5:15 pm

The last two dawns have been warmer. The birds awaken early, and seem to be trying to urge the rolling season onward to its end.


I found an interesting article on summertime babies. Thought y'all might want to take a look-see.


Yesterday, MeeMaw had to work. It was apparently a bad day, because they had several euthanasias to take care of. She told me of one fellow in particular who had to have his beloved cat put down. The man carried with him a little photo album of pictures of his cat. He was, according to MeeMaw, inconsolable when he lost his little companion. And I am angry when I reflect on the fact that there are many who would mock him for his emotion.


I spent the morning writing, and then turned to the Tar Baby task of cleaning our chimney. I say "Tar Baby" because of the nature of the job. If you'll remember your Uncle Remus' tales, Tar Baby was a critter from which you could never get loose, once you hit him. That's how this entire chimney thing has unfolded.


Seems that the chimney hasn't been used in quite some time, because the last owners ran a propane line in and used gas logs. Therefore, they had the damper closed and never needed to open it.


And now, in the age of MeeMaw and PeePaw and Possum Cough, we have attempted to open the damper. "Attempted" is the operant word here. We had a chimney guy come out to sweep it and try to repair the damper (the handle on it is broken off). Chimney sweep exits stage left, carrying one piece of paper bearing the likeness of one B. Franklin. And the damper still can't be opened.



So, I forced it open. Must....open....damper. Mustn't....let....MeeMaw....down. Seems that there is an accumulation of approximately 800 pounds of ash, dirt, birds nests, and other debris on top of the damper door, preventing its being opened. I climbed onto the roof and lowered a flashlight on a rope into the bowels of the chimney. Sort of a rooftop colonoscopy. And what did Dr. PeePaw find? Several big bricks down there, along with a cinder block, and what looks to be a chunk of concrete the size of one of the twins' carseats. So I spent most of the afternoon wedging my hand into the two-inch opening of the damper, tying (one-handed, mind you!) a rope around one brick at a time, going up to the roof, pulling the brick up very carefully, dropping the rope back down, and repeating the process. And all the while, inhaling, eating, and otherwise ingesting a good diet of soot and ash. You should have seen my ears after I showered and then cleaned them with a Q-tip.

After a long eon of such labor, I was too tired and sore and soot-choked to continue, so the project will have to conclude next weekend (if it doesn't rain or snow). The culmination of such effort can best be expressed in a photo. And there's no better photo than this one to exhibit the pathos and suffering of the Possum Cough situation:

I look like one of those Welsh coal miners after a cave-in. That reminds me...How Green Was My Valley was on the other day, and we taped it. If you've never seen it, you've never cried over a movie.

So, then....I cleaned up and felt somewhat better. MeeMaw observed that George Jones was playing in Bristol. While we would have loved to have attended, the combined facts that (a) ol' George can barely remember his own lyrics after all those years of countrified Keith Richards behavior, and (b) we would have had to sell Butternut, Purrl, and at least two dining room chairs to get enough money to pay the outrageous ticket prices.

So instead, I took MeeMaw to supper at the Campus Drive-In (freshest burgers you'll ever eat, plus you get to hear the sixty year-old waitress trade insults with a seventy year-old farmer in one of the booths). Then we went hillbillyin'. I took her to the historic Carter Family Fold in Hiltons, which is the honest, real-life, no foolin' birthplace of country music. It's where June Carter Cash was born, and where Mother Maybelle Carter revolutionized old-timey music with her guitar technique. A very neat place.

We had heard that The Carter Fold is a great way to spend an evening, but we weren't sure what to expect. We got there, parked (waaaaaaay down the road, since it was packed), walked in, and found a pile of cushions in case you need something to pad your fanny on the wooden seats. We paid our five dollars and looked around. The Carter Fold is a cavernous covered venue that I would estimate holds about 1000 people when full. There were probably 850-900 there last night. At any rate, it has a sloping tin roof, ceiling fans, and comfortable wooden theatre chairs. On the sides are roll-up windows (seems that during the warm weather, they open the windows for a nice cross-draft). And down front, the stage (with great antique church pews and memorabilia from the Carter Fold history) and a dance floor.

The show started right on time at 7:30. The featured band was a local group called Fescue. These boys were good. Flawless players, very energetic, very sincere, nothing showy or stagey about them. They also had a little feller of about three or four years of age onstage with them, wearing a mandolin like a big ol' dreadnaught guitar, just a-strummin' away. The dance floor was filled during every number with cloggers, their metal shoe-clogs creating a wonderful tapping din. They were enthusiastic and entirely un-selfconcious. MeeMaw and I are making plans to take clogging lessons so we can go back and dance there at the Fold. Apparently, it's a regular thing for lots of locals. Their weekend leisure is to go pay five bucks at the Carter Fold and dance for hours. We had a big time watching the dancers, including some who were very skilled. There was even a little gent,who must have been about 70 years old, who put a bottle of water on his head and clogged all over the place without disturbing the bottle. Now that's Southern.

The band played for one hour straight, back to back songs, before they took their first break. The dancers danced every number except the gospel songs. The one we enjoyed best was called White Oak on the Hill, and it was written by none other than Ralph Stanley. What we liked (besides the plaintive, pretty tune) was that it was written about the area in which Possum Cough sits. The lyrics mention the Clinch Mountains. Here are the lyrics:

White Oak on the Hill
by Ralph Stanley (1987)

There's a white oak on the hill at my old Clinch Mountain Home
That stands straight and true on that windy spur alone
And when the cold wind blows, its roots they bend and moan
But when the storm has passed, it straightens up and goes on

Chorus-
Lord, let me be like that white oak on the hill
And help me to live in your almighty will
Help me on my journey, Lord to travel on my own
And give me the strength to straighten up and go on

You know the troubles of this life they sometimes get me down
And when I look for my friends they're not always around
But the good Lord seems to say "Son, get up and do my will
And always remember that old white oak on the hill."

Chorus
Instrumental break
Chorus - then repeat last line twice

And here's a clip of Fescue performing the song (not at last night's performance).



Here's the old folks, enjoyin' the playin' and the singin'...

A picture of Fescue, rattling the rafters...

And a few of the cloggers going at it....

Today at church, I happened to mention last night's Carter Fold outing. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that our own Carolyn Carter and Perry Carter (elderly brother and sister) are relatives of June Carter Cash and the whole Carter clan. We keep forgetting how small the world is here in SW Virginia.

Today has been balmy and pleasant, a good break from the ice and blast of last week. It's had an effect on the local fauna, too. Without going into too much detail, let me just say that we have confirmed that our barn cat Biscuit is indeed a male, and that Frito is indeed a female, and that we will likely have a litter of barn kittens before spring. Perhaps they will take a liking to Viking hats.

I'll leave y'all with two songs. One is a gorgeous Irish song - Tá Mé i Mo Shuí (Cór Thaobh a' Leithid) that sounds like mix between Orthodox chant and southern shape-note (sacred harp) singing.

And the other is Tom Petty's melancholy Southern Accent. Petty wrote this song for his mother, and my eyes fill with tears whenever I hear it, thinking of my own mother's tender care for me and her fierce pride in being a Rebel daughter.

I'm off to pray up in the woods. Rest well, loved ones.