routines within our home. The most important laundry was Daddy's dress clothes, which were sent to Shurtleff's dry cleaner and laundry in Pikeville. Daddy's shirts were starched, folded, and very white, his handkerchiefs were beautifully cleaned. Mother's priority was to have his wardrobe laid out on the bed so he could step out, looking handsome and stylish every weekend when his 5 1/2 day stint, at least one mile back under the hill, was done.

And, that's how we kept house.
Peace,
Judy

Memorable People from my Childhood in David, Kentucky

Sometimes I don't know what to write about and think I should be more sophisticated, but today, I'm on a binge of just writing.

Now, I'm thinking of our David Grade School and the special visits we had--in addition to the dreaded nurse visits.

Preacher Durham, local minister and renowned story teller, Sister Ruth and Sister Mary--I assume Catholic nuns who taught us bible stories--and Mr. Ellliott, our traveling music teacher, from whom we learned folk music, western music, and then-- Pomp and Circumstance.

Imagine living far out in the county without access to music lessons, story tellers, and inspirational speakers. We had them all, but I doubt we realized it at the time.

Does anyone know how to locate Sister Mary and Sister Ruth? I have no idea where they came from, but they showed up regularly at our school. They had a felt board with multiple and colorful characters to post as they told remarkable stories from the Bible. They had Joseph and Mary and a little baby Jesus. They had shepherds, sheep and angels. Sometimes they added a prodigal son and a fatted calf to remind us that, "but you were always with me, my son". The images have led me to many an epiphany in my adult life. Moses in a basket, his life hanging in the balance, only to be found and loved by the Kings daughter. The nuns didn't preach Catholicism, they only told stories. I don't remember any protests from the PTA. Sister Mary and Sister Ruth worked very hard to bring us the stories in living color.

"My foot's in the stirrup, my pony won't stand.I'm off for Montan', I'm a leavin' Cheyenne. Goodbye Old Paint, I'm a leavin' Cheyenne. Goodbye Old Paint, I'm off to Montan'".

"Oh my darlin, Oh my darlin, Oh my darlin Clemintine......."

"From this valley they say you are goin". I will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile. Just remember the Red River Valley and the Cowboy who loved you so true."

In addition to all the songs, Mr. Elliott would show up in each spring and introduce the 8th graders to " Pomp and Circumstance"--the annual choice for the graduation march.

We learned the music and we also learned how to march in sync with the slow, classical beat. Step, forward slide, step, forward slide--and on and on. One had to be respectful in such a ceremonious atmosphere. We knew no other way that graduation marches were done. The girls wore white dresses, the boys wore jackets (I think) and we all took it very seriously.

My class sang, "God of our fathers,whose almighty hand. Brings forth in beauty all the starry band. Be thou our ruler, guardian guide and stay. Thy word our law, Thy path our chosen way." Bom, Pa, Pa, Pa, Bom Pa. Mr Elliott used his baton to measure out each beat. I will never forget him and this eloquent ceremony.

The only thing I didnt' like about my 8th grade graduation was my homemade dress and the "permanent" wave mother had the neighbor beautician put into my ever so straight hair. I was honored to give the Salutatorian speech. Mother wrote it for me. She was a great speech writer.

Why did I hate the dress and how I looked? I did housework, ironed white shirts, and baby sat 4 children in return for having my dress handmade by Ila willis. The buttons were hand-covered in the white pique of the dress. The belt was handcovered too. It was perfectly fitted and probably beautiful, but I hated it. I just didnt' see the quality involved at that time. Ila was a great seamstress, but I didht' know it at the time. All I knew was that I worked very hard just to recieve the dress.

The permanent wave was the crowning glory, and, somehow, Mother got me a corsaage. I have horrid pictures that mark the day, but, maybe to my Mother, I was beautiful. And now, other memories...

How on earth can I describe the story-telling powers of Preacher Durham? We heard him each Sunday in church, so it was a special pleasure to hear him as the guest speaker in our special meeitngs in the gym.He didn't preach, but captivated us with his thrilling stories.

We'd march in and take our seats on the wooden bleachers. Quite modern at that time, actually, since many grade schools in the day didn't have a gymasium.

We would be quiet-we knew any disrepectful noise would warrant a whipping. Preacher Durham would finally step up to the podium. The story would begin in a quiet tone, as he told of the boy from Galileee and his predisposition to comapassion and honesty. Then the story would crescendo as he talked of the road to Damascus and the robbers that lurked around every curve in the road.

Our anticipation grew and finally, when the robbers attacked, Preacher Durham made such an explosive sound we all gasped. The good Samaritan often saved the day--much like Spiderman or Batman do today. We must have heroes, right?

He was a master. To this day, I've never forgotten the little boy from Galilee and the miracles he performed from Bethlehem to Damascus. I'm amazed today when I hear of the struggles in the middle east and how much we learned from the stories.

Preacher Durham also printed a weekly bulletin from a back room in his home. He used ink and a roller press to create the Bulletin. Sometimes we would go hang out in his press room and watch the news being printed. It was a privilege to be selected to eliver the "Bulletin".

Sometimes the news was as simple as, "Nova and Dawson Bussey are the proud grandparents of a little grirl, Jerra Rae Collins." Or, "Mary Frances Stambaugh won the award for best porch decorations during the Christmas Holiday".

Preacher Durham knew how to win us over. He gave "grab-bags" regularly after his church services. They were great. I remember leaving services one day and asking if I could take a bag to my brother Rodney who couldn't come that day. He gave me a bag and one for Rodney too. The treats were from his own pocket, I'm sure. But his messages were memorable.

"Just like a tree, tha stands beside the water....I shall not be moved. I shall not be, I shall not be moved....."

Who can fill in my blanks? The words echo in my mind and heart.
Love and Peace
Judy

Remembering My Little Sister Karen--Happy 74th dear sister!

This essay was written in 2009, and published again in 2019.

Karen Bussey O'Rourke is my little sister and I have no memory of a time without her. Karen has led a full rich life as wife, mother, and grandmother--not to mention earning a Teacher of the Year Award in Georgia. Her Special Ed students loved her so much, some of them got in trouble just to be sent to the compassionate Mrs. O'Rourke, whom they trusted to help them understand and cope with their situations.

The following essay is made of my memories from long ago and far away, when we were growing up in the coal camp of David, Kentucky, our childhood home. I have so many memories, but none that can capture her sincere essence, so I’ll just begin.

Once upon a time, or “oncie poncie” as Karen would say, she and I captured time in a bottle. We still try to do that in our treasured moments with children who still allow us to play. Back then, and far away, for a while in the lives of my little sister Karen and I, and our brothers and sisters—Peggy, Toby, Rodney, and Johnny—time stood still. Today, my memories all seem to be situated in or nearby our little coal camp house in David, Kentucky, where we played and grew up in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. Our mother cared for six children and later 2 grandchildren and kept house in extremely difficult conditions, while our father worked his life away in an underground coal mine.

Our house sat on a hillside with the yards sloping up on both sides. It was a great yard for rolling down hill. The front steps led down close to the sidewalk and to a narrow paved road that ran all the way to the end of "Fisher Hollow. We didn't know until we were grown that the correct name was "Official Hollow", and since Daddy was a section foreman, we were allowed to live among the Company Officials. I don't think we ever felt like "company" kids, though.

We were proud to have concrete sidewalks and a paved road unlike many of the rougher hollows cut out in the mountains by the coal companies. Our road ended a few houses up the street at the Hagers’ house. I guess they ended the road there so they wouldn’t have to cut down the tree where the Hager men always hung, skinned, butchered, feathered, or otherwise treated their deer, hog, and turkey carcasses. (Or maybe they ended it there to avoid some struggle with the mountaineers who once owned the land) We were astonished at these annual “hangings”, though. We bought all our meat at the company store, which was a real luxury for our mother, but expensive so we didn't have meat on a regular basis. Mother was the child of East Kentucky pioneers who had made their living in those hills, too. We had no idea that we were witnessing a way of life that few people have had the privilege of experiencing.

Of course, we stayed as far away from that tree as possible until the snow was a few feet deep and the boys made big runs of packed ice for the sleds to jump as they sped off the hillside, past the deer tree and onto the paved road for the long joyride out of the hollow. Most of the big sled rides originated at the top of the Boy Scout cabin road, where there were always truck tires burning after a big snow. I think Karen and I observed this fun a little more than we participated because it was pretty rough and we only wanted to ride with the boys who promised not to be reckless and scare us.

Sometimes the pilot of the sled would lie on the sled face down, with one or two other kids lying flat on top of him. Sometimes, the boys on several sleds would “gravy train” by hooking their feet into the handles of the sled behind. We took pride in being allowed to gravy train. Only the best of the boys could navigate without hurtling everyone into the willow trees that lined the creek on the sharp right turn at the company store. Once Toby laughed so much she peed right through Pee Wee Capelli’s clothes while she lay on his back for the speedy trip down. I think Pee Wee laughed too.

We wore socks on our hands and kept warm the best way we knew how. Then we itched for hours when we tried to warm up too fast by the coal stove in the living room. What fun! What cold and wet fun!

Karen and I watched Peggy and Toby start to date and longed for the day when we could wear lipstick and maybe steal a kiss from a special boy. For now, the occasional game of post office would have to do. Mother was beautiful and full of beauty tips for us. Karen and I were blondes and mother loved when the sun beached our hair even whiter in the summer. Our hair would also show streaks of green from the chlorine in the coal company swimming pool.

Our brother Rod helped build that pool, known in that day as the only good public pool in the East Kentucky region. He worked with volunteer coal miners and earned free season tickets for the whole family. Little did he know his efforts would result in years of fun and a family of expert swimmers. Well, Toby wasn’t exactly expert, but did work a few summers as a very well tanned, pretty life guard. Karen and I played in our fantasy world at the pool and became mermaids with rich, tantalizing lives under the water. We would play for hours and hours. Then we knew it was time to go home for supper. We always ate as soon as Daddy got home from work. Then we’d wash dishes, sweep the dining room and kitchen and go back out to play. We’d play “hide and go seek”, “ go sheepy go”, “tin can alley”, “banner”, or “hop-scotch” until dark then come home and fall asleep in our bathing suits. No need to bathe, we’d be swimming again tomorrow, wouldn’t we?

We loved when the tar on the road melted and we could write on the sidewalks by dipping popsicle sticks or hedge twigs into the hot sticky stuff. Butter removes Tar.

Anther thing we loved to do was jump rope. Hot, Cold, double Dutch, all made better if we had one of those pliable whippersnapper black cables that served the pulleys on the conveyor belts in the mines. They were the best jump ropes, but stung fiercely if you “missed”. The mines supplied other toys, like big gobs of mercury that came from the ball bearings on the railroad cars. Sometimes the boys would find it and give us some. It would coagulate and roll around in the palms of our hands. What fun! We used to coat pennies to look like dimes. I guess we absorbed enough to kill us. Of course, today it’s illegal and considered poisonous. What did we know? In those days most things were harmless.

The yard of our little house in David ran uphill and seemed so big. We learned to turn cartwheels down hill, do back-bends uphill, which made them easier and to “skin the cat” while dangling from tree limbs just beyond Mother’s clothesline. The clothesline and row of dragon lilies edged the forest where all the Indians lived and came out at night with their hatchets. Karen and I would never walk too close to the hills after dark. We’d walk in the middle of the road then race up our front steps where danger lurked beneath I was never grabbed by the ankles by any of the monsters under there, but Karen swore one almost got her a few times. I guess the monsters and wild Indians still live in David, up official hollow.

We loved that yard and the beautiful hedges that surrounded it. In the spring we’d tie string on a June bug and thrill at its circular flight. I won’t tell you how we made diamond rings from lightening bugs. We broke sturdy limbs from the hedges, wrapped their ends in black tape from the mines and used them as homemade batons. The little willowy switches were great for mother’s whippings and the middle size were just right to sharpen and use for weenie roast sticks. We could chew the leaves for a burst of chlorophyll, before we ever knew about mouthwash. There was an opening worn through the hedges from years of taking a short cut to the neighbor’s house to trade funny books or borrow some sugar.

Karen and I would lie on our backs in the yard and looked up at the clouds. The dog my little sister saw looked like a tree to me until she made me look more closely at its eyes peeping out of a head full of shaggy fur. Clouds are what we think they are. We believed we could sit on the clouds like the angels do, and not fall through. We wondered if the air planes got too close to heaven, which was situated just above the clouds we were looking at. It was bad enough to worry about the communists, much less about heaven and all those planes that started flying over David. Again Rod reassured us he was an air ranger for the Boy Scouts and would keep us informed.

In the early 50s we learned that USA scientists and engineers had figured out how to break the sound barrier! It was amazing to lie on the hilly yard looking towards the patch of sky between the hills in front and back of our house, to see the thick white smoke trails made by the jets after they started breaking the sound barrier. It seems we would see the plane, then a trail of jet smoke, then—after a few excited moments of waiting—the sound of the jet engine followed, never again to catch up with the plane. The wonder of it all…

We watched out for crawdad holes, of course. We loved to see walking sticks and granddaddy long-legs. Pretty red snake flowers in the spring told us there was surely a snake lurking somewhere. Grapevines hanging down gave us the perfect setup for playing Nyoka and Judy the Jungle girl. The big flat rock back behind the Boy Scout cabin made a perfect table for playing house. Ever make paper bows? We made bunches and bunches then attached them to our hair—and our panties—with bobby pins. Times were innocent then and we could prance topless in the rain like little angels. We drank water from the spring across the road. Life was good.

We loved to play in the rain. Do children still do that? Did Mother warn us about getting struck by lightning? Probably not, she was terrified of lightning and probably hid until the storm was over. There was pleasant rain pretty often in those days. Rain that just pitter-pattered down, just like the story books said and it was so fun to get wet, build damns, and wash our hair in the clean water dripping off the roof of the front porch.

Karen and I believed in fairies. But of course, we had really seen them when several of our brothers and sisters hadn’t. What did they know? We first became acquainted with fairies at the home of a Dutch family, the Van Gelders, where we went to drink pearl tea and play in the raucous toy room with the 5 Van Gelder children. Our entire house was a raucous playroom, but we didn’t realize that at the time. The Van Gelder’s room had a special feel, though. Toys, cots, and kids all over the back room. Just like in some English novel. Looking back, I bet the Van Gelders envied our being able to skate all over our house and  cut pictures out of encyclopedias. We could even cook fudge anytime we wanted to—that is, if we had some milk; and, if we had some cocoa or peanut butter. We did just what we wanted in some ways. Mother said when you have six children; you let them do what they want to do. She said that’s why we were so smart.

Back to the fairies. Is there is a difference in a fairy and a brownie? Karen did we believe in Brownies too? I remember leaving acorn halves filled with mashed peaches in Mama Bussey’s sewing machine drawer. The brownies didn’t find them though, and there were bugs everywhere inside the sewing machine. To this day, I can’t bear the thought of what I saw in those drawers. Fortunately, Mother couldn’t sew, so the machine was never used and we didn’t get caught. We were more worried about Toby finding out, though. She liked things clean. When we started hiding the Brownie food outside, we discovered they ate every bite—so they really did exist!

Karen and I raced to see what Daddy brought home in his sooty lunch box. There was always a little something. Usually a bite of his lunch cake—that’s what we called those little store-bought cakes back then. I know he must have wanted to eat it, back there under the mountain where he worked all day in the coal mines, but he saved it so some lucky kid would find it when he came home. Sometimes we’d unlace his work boots. Sometimes we’d just leave him alone to unburden the stress of another day without air and light. Sometimes he just couldn’t take it.

Imagine a family of 8—sometimes 10, counting the two beloved grandchildren—that sits down at the same table for supper each day. We actually did that—give or take a person or two during football practice, going off to college, or some other event that altered the Bussey family dynamic. There was no fast food. Just ten pound bags of potatoes to peel, beans to look, corn to shuck, tomatoes to slice, lard to melt, tea to brew, cabbage to grate, cornbread to mix, and salt bacon to fry—every day! Some version of this menu was prepared from scratch each day of my childhood by my mother. She also got up at 4 am to build a fire and spend some precious time alone with her poetry or art. She made coffee for Daddy and herself in the old Dripolator, packed his lunch, and saw him off every weekday and every other Saturday at 5:30 in the morning. She taught us to never watch him leave since this was believed to bring bad luck to the mines.

Mother sang songs that made us cry. One song was “Oh, Daddy don’t go to the mines today….for I couldn’t live without you”. I think this may have been traumatic for us, but mother didn’t mean it to be. That’s just how people sang back then. And, “Put my little shoes away”. Karen loved mother’s stories and was the sweetest of all the girls. Mother told me that so I know it’s true. She never made Mother feel bad about the state of our house, our clothes, and all the stuff we never had nor could find even if we did have it. She just smiled at mother in a very special way and glanced up at her with those big brown eyes that I adore and Mother was happy again. Mother once said Rod had never hurt her feelings, I have a feeling that Karen never did, either. Mother needed attention and Karen gave it to her. She loved watching mother dress up and learned to use lipstick and jewelry very young. Once when Doc John came to our house in an emergency to see the very pale and feverish Karen, he lifted the cover to do his exam and a very sickly, but pretty, Karen displayed one of Mother’s flashy rhinestone bracelets proudly fastened around her ankle. You’d have to have been there to understand.

This story has to end, but you see, there is no ending. Karen is fixed in my mind as the most beautiful little blonde girl with big brown eyes and a smile that melts the heart. Just as our childhoods were filled with eternal lessons that continue to this day, Karen is filling the lives of yet another generation with hope and joy. We need more of that, don’t’ we! She will always be my little sister, and my role model. I just hope I have given her one-tenth of the wonderful memories she has given me. Happy Birthday dear Karen….I love you, and "I’m not dead"--somewhere along the way, we started saying this crazy quote.

Memories not includes in this essay, but which deserve mentioning

Saving warm spots for each other in bed
Fighting over warm spots in bed
Learning to pin-curl our hair
Hiding fearfully under the cover, sweating, but afraid to peep out--those wild Indians or Monsters
Skating down the sidewalk in our new polka dot pajamas
Playing with dolls—did we get one? Or two?
Making doll clothes out of old socks and scraps of material
Swinging on grapevines
Making mud pies
Getting carsick on the long dusty journey over creeks and hills to see Granny and Pap
Adoring baby brother John
Idolizing Big brother Rod
Helping carry buckets of coal
Getting homemade haircuts in our horribly straight hair
Sharing a hi-fi with the others
Being together the first time Dan Goble drove up to the coal camp with his big speaker on the top of his car to announce music, rock and roll, by newcomer, Elvis Presley
Dancing in the dining room and memorizing lots of steps
Sharing clothes, beds, and friends
Lining up when the school bell rang, saying the pledge to a flag with 48 stars
Adding “under God” to the pledge
Chewing gum at school was a daring thing to do
Waling across the hot company store parking lot in the hot summer without shoes
Walking the hot railroad tracks up Granny’s without shoes
The Easter Parade and Smack the Baby
Jacks, dolls, paper dolls (we never had enough but loved everything we had!)
Riding Rod’s bike, not knowing it was his
Rod riding our bike, not knowing it was ours
Soup bean sandwiches
Scooters, skates, dolls, and jacks
Being nice to John L. Capelli
Taking care of our mother and our father
Leaning on each other and our siblings, all our lives
Learning to love, to be honest, to have character, to respect others……

This is only the beginning of a beautiful story of my life with my little sister Karen, the most thoughtful sister any girl could ever have!
I love you Karen,
Judy

Cherokee Bill Performs in David, Kentucky:Myth or Reality

I sincerely hope someone does a search for "Cherokee Bill" and ends up on this site. As I think back, it's hard to believe he really existed and that we were allowed, not only to go to his performances, but, especially the boys--allowed to actually participate in his show. The audience watched breathlessly--if we dared watch at all, that is.

My memories of Cherokee Bill were unharvested until I watched Gangs of New York in 2004 with my son, Tom. We discussed "Bill the Butcher's" artistry with sharp knives and the way he never missed his target. Quite a character in the screen play, then I remembered such a character from my childhood.

I flooded Tom with my unbelievable stories of the wild west, one man show that came to David for a few seasons when I was a child. All the David children went to see the dangerous tricks of Cherokee Bill. My son was skeptical since I sometimes embellish the truth to make a good story. Surely children weren't allowed to participate in or to view such dangerous acts as I described seeing on the stage of the David Movie Theater.(Yes, The Company built a small theatre for the community; so no reason to leave, right?) Anyway, Tom wrote the following note to to my siblings seeking confirmation of my wild story.

Hello All,
A viewing of the movie GANGS OF NEW YORK and a
discussion of "Bill the Butcher"'s artistry with knife
throwing, led to a memory for Mother. I stated that
the obvious exaggeration of the movie characters
abilities with knives ruined the movie for me. Mom
disagreed, saying that "Cherokee Bill" could do all
that and more. He would throw knives at boys heads,
slicing off fractions of cigarettes . Play spoons on
children's heads? He would come into town with his big
dog, school would be let out for the big show. She
says her brothers Rodney & Johnny probably got on stage with him, and Bruce
probably hung out at Bills trailer and smoked with his
buddies. "Surely Mother(Nova) didn't know he threw
knives at children" Mom(Judy) says. Though I say I
doubt there is much that went on around David that
Nanny didn't know about.
Anyway, My mother is now requesting "Cherokee Bill"
memories from her family. We look forward to hearing
from you all.
Love,
Tom

Sister Karen (who never embellishes) responded:

Yes, I do remember Cherokee Bill, and he did ALL those things. Remember him balancing a ladder or chairs on his chin? Probably Roger Waugh, Donnie Ray Mollett, Wild Bill Hammond, or Bruce, had cigarettes in their mouths cut in half with a perfect snap of Cherokee Bill's whip. He was ledengary, and all the stories Judy told you are true!
I also remember that we used to play with knives out in the yard. We would stand apart and throw at the other person's feet. If it stuck in the ground, we had to put one leg on that spot. If you fell down, you lost. I never got stuck with the knife. Did we ask permission to throw knives at each other?

Sisters Toby, Peggy, and Karen confirmed just this past weekend that Cherokee Bill strapped willing participants to a large wheel, then as it spun around, threw knives to outline the victim.

We had some colorful friends in David, didn't we? We, of course, are learning that we were also colorful. Wonder how many people from David are writing about those Bussey children. You know, "they went to Cherokee Bill shows" and their mother let them play with knives....." I wonder if Deanna Wicker, Tudy Bartley, Brenda Patton,Sue Dawson, Brenda Clay, Vivian Music, or Betty Mae Clark went to these shows. I would love to hear their stories. The rules for entertainment were never mentioned. It all seems so risky in retrospect.Just, please don't tell me Cherokee Bill was a fake.

Funny that the boys at school weren't allowed to shoot marbles "for keeps" because it was gambling. But, there were no holds barred on the Cherokee Bill show.

Hope to hear from some old David frriends,
Peace,
Judy

The Scent of Memories

I just returned from a southern vacation with sister Karen at her St. Simon's Island, Georgia residence then on to brother Rod's beach house at Anna Maria Island, Florida. We three siblings enjoyed the luxurious ocean settings where everything smelled so pure. There, we reminisced about the smells we remember from our lives in David, Kentucky, our coal camp home, owned by Princess Elkhorn Coal Company Organization.David is remembered by many as a very progressive coal camp with many amenities.

We could almost smell the melted tar as we talked. Pools of the black, thick melted paste were a side benefit of having "black top" roads. We loved when they tarred the road up our hollow. In the summer, The melting wonder emerged from sides of the road onto the edge in perfect puddles for playing. We used twigs and Popsicle sticks to paint and write on the sidewalks with the sticky ink. Karen and I wondered if the large heart,with "1952" spelled out in tribute to our grandfather's death, still exists there somewhere on the broken concrete in front of the vacant hillside where our house once stood. Next time I visit David, I'll look for it.

Tar drawings rarely fade away.

Butter, lard, or bacon grease have unique smells too as when they are rubbed all over the body to help remove the tar we got all over us. Nothing would get it out of our hair, though. I can feel Mother jerking my hair and fussing as she tried to make me look "half way decent" again. I don't think she jerked Karen. Karen was too sweet. I always blamed Mother for my horrible haircuts and the gaps in my straight bangs. but maybe that was her only choice. We usually did just what we wanted to and never quit playing in tar. Mother said, "When you have six children, you let them do pretty much what they want to do". So she was liberal with our fun, but we (especially myself)got whippings for more serious things like lying, talking back, or being disrespectful to others.

We remembered Mrs. Saunders, our first grade teacher and her wonderful scent. We wondered what she wore, maybe an old-fashioned talcum? We knew it wasn't Evening In Paris cologne.

Pond's Cold Cream--mother's beauty secret, which most of us continue to use (even Rod) to this day. I yearned to grow up and someday, smooth the precious cream to my throat while looking into the mirror like my beautiful mother.

'Under the floor", the packed earthen space under our house, had a musty smell all its own. We played endless games, did "plays", found old, interesting clothes and things that were as much fun as toys, to us. We were fortunate that our house was on the hillside and required 9 steps to reach the front porch, which meant we could stand up in many spaces under the foundation. Our damp, dusky playground narrowed as it met the slope of the hillside backyard.

All the company houses were alike, and aligned in perfect rows. The number of steps up to the porch varied though--back then, they didn't level the hillside to build houses like they do today. Once we lived in a house with only 5 steps and playing "under the floor" was not nearly as adventurous as under the floor with 9 steps. We mostly crawled around and hid down there.Our hilly yards were as natural as the unmined terrain.

Uncle Otis had built a shower room under "the seventh house on the right" our primary address for most of our life in David. It's the house that had nine steps. We moved in when Uncle Otis and Aunt Ora moved to town, Prestonsburg. We considered the shower a real luxury. In the summer, Daddy showered there after work. How nice is that! Once he yelled,"Peggy, bring the Twenty-Two! Peggy ran down under the floor and shot a blacksnake that was in Daddy's shower room. We were all proud of her marksmanship and surprised that Daddy was so startled.

Mentioning Daddy's shower, brings up the smell of Lava soap. A rough grained bar that smelled terrible, but removed more of the ingrained coal dust than milder soaps. Sometimes, we had to use Lava, too. I hated it.

Daddy was a gorgeous young man and I remember how clean he was and how good he smelled on weekends when he dressed up in a starched white shirt, perfectly ironed handkerchief, suit, hat, the whole works. He smelled so good. Did he use Old Spice or Mennen After-Shave lotion? I'm sure it was one of those standards.

We remembered the smell of Daddy's lunch box, laden with coal dust and a bit of leftover lunch cake for us. Daddy's work clothes were always the last load and we remembered the smell of them sloshing in the gray scummy wash water.

We remembered the aroma of fresh strawberries we picked over the new-road hill at Quemine's old mountain home.

We remembered the odor of Daddy and Mother's cigarettes--menthol Kools and Salems, which had just been invented to soothe the throat. We learned to hand Daddy a lighted Kool when he had an black-lung or asthmatic coughing spell. Cigarettes weren't unhealthy back then--at least there was never any news that they were bad. I loved the way Mother looked when she tilted her head exhaled into the air just like the movie stars we had seen magazines and movies. Very sexy. Not so pretty was the way a cigarette would hang from her lower lip while she did the household chores. She didn't bother looking for an ashtray, but often laid her burning cigarette on a window ledge. Our white enamel window sills were always laced with burnt brown stripes.None of the Bussey children smoked, except for the occasional rebellious experiment.

Ahh, the fresh pine that Mother cut from trees in the hills, filled our house with the aroma of a forest as she nailed the branches and placed pine cones all over the book shelves and onto the front porch--with blue Christmas lights, if she had them. All our Christmas trees were real, too, but were often collateral damage, turned over during the big fight Mother and Daddy were sure to have. Christmases, even today, are not the best of Holidays for me.

We remembered Mother, always creative, picking weeds from the hill and transforming them into beautiful arrangements with the magical gold and silver aerosol paint recently invented, and finally stocked at the Company store in the early 50's. The company store itself had a smell of ceosote and oil, used to reduce the dust on the wide hardwood board flooring. Progress, I suppose. Oh yes, Mother also spray painted almost all of the few dishes we had, and even drew on the curtains with spray paint. Her creative urges just couldn't be contained, even in her suffocating environment.

Sometimes we ate lunch at the fountain and still remember the smell of those wonderful hot dogs wrapped in waxed paper and the smell of the ice-cream freezer when we dug deep to find Popsicles, Fudgesicles, "Imps", Push-ups, Creamsicles, and other frozen treats. We charged these luxuries to Daddy's check, of course, and often caused him "go in the hole" on payday, when another fight was sure to break out at home. Of course we saved all the ice cream sticks for playing in tar, etc.Some days we went home for a lunch of fried Balogna sandwiches or Pork n Beans with a cold cheese sandwich and a sweet pickle. The lunches at the fountain were special, though, and we often broke the rules to eat there.

The creeks smelled of sulphur until the Company enclosed them with huge (I guess, about 4 ft diameter) concrete tiles and covered them with earth. We observed this miraculous construction and loved playing "Banner" and making risky jumps from tile to tile. When a bigger boy was our "Banner Man", the leaps became longer and more dangerous. We had small injuries from time to time, but no one ever told us to quit playing on the tiles. We never called this game the fancy name of "Follow the Leader", but it's the same game.

The Company built us a swimming pool using coal miner labor, which earned the miners' families punch cards for free swimming. Brother Rod also worked on the pool and earned a period of free swimming for all of us. People came from all over Floyd County to swim in the David pool. It may have been the only public pool for several years. We got to meet town people, see some of our P-burg high school teachers there, and especially cute boys from Prestonsburg.Yes, we lived in a progressive coal camp and we all fell in love at one time or another at the pool.Sister Peggy was friends with Johnny Dep's mother, Betty Goble, and has a great photo of them and their friends around the David Pool.

All the Bussey children, (except Toby) became expert swimmers.Toby worked as a lifeguard, anyway, and got a perfect tan using baby oil laced with iodine,or at times with butter alone, while we swam our summers away. Baby brother Johnny could swim like a fish by age 3 and got really dark in summers. Mother let us go there alone, trusting the good lifeguards to look after us. Besides Toby, the pool hired some David athletes and qualified swimmers to help patrol the pool.

Karen and I had snow white hair that smelled of chlorine and was tinted green all summer long, every year. I don't think we had summer sandals back then and the blacktop was so hot we had to run to cross the scalding roads to get home in time for supper. The rule was supper on the table by 4:30, but no eating until Daddy was ready. Whenever he was ready, the food had to be hot. Eight to Ten of us would sit around the dining room table. There were 10 people in our house when 2 beloved nieces came to live with us for 3 years.

After supper, the girls had to clean the dining room and wash and scald the dishes. It was a hated job, but we had to get it done everyday--as we became old enough. Then we'd run outside to play "Round-Town", "Go Sheepie Go" , "Tin Can Alley", "Needles-Eye Doth Supply", jump rope, or hop-scotch, on the road in front of the house. Sometimes, we just went into the hills and played until dark--swinging grapevines, climbing trees, playing jungle girl, cowboys and Indians, or another of the endless games we loved. The rule was to be home by dark, and we were dared to make noise because Daddy would be trying to sleep for another hard day at the mines tomorrow.

Fortunately, after 1952, we had television so had some way to entertain ourselves without disturbing Daddy. We kept the volume way down.

I didn't mind going in before dark. There was a large Tulip Popular I had to pass on the way home and after dark, it cast a fearsome shadow that I had to run through to get home safely. As if the Indians lurking in the hills weren't enough to worry about. I wish someone had told me back then, that no Indian Tribe ever made their home in Kentucky. It was good hunting ground and good for forays into the settlements, but the tribes always returned to their real homes. This knowledge would have greatly alleviated my nights of fear way up my hollow in David.

In summers, at night, we were already clean from our day in the pool, of course, and from sliding on soap in the shower rooms, so I doubt we ever took a real bath in summertime. We'd come in at dark, play or read awhile, listen to music on the radio, then fall asleep in our bathing suits. Can this really be true?

I won't mention the smell of burning tires for warmth while we played outside in winter. I must stop this flooding of memories and give you a break, if you're still reading. These memories flood my heart at times and represent part of the double-edged sword of life in a small coal camp on the left fork of Middle Creek in David, Floyd County, Kentucky.

Peace,
Judy

Brown Sop

Ok. This is my effort at a short blog. Ever heard of "Brown Sop"?

In our house brown-sop was a delicacy. I'm going to share Mother's secret ingredient:

After fying bacon or porkchops, or other breakfast meat, let the grease stay smoking hot. Throw in a hearty splash of black coffee. When the sizzling is done, pour the brown-sop over the meat. The delicious sop will settle to the bottom of the serving plate.To serve it to oneself, you must quickly scoop, scoop, scoop the spoon until you have brought the brown-sop to the top and can drizzle a bit over your eggs and gravy.

I have a feeling brown-sop is the poor man's version of red-eye gravy. Really, any kind of grease will do.

I just had to write this,

Peace,
Judy

Cornbread: For Body and Soul

Today I received a card from a friend in DC. I was reminded of our conversations about cornbread.How can cornbread be a topic of conversation? Probably because we had hot cornbread on our supper table every week-day of my life, but usually biscuits on Sunday, as I remember. Mother made cornbread perfect of course, lots of bacon grease smoking hot, which made a good crust and her cornbread was thin like Daddy liked it. I remember making it a few times and Daddy complained it was "like cake", too thick and no crust. I still make it from scratch and it's never perfect, but always pretty good.

At night, we didn't have snack food like kids have today, but leftover cornbread and milk was a wonderful treat-if we had any leftover cornbread, and if we had enough "sweet" milk. Some families liked butter-milk and cornbread; we loved sweet-milk (regular whole milk) and cornbread. We knew better than to drink all the milk since Daddy expected milk in the thermos of coffee he took underground each day. One of my two brothers credits lack of milk for his shorter stature. He always smiles, though. Mother wouldn't hesitate waking us at 4:30 AM to go borrow milk from a neighbor, if there wasn't enough left for Daddy. This was a difficult charge with 6-8 children, who loved milk, living there most of the time and was a "whippin" offense. As selfish as it may seem to today's children, our father deserved the best since he labored miles under the mountain, in 36" height coal, so he burned way more calories than we did. Every day though, Daddy brought at least 1/2 of his "lunch cake" back home to those of us young ones who were eagerly waiting to open his bucket.I'm sure every child of Southern Appalachia has a cornbread story--and, I guess, a lunchbox story.

My D.C. friend, for example, is a life-long friend who has lived in D.C. since his graduation from Berea College in 1963. He grew up in Letcher County and had a life, similar to mine, but he lived in town.One of his earliest and best memories, he has often told me, was dropping by the local hotel where his mother was the cook. She would give him cornbread and milk. He was able to spend some precious time sitting on a little stool, in the hotel kitchen, eating cornbread, and being with his mother. As I listened to him over the years, this story always stood out as very significant in his childhood memories of his mother, who, sadly, died young.

I never heard of sugar in cornbread until much later in life when I'd visit restaurants who used sugar and the bread tasted more like dessert. We just roughed it with corn meal, a little flour, salt, baking powder and grease. The cornbread was better or worse depending on whether Mother had salt bacon to fry for the grease. She fried the bacon and left the grease to get smoking hot in the same black skillet in which she baked the cornbread. Daddy, of course, was treated to all the salt-bacon in a little plate set out just for him. Many times, it was the only meat on the table--thank goodness the children didn't like it.

Another time, I'll write about my baby brother, now an organic farmer in East Kentucky. He plants corn with seeds "brought forth from 1823" and grinds the corn on a stone mill in an old barn. His Wiley Branch cornbread is coarse and the best in the world. He gives most of it away to family and neighbors.

Sometimes, when I visit my daughter, or my sisters back home, I am most pleased to find leftover cornbread on the stove or a hot pone just taken out of the oven.

Cornbread memories are welcome here,

Peace,
Judy