This was a DVD which was truly seredipitous. In working on my netflix account, I read about it, paid it little attention but selected it. In the course of time, it showed up to be watched. The subtitle is, "An American Road experience." In eccense it is as though suddenly, these two recent college graduates get up one morning and say, "wow, let's do a documentary on what it means to be an American." Wow, a great idea. They gather up a camera which they might have already owned and develop a plan of calling various peeople, famous and infamous and start working the phones. Although we don't know the nitty gritty of how it all comes together, it does and we are with them on their trip.
It is a little on the amateauirish side which is part of its charm. And, following them through the many interviews is a process in itself, and very interesting. For one thing, they have lots of chuzpah. I can't remember all they interview but some of the more memoriable ones are George Stephanolis or at least the attempt, Willy Nelson, Studs Terkal (learned that he has never driven a car) and Hunter Thompson who was obnoxious and full of himself. And, I thought when he was being that way: "Well Hunter, guess at some point, you'll make the decision to hit the road." Since the film was made in 1997, before 9-11 which changed our world forever, this has to be put in that perspective. And, when it is, very, very interesting.
They tried to interview Ralph Reed, the supposedly guru of the right wing. He woudln't see them and now of course, who would want to see him, based on his history. My favorite interview was Willy Nelson with maybe Robert Redford being close behind. What struck me about both of these superstars is that they were willing to make themselves available, very, very human and enjoyed talking about the American Dream. I was very moved.
I liked the way they let the interviewee speak and just give their views of what actually was "the American Dream." And, having seen Robert Redford's Lions and Lambs, his views have not changed and he must have had satisfaction about that fact. Two parachutes. +
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
SPEAKING OF AUNT GERTIE
Chapter 5
SPEAKING OF AUNT GERTIE
Aunt Gertie was this wonderful Aunt to die for in a way. To say that she provided many laughs is like saying the sun is rising. One among many stories of Aunt Gertie came from my former sister-in-law who is still my good friend. It illustrates what makes her so special. Her account went something like this, “I went with your mom, Aunt Gertie and a few other family members to a fishing cabin on a river down near the beach--can't remember exactly where! It was a screened in cabin—no bathroom or running water, cots for beds. It was so HOT. Aunt Gertie cut her dress off to above her knees and used the scrap as a fabric "crotch" She pinned it up.back and front. I had never seen anyone do such a thing but it seemed to work. She had to go to the "woods" to find a spot to use as an outhouse. She unhooked the "crotch" panel and squatted. Something bit her on the fanny, scared her to death. She came screaming back through the woods with the crotch panel flying in the breeze, jumped a ditch, said a snake bit her. It really didn't, just a stick that had scratched her. We were all just howling with laughter! This is what made her special as no one laughed harder than Gertie at herself.
Her presence would fill a house, not only because of her girth but with laugher and merry making constantly. She, like all my Mom’s sisters, were great cooks. Aunt Gertie’s claim to fame were her biscuits. They were fantastic and like her, large.
Long before the term came into being, she lived life large. Her church activities were also somewhat legend. The thing that set her apart and it was said that she was many a preacher’s designated attender. She could begin shouting in a flash. The thing that set Penacostal Churches apart was what they termed "shouting." The offical term is glossolia, but for outsiders it was extreme emotionalism. I was always amazed that it seemed to begin and end on cue. Aunt Gertie could be singing, listening to the sermon, praying or staring out the window and without warning, she would break into shouting and convulsing, speaking in this language that might possibly sound gibberish to others and yet seemed to have this order to it. She could be slain in the spirit which encompassed all of the above: shouting, speaking in tongues, raising her arms and flailing and eventually falling onto the floor. This could happen in a moment’s time without warning and end just as abruptly. She was something because of her size. There is no proper way to describe what might seem a minor earthquake; several women, most topping 300 pounds, jumping and shouting with the the agility of a ballet dancer. I was always aghast.
As a young boy at Grandpa’s Church, the first time it happened, I was scared out of my wits but soon it became a time of wondering what was going to trigger it. Hard to say, sometimes a great hymn, then a fervent prayer, a powerful sermon, or nothing; the spirit seemed to reside on Aunt Gertie constantly. What also was equally amazing is the fact that this was never discussed or talked about—why did this happened? What triggers it?—give us some insight. Nobody was ever asking those questions. I was constantly blown away.
I can’t remember much about Aunt Gertie’s family and will have to leave that to someone else. She was a presence in our lives that was pervasive. She would ask me how I was doing and in the next breath, launch into a litany of concerns of the world. And, then quickly without missing a breath, come right back to me and my slackness in school.
Her unusual grasp of world events was also impressive; no doubt in her mind that the Russians putting up Sputnik changed the course of the world. After all, she said, “it was predicted in the Bible.” She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Russians or at least one of them, was the Price of Darkness and possibly somehow related to the mark of the beast But, she was entirely sure that most probably Hitler was the Prince of Darkness. He's not Russian, "well, there could be more than one" she would say.
She didn’t believe in reincarnated but thought that maybe she or one of her sisters might have been Joan of Arc in another life. If it wasn't Joan, it was probably some other royalty. She said it like she believed it. And, more likely than not, she would leave us boys with our mouths hanging open. Aunt Gertie had this unusual knack of zeroing in on some subject we were studying in school or knew about to make her point.
Her craziest idea was that she said we needed a woman to run the country, given the fact that men couldn’t keep their minds off carnal things. We didn’t know what she meant. She didn’t trust the government, however, and thought that we were still suffering from the Civil war, which should never have been fought anyway she said. George, in particular, gave us commentary once she departed that was meant to debunk her views.
Aunt Gertie didn’t like her name and kept trying to get everybody to call her Gertrude, thought it had a regal sound. But, since nobody ever did, she preferred, Auntie. She secretly admired Eleanor Roosevelt but thought that she should have stayed home more but would always allow as how if she’d stayed home, she could not have accomplished as much.
Her hero was FDR and thought that our town should erect a statue in his honor or better still, dedicate a train car to him and never let it leave the station and people could go in and visit all the time.
Aunt Gertie was without a doubt, a renaissance woman, born way too early. One area that stood out above all else was her attitude about race relations. She thought it absolutely awful that we were still segregated this long after the civil war. When someone tried to call it the War Between the States, which most Southerners did, she corrected them on the spot. You better believe that Lonny never showed up when Aunt Gertie was around. Her retort was that it was a useless war fought to keep the status quo and nothing in life ever remained the same. I would listen to her with an intent that bordered on a trance. Most of the time she was talking about such issues when nobody was listening. Often when she began, people would walk away but she didn’t miss a beat. Sometimes she would look at me and say, “Boy, you get that?”
Nobody seems to to remember one thing for which only one brother claims is true. It was in fact, her most outrageous act and for which she was most proud. It occurred in Irwin, the little town where she lived for a time. Long before civil rights became a popular cause, she took her best friend, a black woman, about her age (which we don't know) to the sandwich shop and sat with her at the counter. As the story goes, someone called the one policeman of the town but when he found out it was Gertie refused to come. I never did find out all the repercussions of it but my Mom told her that she was crazy and that she was making all of us the laughing stock of the community. If Aunt Gertie minded, it never showed. As I remember, our Dad was her biggest ally, always laughing and saying that if it wasn’t for Gertrude, this place would be boring beyond all tolerance. “We ought to erect a statue to Gertie” he was fond of saying.
SPEAKING OF AUNT GERTIE
Aunt Gertie was this wonderful Aunt to die for in a way. To say that she provided many laughs is like saying the sun is rising. One among many stories of Aunt Gertie came from my former sister-in-law who is still my good friend. It illustrates what makes her so special. Her account went something like this, “I went with your mom, Aunt Gertie and a few other family members to a fishing cabin on a river down near the beach--can't remember exactly where! It was a screened in cabin—no bathroom or running water, cots for beds. It was so HOT. Aunt Gertie cut her dress off to above her knees and used the scrap as a fabric "crotch" She pinned it up.back and front. I had never seen anyone do such a thing but it seemed to work. She had to go to the "woods" to find a spot to use as an outhouse. She unhooked the "crotch" panel and squatted. Something bit her on the fanny, scared her to death. She came screaming back through the woods with the crotch panel flying in the breeze, jumped a ditch, said a snake bit her. It really didn't, just a stick that had scratched her. We were all just howling with laughter! This is what made her special as no one laughed harder than Gertie at herself.
Her presence would fill a house, not only because of her girth but with laugher and merry making constantly. She, like all my Mom’s sisters, were great cooks. Aunt Gertie’s claim to fame were her biscuits. They were fantastic and like her, large.
Long before the term came into being, she lived life large. Her church activities were also somewhat legend. The thing that set her apart and it was said that she was many a preacher’s designated attender. She could begin shouting in a flash. The thing that set Penacostal Churches apart was what they termed "shouting." The offical term is glossolia, but for outsiders it was extreme emotionalism. I was always amazed that it seemed to begin and end on cue. Aunt Gertie could be singing, listening to the sermon, praying or staring out the window and without warning, she would break into shouting and convulsing, speaking in this language that might possibly sound gibberish to others and yet seemed to have this order to it. She could be slain in the spirit which encompassed all of the above: shouting, speaking in tongues, raising her arms and flailing and eventually falling onto the floor. This could happen in a moment’s time without warning and end just as abruptly. She was something because of her size. There is no proper way to describe what might seem a minor earthquake; several women, most topping 300 pounds, jumping and shouting with the the agility of a ballet dancer. I was always aghast.
As a young boy at Grandpa’s Church, the first time it happened, I was scared out of my wits but soon it became a time of wondering what was going to trigger it. Hard to say, sometimes a great hymn, then a fervent prayer, a powerful sermon, or nothing; the spirit seemed to reside on Aunt Gertie constantly. What also was equally amazing is the fact that this was never discussed or talked about—why did this happened? What triggers it?—give us some insight. Nobody was ever asking those questions. I was constantly blown away.
I can’t remember much about Aunt Gertie’s family and will have to leave that to someone else. She was a presence in our lives that was pervasive. She would ask me how I was doing and in the next breath, launch into a litany of concerns of the world. And, then quickly without missing a breath, come right back to me and my slackness in school.
Her unusual grasp of world events was also impressive; no doubt in her mind that the Russians putting up Sputnik changed the course of the world. After all, she said, “it was predicted in the Bible.” She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Russians or at least one of them, was the Price of Darkness and possibly somehow related to the mark of the beast But, she was entirely sure that most probably Hitler was the Prince of Darkness. He's not Russian, "well, there could be more than one" she would say.
She didn’t believe in reincarnated but thought that maybe she or one of her sisters might have been Joan of Arc in another life. If it wasn't Joan, it was probably some other royalty. She said it like she believed it. And, more likely than not, she would leave us boys with our mouths hanging open. Aunt Gertie had this unusual knack of zeroing in on some subject we were studying in school or knew about to make her point.
Her craziest idea was that she said we needed a woman to run the country, given the fact that men couldn’t keep their minds off carnal things. We didn’t know what she meant. She didn’t trust the government, however, and thought that we were still suffering from the Civil war, which should never have been fought anyway she said. George, in particular, gave us commentary once she departed that was meant to debunk her views.
Aunt Gertie didn’t like her name and kept trying to get everybody to call her Gertrude, thought it had a regal sound. But, since nobody ever did, she preferred, Auntie. She secretly admired Eleanor Roosevelt but thought that she should have stayed home more but would always allow as how if she’d stayed home, she could not have accomplished as much.
Her hero was FDR and thought that our town should erect a statue in his honor or better still, dedicate a train car to him and never let it leave the station and people could go in and visit all the time.
Aunt Gertie was without a doubt, a renaissance woman, born way too early. One area that stood out above all else was her attitude about race relations. She thought it absolutely awful that we were still segregated this long after the civil war. When someone tried to call it the War Between the States, which most Southerners did, she corrected them on the spot. You better believe that Lonny never showed up when Aunt Gertie was around. Her retort was that it was a useless war fought to keep the status quo and nothing in life ever remained the same. I would listen to her with an intent that bordered on a trance. Most of the time she was talking about such issues when nobody was listening. Often when she began, people would walk away but she didn’t miss a beat. Sometimes she would look at me and say, “Boy, you get that?”
Nobody seems to to remember one thing for which only one brother claims is true. It was in fact, her most outrageous act and for which she was most proud. It occurred in Irwin, the little town where she lived for a time. Long before civil rights became a popular cause, she took her best friend, a black woman, about her age (which we don't know) to the sandwich shop and sat with her at the counter. As the story goes, someone called the one policeman of the town but when he found out it was Gertie refused to come. I never did find out all the repercussions of it but my Mom told her that she was crazy and that she was making all of us the laughing stock of the community. If Aunt Gertie minded, it never showed. As I remember, our Dad was her biggest ally, always laughing and saying that if it wasn’t for Gertrude, this place would be boring beyond all tolerance. “We ought to erect a statue to Gertie” he was fond of saying.
Monday, February 4, 2008
AN AMERICAN EXPERIENCE
An American Experience is apparently a PBS programing regular. I've watched several of their shows, i. e., one recently about some guy who was the guru for lobotomies before they were deemed torture. Regardless, bringing to the public, even if a few of us are interested, gets a bigtime thanks from me.
I just watched Daughter of Danang; fascinating documentary and makes so much come alive from my Vietnam experience. An aside, in our present war, in Iraq for example, the contact, relatively speaking, with the female Iraqi population is limited. In Vietnam, not so--many Amerasian children were the result of a laison between an American GI and Vietnamese woman. And, in fact, this is the basic gist of this story which is many sided and very moving. It won the Sundance Award for best documentary in 2002. It is one of those stories that started out with you thinking it was going one way and almost predictable--a Vietnamese kids brought to America during the baby lift, grows up in America but has need to go back and find her Mother--warm reunion and discovers the complete story and feels good initially.
DIDN'T HAPPEN! Well, as it turned out, she ran head on into cultural issues with her Vietnamese Mother and the family that she left behind. And, as often happens with Asian cultures, in particular: much revolved around money. And, the very sweet Amerasian child who had grown into a beautiful American, suddenly was confronted with an enormous cultural divide. She is now married to a career Navy guy, two little girls. Thrown into this mix is her adoptive Mom, somewhat of a Cruella DeVille. The adoptive Mom, from the deep South, gets hooked into some sort of selfish modality, not all that well explained or maybe I was just zoned out. And, I think ignorance, lack of education, and basic perception, i. e., why would she want to see her birth mother when I have done all this for her? Very sad, and, this Cruella DeVille type threw the youngster out of her home at an early age. That part of the story was not explored very much but the child remained a part of the Grandma's family. Thank the Lord for Grandmas.
Another area that didn't see much action was a search for the father. Thinking in that direction brought back all these memories. See link. Good, DVD. Rent it if you want a little different take on one of the many fall outs of Vietnam. 2 Parachues.
I just watched Daughter of Danang; fascinating documentary and makes so much come alive from my Vietnam experience. An aside, in our present war, in Iraq for example, the contact, relatively speaking, with the female Iraqi population is limited. In Vietnam, not so--many Amerasian children were the result of a laison between an American GI and Vietnamese woman. And, in fact, this is the basic gist of this story which is many sided and very moving. It won the Sundance Award for best documentary in 2002. It is one of those stories that started out with you thinking it was going one way and almost predictable--a Vietnamese kids brought to America during the baby lift, grows up in America but has need to go back and find her Mother--warm reunion and discovers the complete story and feels good initially.
DIDN'T HAPPEN! Well, as it turned out, she ran head on into cultural issues with her Vietnamese Mother and the family that she left behind. And, as often happens with Asian cultures, in particular: much revolved around money. And, the very sweet Amerasian child who had grown into a beautiful American, suddenly was confronted with an enormous cultural divide. She is now married to a career Navy guy, two little girls. Thrown into this mix is her adoptive Mom, somewhat of a Cruella DeVille. The adoptive Mom, from the deep South, gets hooked into some sort of selfish modality, not all that well explained or maybe I was just zoned out. And, I think ignorance, lack of education, and basic perception, i. e., why would she want to see her birth mother when I have done all this for her? Very sad, and, this Cruella DeVille type threw the youngster out of her home at an early age. That part of the story was not explored very much but the child remained a part of the Grandma's family. Thank the Lord for Grandmas.
Another area that didn't see much action was a search for the father. Thinking in that direction brought back all these memories. See link. Good, DVD. Rent it if you want a little different take on one of the many fall outs of Vietnam. 2 Parachues.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
WHAT WE DID BEFORE TV
Chapter 4
God's Nefarious Characters
Two of our neighbors were Bubba Stickland and Lonny Thornton. They showed up at our house most every night during the week. The routine was pretty simple, they immediately got a biscuit from the cupboard, stuck a finger in it, making an opening and poured in molassas. Mostly without comment but sometimes, "Bertie, love your biscuits or "looks like Gertie has been here." And, she had, her biscuits were about three the size of Mom's. We use to laugh, Aunt Gertie's biscuit could last a week.
Mostly, Lonny and Bubba sat around and talked about the civil war. Sorry, not the civil war but the War Between The States or yankee aggression or how only the southerners were fighting for their honor. And, rightly so, "as North Carolina sacrificed more to the cause than any other state" Bubba would hardily state.
To say that the jargon threw in a fair bit of racism would be an understatement. It wasn’t so much tilted toward blacks rather it was just a topic of conversation although I will have to admit that no blacks were invited to these paragons of virtue prognostications.
Talking about the War Between The States seemed only right in a way. Half of modern day southerners were descendents of those who fought and one in four southern men died in the war. Lonny claimed that his great great grand Dad died and he was a direct descendent. Bubba also said he was definitely a direct descendent. Nobody could prove otherwise but it didn’t matter.
It had always been a peculiar thing that the war seemed to remain a mainstay for southerners but not for northerners until one night it was explained by Lonny. The North before and after the war started accepting all these foreigners in like Irishmen and Africans--not so many Yankees died in the war because the foreigners took up the slack anyway and were on the front lines. Trying to suggest that his reasoning seemed a little sketchy and shaky never kind of got through to him. We had heard it maybe a hundred times, anyway.
The character that we remembered the most was Royston Wallace, a local legend and some said could be the cornerstone for the book, Guiness Book of World Record. Royston could eat the equivalent amount of food at one setting that would do a family for a week. It is said that he ate 100 hot dogs at one time and could polish off dozens of pies at one setting. When he came to visit, you could hear Mom moan for a mile away. She would never think of not asking Royston did he want something to eat. He would lower his eyes and almost in a whisper say, "I think I could eat a little, Miss Bertie."
Mom was one smart cookie, however. She saved every bit of food not eaten and stockpiled it for Royston's visit. And when she set it before him, it was not just a parcel of left overs of chicken, steak, veggies but it was chicken pie or steak deluxe, she should have had a TV show. What she put out covered the entire table. We just gaped as we watched him devour it. About an hour later, she would say, "Royston, what about dessert?" Once he ate an entire Japenese fruit cake. We don't know why it was called a Japenese fruit cake, but it was something to behold: big, with about ten layers, covered in coconut, nuts, and an assortment of decorations. I don't know why she made this for Royston but she did. Maybe a test. He ate the entire cake which normally would feed us for weeks.
I don't know what happened to Royston but someone said that he died of old age, whatever that is but legendary. One of the stories going around had to do with after his death, in an autopsy, it was arevealed he actually had two stomachs. I don't know but to us kids, watching Royston was a phenomenon.
Another character than made quite an impact on us was a black man called Jimmy Sills. Dad picked him up hitchhiking and he stayed with us three months. Now, how could that be in the racist South. I don't really know other than it happened. Jimmy could sing like you cannot imagine. Dad bought him a guitar that he played from the moment he picked it up. We didn't know enough to asked how he knew or had learned but he did. And, he could entertain us for hours. One day he simply left. I saw him talking to Dad out by the road. His old valiese sat by him. Dad went into the house and brought out his guitar, handed it to him, shook his hand and he just left. We were all sad but had somewhat gotten use to seeing various ones come and go. I think I've seen Jimmy on TV a few times. His looks changed but I think it was him. If he didn't hit it big, it surely wasn't because he didn't have talent.
God's Nefarious Characters
Two of our neighbors were Bubba Stickland and Lonny Thornton. They showed up at our house most every night during the week. The routine was pretty simple, they immediately got a biscuit from the cupboard, stuck a finger in it, making an opening and poured in molassas. Mostly without comment but sometimes, "Bertie, love your biscuits or "looks like Gertie has been here." And, she had, her biscuits were about three the size of Mom's. We use to laugh, Aunt Gertie's biscuit could last a week.
Mostly, Lonny and Bubba sat around and talked about the civil war. Sorry, not the civil war but the War Between The States or yankee aggression or how only the southerners were fighting for their honor. And, rightly so, "as North Carolina sacrificed more to the cause than any other state" Bubba would hardily state.
To say that the jargon threw in a fair bit of racism would be an understatement. It wasn’t so much tilted toward blacks rather it was just a topic of conversation although I will have to admit that no blacks were invited to these paragons of virtue prognostications.
Talking about the War Between The States seemed only right in a way. Half of modern day southerners were descendents of those who fought and one in four southern men died in the war. Lonny claimed that his great great grand Dad died and he was a direct descendent. Bubba also said he was definitely a direct descendent. Nobody could prove otherwise but it didn’t matter.
It had always been a peculiar thing that the war seemed to remain a mainstay for southerners but not for northerners until one night it was explained by Lonny. The North before and after the war started accepting all these foreigners in like Irishmen and Africans--not so many Yankees died in the war because the foreigners took up the slack anyway and were on the front lines. Trying to suggest that his reasoning seemed a little sketchy and shaky never kind of got through to him. We had heard it maybe a hundred times, anyway.
The character that we remembered the most was Royston Wallace, a local legend and some said could be the cornerstone for the book, Guiness Book of World Record. Royston could eat the equivalent amount of food at one setting that would do a family for a week. It is said that he ate 100 hot dogs at one time and could polish off dozens of pies at one setting. When he came to visit, you could hear Mom moan for a mile away. She would never think of not asking Royston did he want something to eat. He would lower his eyes and almost in a whisper say, "I think I could eat a little, Miss Bertie."
Mom was one smart cookie, however. She saved every bit of food not eaten and stockpiled it for Royston's visit. And when she set it before him, it was not just a parcel of left overs of chicken, steak, veggies but it was chicken pie or steak deluxe, she should have had a TV show. What she put out covered the entire table. We just gaped as we watched him devour it. About an hour later, she would say, "Royston, what about dessert?" Once he ate an entire Japenese fruit cake. We don't know why it was called a Japenese fruit cake, but it was something to behold: big, with about ten layers, covered in coconut, nuts, and an assortment of decorations. I don't know why she made this for Royston but she did. Maybe a test. He ate the entire cake which normally would feed us for weeks.
I don't know what happened to Royston but someone said that he died of old age, whatever that is but legendary. One of the stories going around had to do with after his death, in an autopsy, it was arevealed he actually had two stomachs. I don't know but to us kids, watching Royston was a phenomenon.
Another character than made quite an impact on us was a black man called Jimmy Sills. Dad picked him up hitchhiking and he stayed with us three months. Now, how could that be in the racist South. I don't really know other than it happened. Jimmy could sing like you cannot imagine. Dad bought him a guitar that he played from the moment he picked it up. We didn't know enough to asked how he knew or had learned but he did. And, he could entertain us for hours. One day he simply left. I saw him talking to Dad out by the road. His old valiese sat by him. Dad went into the house and brought out his guitar, handed it to him, shook his hand and he just left. We were all sad but had somewhat gotten use to seeing various ones come and go. I think I've seen Jimmy on TV a few times. His looks changed but I think it was him. If he didn't hit it big, it surely wasn't because he didn't have talent.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
A POWERFUL WOMAN
Chapter 3
ARE YOU HUNGRY, BOY?
You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge the other, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgment do the same things. Romans 2:1
When I think of our growing up years, looking at our Mom was shrouded a little in mystery. She didn't like "to talk outside the family." I don't know exactly what that means and to say she was incredibly private is way beyond understatement.
Mom grew up knowing hard work. It was a part of life. She never talked lots about her early life but there was no doubt that she was absolutely devoted to her Mother. Her Mother was teacher, philosopher and above all, long suffering.
In my Grandma's household, all the women were in the kitchen lots. It was there they were taught those mysteries of preparing food and looking after a household.
So much of life revolved around eating. Since we were farmers, food was plentiful. I think that Mom developed a belief about food and being together as she made it central to our existence. We had these rules. Always on Sunday, there was a formal meal and most evenings, everybody sat down at the table. Mom was the last one seated. And, once she sat down, nobody was allowed to get up. If something wasn't on the table, then you did without it. Woe be until any of us to asked for something. We had to have our napkin, cloth, no less, in our laps and we did not talk with our mouths full of food. Where did she get these rules?
When she wanted to zap you, it was God that you were disappointing. She invented the concept of "natives starving in Africa and look at all this you're leaving on your plate.”
I can never remember not always having food around and although it was basic—fatback meat, butter beans, white ones of course, fried cornbread, it was always there.
Poverty is a relative thing, I think: we were poor and the joke was, "The first one up is the best one dressed." But, we always had plenty to eat. And what never ceased to amaze me was that when she put out a meal it appeared effortless and could feed an Army post. The idea that there would be just one meat, forget it—three or four, chicken, steak, fatback, things that might appear to be delicacies to others, especially today but then they were simply the bill of faire. This was soul food, long before it became popular and an ethnic identity.
Food always represented an act that would heal the greatest hurt, establish the greatest control over the situation, regardless of how grave the problem might be. The question always was, "are you hungry?" Well, a little. The next thing you knew, materializing right before your eyes—a complete meal. In some ways, it might be compared to asking for a tomato sandwich in some other household. Mom whipped it up with an effortless quickness that would make a short order cook envious.
As for the track that she could stop you in with a look, to go with that was an astute perception of the world that few had in my view. Even as a youngster, I can remember thinking, how did she know that? I don’t remember ever seeing her read although there were always newspapers around and my Dad seemed to be pouring over something constantly. Maybe they were discussing all of this between intimacies, I don’t know but she knew things.
Later on, it was TV. She seemed to be watching it constantly. When I was in college, she would call me up and chew me out for not coming home more often. I would load in my old 49 Ford and get home and then after greeting and eating, she was back watching her soaps. Early on, as I was half listening to her talk about people, I would wonder, “Who are these folks?” Later on, I would discover that she was talking about the TV family as though she was intimately involved with them. And, then when friends appeared, they discussed the latest dilemmas of the Soap characters.
I don’t know what her politics were but do remember that she watched Jesse Helms religiously when he did the news. He was constantly running for office when he wasn’t. When he finally did, she got out of her sick bed to vote for him. It would be fascinating for her to be alive today with all the media and politics. We would give anything to know her thoughts.
Hard work was the order of the day. We would get up before dawn, Mom would make sure we ate a hearty breakfast and out of there for the fields. We might or might not come back for lunch, more likely no. If we ate at all in the fields, it was a country ham sandwiched between one of Mom's great biscuits, along with sweet ice tea in a mason jar. When we all piled in at suppertime, it was a table ready for a group of hungry farmers. Much of these memories are surmised as my real work in the fields came after Raz and Corb were gone. Raz to the war and Corb to a real job. Farming for the family was never considered a real job—it was what you did. If you needed to earn money, you went to work somewhere else: the mill, a store, anywhere that one could be paid the cold cash.
Leaving home was always a matter of great trauma to Mom. It seemed to be a little piece of her disappearing. When I went off to war, she lost that stoicism and was constantly dabing her eyes. She and my sister would seem to be up and down constantly to collect themselves.
We never forfeited our places at the table. When we came back, even though nothing had changed and everything had changed, our place was preserved.
Mom as a role model was simply the best even if we can only see her through our very biased view. She was fiercely loyal to her family, sometimes maybe when she should have been more pragmatic. Our Mom was the haven of rest in any storm.
She was powerful in all kinds of ways. My Mom ruled, she knew about money, where life was and how it all stood in relations to all other things. I’ve often wondered, where she would be if she had been formally educated and had even the smallest of opportunity. She was educated in the school of hard knocks and her education far exceeded that which she might have ever gotten from a mere institution.
ARE YOU HUNGRY, BOY?
You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge the other, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgment do the same things. Romans 2:1
When I think of our growing up years, looking at our Mom was shrouded a little in mystery. She didn't like "to talk outside the family." I don't know exactly what that means and to say she was incredibly private is way beyond understatement.
Mom grew up knowing hard work. It was a part of life. She never talked lots about her early life but there was no doubt that she was absolutely devoted to her Mother. Her Mother was teacher, philosopher and above all, long suffering.
In my Grandma's household, all the women were in the kitchen lots. It was there they were taught those mysteries of preparing food and looking after a household.
So much of life revolved around eating. Since we were farmers, food was plentiful. I think that Mom developed a belief about food and being together as she made it central to our existence. We had these rules. Always on Sunday, there was a formal meal and most evenings, everybody sat down at the table. Mom was the last one seated. And, once she sat down, nobody was allowed to get up. If something wasn't on the table, then you did without it. Woe be until any of us to asked for something. We had to have our napkin, cloth, no less, in our laps and we did not talk with our mouths full of food. Where did she get these rules?
When she wanted to zap you, it was God that you were disappointing. She invented the concept of "natives starving in Africa and look at all this you're leaving on your plate.”
I can never remember not always having food around and although it was basic—fatback meat, butter beans, white ones of course, fried cornbread, it was always there.
Poverty is a relative thing, I think: we were poor and the joke was, "The first one up is the best one dressed." But, we always had plenty to eat. And what never ceased to amaze me was that when she put out a meal it appeared effortless and could feed an Army post. The idea that there would be just one meat, forget it—three or four, chicken, steak, fatback, things that might appear to be delicacies to others, especially today but then they were simply the bill of faire. This was soul food, long before it became popular and an ethnic identity.
Food always represented an act that would heal the greatest hurt, establish the greatest control over the situation, regardless of how grave the problem might be. The question always was, "are you hungry?" Well, a little. The next thing you knew, materializing right before your eyes—a complete meal. In some ways, it might be compared to asking for a tomato sandwich in some other household. Mom whipped it up with an effortless quickness that would make a short order cook envious.
As for the track that she could stop you in with a look, to go with that was an astute perception of the world that few had in my view. Even as a youngster, I can remember thinking, how did she know that? I don’t remember ever seeing her read although there were always newspapers around and my Dad seemed to be pouring over something constantly. Maybe they were discussing all of this between intimacies, I don’t know but she knew things.
Later on, it was TV. She seemed to be watching it constantly. When I was in college, she would call me up and chew me out for not coming home more often. I would load in my old 49 Ford and get home and then after greeting and eating, she was back watching her soaps. Early on, as I was half listening to her talk about people, I would wonder, “Who are these folks?” Later on, I would discover that she was talking about the TV family as though she was intimately involved with them. And, then when friends appeared, they discussed the latest dilemmas of the Soap characters.
I don’t know what her politics were but do remember that she watched Jesse Helms religiously when he did the news. He was constantly running for office when he wasn’t. When he finally did, she got out of her sick bed to vote for him. It would be fascinating for her to be alive today with all the media and politics. We would give anything to know her thoughts.
Hard work was the order of the day. We would get up before dawn, Mom would make sure we ate a hearty breakfast and out of there for the fields. We might or might not come back for lunch, more likely no. If we ate at all in the fields, it was a country ham sandwiched between one of Mom's great biscuits, along with sweet ice tea in a mason jar. When we all piled in at suppertime, it was a table ready for a group of hungry farmers. Much of these memories are surmised as my real work in the fields came after Raz and Corb were gone. Raz to the war and Corb to a real job. Farming for the family was never considered a real job—it was what you did. If you needed to earn money, you went to work somewhere else: the mill, a store, anywhere that one could be paid the cold cash.
Leaving home was always a matter of great trauma to Mom. It seemed to be a little piece of her disappearing. When I went off to war, she lost that stoicism and was constantly dabing her eyes. She and my sister would seem to be up and down constantly to collect themselves.
We never forfeited our places at the table. When we came back, even though nothing had changed and everything had changed, our place was preserved.
Mom as a role model was simply the best even if we can only see her through our very biased view. She was fiercely loyal to her family, sometimes maybe when she should have been more pragmatic. Our Mom was the haven of rest in any storm.
She was powerful in all kinds of ways. My Mom ruled, she knew about money, where life was and how it all stood in relations to all other things. I’ve often wondered, where she would be if she had been formally educated and had even the smallest of opportunity. She was educated in the school of hard knocks and her education far exceeded that which she might have ever gotten from a mere institution.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
BEING IRISH
Chapter One
LIVING TO TELL THE TALE
Therefore, my brothers, be all the more eager to make your calling and election sure. For if you do these things, you will never fall. II Peter 1:10
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
Anne Sexton
If you do not know who you were yesterday, how can you know who you are today, and who you expect to be tomorrow? Author unknown
The Autrys were a pretty populous group and the Lees even more so. There’s lots of stories about where the Autrys hailed from. Purportedly, the name Autry means powerful. Sounds good. The name has several spellings according to one of our good cuz, Mayo Bundy. There are several towns in France named Autry, one along the banks of the Reim. Other towns are Autry-les-Grey, Autry-le Chatre, Autry-sur-June, and Autreville. For our brother Corb, this is going to be way too much France.
The most popular story for the Autrys was their Irish linage with a little twist of French. The story goes that the family was in Ireland in the 1700s and then went from Ireland to France, some to England and then back to Ireland. One account says that some of the Autrys went to England and back to France as early as 1066. There is a wild story that says that one of the Autrys showed up on the Eastern coast of NC just before the war with England. In a fit of anger, he fought with an employer because of a political argument over breaking away from England. Nothing was so precious as freedom. This distant relative supposely spent the entire war leading a band of like minded individuals fighting the British. Eventually he became the leader of the NC militia.
Another batch of Autrys fled Ireland during the potato famine where the patriarch of the family had been imprisoned primarily for his political views. They can’t seem to stay out of trouble—they were Protestant in Catholic territory and constantly on the wrong side of most issues.
It is hard to know how true this is with the fact that most people we know want to be Irish, especially on March 17. But, it does make sense. The potato famine hit Ireland in the autumn of 1845. Somewhere along the way, there’s a Captain Jim Autry, not sure of what he was a Captain, but he was on the passenger list of the ship, Columbus, that sailed from Cork County, Ireland on September 7, 1849 via Liverpool, England to New York. In New York, Jim was arrested for fighting. Apparently, many of the new immigrants were forced into jobs or tightly controlled by something akin to an Irish mafia. After a vicious beating as the story goes, Jim seemed to comply and agreed to work on one of the trash collecting companies controlled by the Irish. However, sooner than later, Jim settled scores with the leader of the Irish mafia. Something dramatic happened of which we don't have a clue but some thereafter, Jim disappeared and apparently showed up on the coast of North Carolina.
In a remarkable turn of events, in late 1849, four of Jim's brothers appeared as indentured servants to work in the tobacco fields. Jim had a price on his head from New York but appears to have been feared to such a degree that he remained free. And, the idea that his brothers were indentured servants did not go over well. An indentured servant was a laborer under some sort of contract for a period of time, usually seven years, in exchange for such things as ship's passage, food, and once arrived, accommodations. Although this sounded good, it was a many faceted arrangement which more than likely favored the tobacco growers.
A major problem was that in many cases, an indentured servant would become indebted to the future employer, who would forgive the debt in exchange for an extension which could thereby continue indefinitely. The Autry brothers who were scheduled to work in the labor-intensive tobacco fields never quite fulfilled the arrangement. From what little we can determine, they either were bought out of the servanthood arrangement or were forgiven of it which is highly unlikely. A mystery but somewhere Jim Autry played a part.
One of the big problems with Irish ancestry is that it is almost all oral. Lineages often are skewed in the process—we like our Irish forefathers. It is our story and we are sticking with it.
LIVING TO TELL THE TALE
Therefore, my brothers, be all the more eager to make your calling and election sure. For if you do these things, you will never fall. II Peter 1:10
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
Anne Sexton
If you do not know who you were yesterday, how can you know who you are today, and who you expect to be tomorrow? Author unknown
The Autrys were a pretty populous group and the Lees even more so. There’s lots of stories about where the Autrys hailed from. Purportedly, the name Autry means powerful. Sounds good. The name has several spellings according to one of our good cuz, Mayo Bundy. There are several towns in France named Autry, one along the banks of the Reim. Other towns are Autry-les-Grey, Autry-le Chatre, Autry-sur-June, and Autreville. For our brother Corb, this is going to be way too much France.
The most popular story for the Autrys was their Irish linage with a little twist of French. The story goes that the family was in Ireland in the 1700s and then went from Ireland to France, some to England and then back to Ireland. One account says that some of the Autrys went to England and back to France as early as 1066. There is a wild story that says that one of the Autrys showed up on the Eastern coast of NC just before the war with England. In a fit of anger, he fought with an employer because of a political argument over breaking away from England. Nothing was so precious as freedom. This distant relative supposely spent the entire war leading a band of like minded individuals fighting the British. Eventually he became the leader of the NC militia.
Another batch of Autrys fled Ireland during the potato famine where the patriarch of the family had been imprisoned primarily for his political views. They can’t seem to stay out of trouble—they were Protestant in Catholic territory and constantly on the wrong side of most issues.
It is hard to know how true this is with the fact that most people we know want to be Irish, especially on March 17. But, it does make sense. The potato famine hit Ireland in the autumn of 1845. Somewhere along the way, there’s a Captain Jim Autry, not sure of what he was a Captain, but he was on the passenger list of the ship, Columbus, that sailed from Cork County, Ireland on September 7, 1849 via Liverpool, England to New York. In New York, Jim was arrested for fighting. Apparently, many of the new immigrants were forced into jobs or tightly controlled by something akin to an Irish mafia. After a vicious beating as the story goes, Jim seemed to comply and agreed to work on one of the trash collecting companies controlled by the Irish. However, sooner than later, Jim settled scores with the leader of the Irish mafia. Something dramatic happened of which we don't have a clue but some thereafter, Jim disappeared and apparently showed up on the coast of North Carolina.
In a remarkable turn of events, in late 1849, four of Jim's brothers appeared as indentured servants to work in the tobacco fields. Jim had a price on his head from New York but appears to have been feared to such a degree that he remained free. And, the idea that his brothers were indentured servants did not go over well. An indentured servant was a laborer under some sort of contract for a period of time, usually seven years, in exchange for such things as ship's passage, food, and once arrived, accommodations. Although this sounded good, it was a many faceted arrangement which more than likely favored the tobacco growers.
A major problem was that in many cases, an indentured servant would become indebted to the future employer, who would forgive the debt in exchange for an extension which could thereby continue indefinitely. The Autry brothers who were scheduled to work in the labor-intensive tobacco fields never quite fulfilled the arrangement. From what little we can determine, they either were bought out of the servanthood arrangement or were forgiven of it which is highly unlikely. A mystery but somewhere Jim Autry played a part.
One of the big problems with Irish ancestry is that it is almost all oral. Lineages often are skewed in the process—we like our Irish forefathers. It is our story and we are sticking with it.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Yesteryear's Tales
INTRODUCTION
History is mainly lived by the unknown and on more occasions than we would like to admit, the unknown in our own history. But, some things and parts of our stories are known to us, those who love them, possess their DNA, their history.
Unfortunately, history moves forward on a written record, those who might have left something. For our family, the record is pretty scant, make that like almost non existent. Our family left very little in terms of the written word. Why is simply an unanswerable question. Mostly, it had to do with the survival mode they were in. With six kids, attempting to eek out an existent on a farm, not even their own, there was no time for cogitating one’s navel. Survive is the mentality of the day.
It is mostly memory and memory from those left behind and in the peculiar way they can remember. It is someone like us asking the questions, attempting to figure it out--the way we lived our lives, if you will.
A memoir is really about an experience, in some wonderful way, putting on paper memory, interspersed with not a little speculation but just as meaningful. Part of the real difficulty is the question always: is what we are saying the truth, our opinion, just giving the facts, What! This is very hard.
Someone has said and I surely don’t know who, all writing is invention. Meaning I guess that it came out of someone’s head. What we have is some raw material and we’re trying to tell a story. Everybody has a story. Our folks surely had one and we’re trying to piece it together so we can know our story. We opt for the truth.
Our Mom, for example, was this incredibly strong woman. She didn’t dwell on such things as she was putting food on the table, nursing her kids to health and life. She didn’t think about her story. We do.
We are not out to recite actual events as much as share in our family’s experience as they saw it. And, also, it was the "times" in which they lived, which is no small thing. In our story, more than anything, there’s an experience and we’re out to capture it. If we are successful, we capture our own story. Our goal is to arrive at our family’s history which is about who we are.
Our stories are ones with meaning in capturing our little niche in one very small corner of America. It is how we lived when the mundane of the mule and horse were king and queen and mostly our world. It is also about one little segment of life which was divided by haves and have nots—the have nots made up the greater percentage of our little niche. The haves, either inherited their wealth or got it off the backs of the have nots. For us, it was a time of Landlords who owned the land and tenants who farmed it for them.
Our life situations demanded that we have a sense of humor and an indomitable will or be prepared to face a future with no more possibility than our parents.
This is our story of one family and the life they shared with their parents, brothers, sister and more kinfolks than space will permit. And, we want to tell it just so we will know. Let the journey begin.
History is mainly lived by the unknown and on more occasions than we would like to admit, the unknown in our own history. But, some things and parts of our stories are known to us, those who love them, possess their DNA, their history.
Unfortunately, history moves forward on a written record, those who might have left something. For our family, the record is pretty scant, make that like almost non existent. Our family left very little in terms of the written word. Why is simply an unanswerable question. Mostly, it had to do with the survival mode they were in. With six kids, attempting to eek out an existent on a farm, not even their own, there was no time for cogitating one’s navel. Survive is the mentality of the day.
It is mostly memory and memory from those left behind and in the peculiar way they can remember. It is someone like us asking the questions, attempting to figure it out--the way we lived our lives, if you will.
A memoir is really about an experience, in some wonderful way, putting on paper memory, interspersed with not a little speculation but just as meaningful. Part of the real difficulty is the question always: is what we are saying the truth, our opinion, just giving the facts, What! This is very hard.
Someone has said and I surely don’t know who, all writing is invention. Meaning I guess that it came out of someone’s head. What we have is some raw material and we’re trying to tell a story. Everybody has a story. Our folks surely had one and we’re trying to piece it together so we can know our story. We opt for the truth.
Our Mom, for example, was this incredibly strong woman. She didn’t dwell on such things as she was putting food on the table, nursing her kids to health and life. She didn’t think about her story. We do.
We are not out to recite actual events as much as share in our family’s experience as they saw it. And, also, it was the "times" in which they lived, which is no small thing. In our story, more than anything, there’s an experience and we’re out to capture it. If we are successful, we capture our own story. Our goal is to arrive at our family’s history which is about who we are.
Our stories are ones with meaning in capturing our little niche in one very small corner of America. It is how we lived when the mundane of the mule and horse were king and queen and mostly our world. It is also about one little segment of life which was divided by haves and have nots—the have nots made up the greater percentage of our little niche. The haves, either inherited their wealth or got it off the backs of the have nots. For us, it was a time of Landlords who owned the land and tenants who farmed it for them.
Our life situations demanded that we have a sense of humor and an indomitable will or be prepared to face a future with no more possibility than our parents.
This is our story of one family and the life they shared with their parents, brothers, sister and more kinfolks than space will permit. And, we want to tell it just so we will know. Let the journey begin.
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