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[Cleaver] Anna E. CLEAVER, Chicago
by Maresca
I found an obit in the May 17, 1979 Chicago Tribune for an Anna E. CLEAVER.
I have no further info other than what is posted below. Hope this helps
someone. Colleen
CLEAVER
Anna E. Cleaver, age 84, beloved wife of the late William; devoted mother of
Wilbur Bohl and Gladys (Paul) Breyer; fond grandmother of two,
great-grandmother of three. Resting at the Schmaedeke Funeral Home, 10701 S.
Harlem Ave., Worth, where services will be held until 11 a.m. Friday, May
18,1979. Visitation Thursday 2 to 5 and 7 to 9 p.m. Interment Bethania
Cemetery.
18 years, 2 months
[Cleaver] Virus Warning
by List user
Hello Everyone.
i am not in the habit of sending out "virus warnings" ever time a scare
happens, it only congests mailboxes, but, there is one that is going around.
if you receive an e-mail that the sending address begins with an underscore
example _tim(a)whoever.com
DELETE IT this is a real virus...the attachments have looked like legit
ones...
it has been replying to e-mail that has been posted to Rootsweb lists...
the virus is not going through Rootsweb but replying to the sender of mail
that people have archived....i have recieved mail from people i know that
have these attachments...
If you have a virus protection program, please update it and check your own
system out....if you dont, i would suggest getting one...and to be safe, i am
NOT downloading anything......
Thanks
Timothy
listowner
18 years, 2 months
[Cleaver] Ancil Cleaver
by List user
This is a Message Board Post that is gatewayed to this mailing list.
Surnames: Cleaver, Hood, Hyde, Ancell
Classification: Query
Message Board URL:
http://boards.ancestry.com/mbexec/msg/an/GEJ.2ACEB/131
Message Board Post:
Am looking for my grandfather and greatgrandfather, both named Ancil Hyde Cleaver. Greatgrandfather, b. 1825 married in 1851 to Louisa Virginia Hood, b. 1834, and grandfather b. 1867 married in 1889 to Matilda LaRue, b. 1874. Ancel the younger had 1 brother, Albert b. 1854and 2 sisters, Mary Margaret b.1855and Lois b. 1852. Ancel the elder died (in a mining accident?) before the 1880 census.
18 years, 2 months
[Cleaver] Sunday Afternoon Rocking
by List user
From: Jan, unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
I think, before beginning my stories, I need to explain each time that I
can how the folks in it are connected to Stewart County, as these stories
may be meaningful in more ways than just their message to my many
cousins. This story concerns my grandfather, James A. Greene,
1907-1969. He was the son of James T. Greene (Montgomery Co.) and Laura
Metcalf (Humphrey and Houston Co.). He married Icie Warfield (Stewart
Co.). They made their home on Yellow Creek and later Granite City.
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
It is inevitable, this time of year as holidays begin, that our thoughts
would begin to be touched by long ago memories, long ago loved ones. And
it is inevitable, in this season of gift-giving, that we begin to reflect
upon what a gift truly is, and what gifts we have given or been given that
are truly the most meaningful. It seems the more we mature, the more we
realize those gifts we clasp tightest in our heart cost nothing in monetary
terms at all, but were gifts of the heart. Each Christmas I tell the story
of "Pennies", the gift my paternal grandfather was unfailing in giving all
the days of my life. Today I tell the story of my maternal grandfather,
and his own loving gift to me.
A Grandfather's Final Gift (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series)
When autumn comes I always remember a very long ago one, when I was a young
girl and was just beginning to grasp and appreciate all the shimmering
magic of that special time of year. It is a time when russets and golds,
burnished coppers and siennas gently sway in a breeze until they seem
blended together in a softly smudged masterpiece of brilliant hues and
subtle blends. It is a time when the coolness of the air caresses your
cheek and the breeze that does the caressing seems to be whispering of
something to come. It is a time when the crunching of leaves under your
feet make you want to go romping romping....just to hear them some more...
But there is no more beautiful place to realize the glories of the season
than in the mountains. And a long ago autumn I was in the mountains. The
Smokey Mountains are breathtaking in any season at all, rising up in
fullness, wrapping themselves around you in all directions as if a mama
were clasping you in her arms. In every season, they are awesome with the
mists that rise like the very breath the living mountains exude. In every
season, they are breathtaking with layers of ever softening hues of color
fading into the distance, mountain after mountain. But in the autumn, when
the colors on the mountains are clamoring for attention, when whatever
direction you turn is another shouting, "Here I am! I am more
beautiful".... "No! This way! It is I who is more beautiful! Me!"..."Here!
You are forgetting to turn to me!"...then you know...no palace, no great
antiquity, no masterpiece is so arrayed as these mountains.
It was such an autumn.
For as long as I can remember my grandfather was sick. He woke each morning
choking for breath, and hacking such deep painful coughs that it hurt to
listen to him. He was thin and quiet, rarely having a great deal to say,
and somehow in some odd way I found that comforting: that I could sit
beside him in his company, yet never be asked all the patronizing questions
that adults found so important to press upon children. This autumn he
seemed ever thinner, ever weaker, ever quieter, and yet, there seemed
something bearing on his mind. I did not ask him what. It was not the way
of the relationship between us. We never talked. We were mostly simply
quiet together. I knew how to be very quiet. An only child who has long
been comfortable with the silence of solitude can do that as well as an
elder. This autumn the family was camped together in the Smokies, something
we did from time to time. And when the time came for my family to take its
leave from the others, my grandfather reached over and touched me gently.
"Let's take a walk," he said.
It was surprising. My grandfather never walked. He sat quietly mostly. But
side by side we slowly wended a path through the forest, and he began to
tell a story. Because the story was from a time I did not understand, and
the plot revolved around logging, something I knew nothing of, the details
of the story escaped me, although I remember the gist of it. The moral I
remember most of all. And the story my grandfather told me was to warn me,
that in this world there are folks to be wary of, and one must not always
believe what one is told, that one must be careful in this world and think
for oneself using common sense. That was it. A simple short story with a
moral, and then we turned and walked back through the woods to the
campsite, and bid goodbye.
It was the last time I ever saw my grandfather alive, and I knew even then
what he had done. Lacking in material possessions, and somehow feeling
there was something richer than this to give anyway, he had given me a
story: some words to remember, perhaps to ease me through something life
would dish out later. He must have known he would not see me again, and
must have known he would not be there as I grew into a young woman. Unable
to be in my life, to protect or insulate or guide me, he had only a simple
story to give. And perhaps it was the richest thing he could have
given. It has meant a great deal to me all of my life that I had such a
grandfather who, despite his frailty, wished to take a walk and give me a
bit of wisdom to ease my way into the world. And I have surely remembered
that wisdom time and time again throughout my life. It has meant much to
know I had such a grandfather who despite his frailty, wished to take a
walk with me: to give me a story. He may have known that I, the lover of
stories, would treasure this above all other things. And so I have.
When autumn slips in, begins to push its subtle way into the world until
summer at last beats a hasty retreat leaving behind a triumphant shout of
color from a new season, I never fail to remember that long ago one. In
the very midst of colors clamoring, there came a gentle gift from a
grandfather I would never see again.
In this season of gift-giving, perhaps the most precious things we can give
those we love, is the gift of thought and heart. Consider those gifts
given to you along the way, and consider those which have meant the
most. I dare say many of you will discover the same that I have. Those
gifts most precious, most remembered, were not purchased in any store, and
can only be given by means of a loving heart. Those gifts most treasured
came without ribbons or wrapping, never dressed a shop window, and would be
treasured only by the person whose heart motivated the gift and the
receiver who was loved well enough to be given it.
Just a thought,
jan
Copyright ©2000janPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be
shared...simply share though e-mail as written without alterations...and in
entirety. If planned for a publication, permission must be granted by the
author. Please forward sufficient information concerning the nature and
intent of the publication.
Thanks, jan)
Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday
Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per
week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to
Sundayrocking-subscribe(a)topica.com
Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to
unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18 years, 3 months
[Cleaver] "Sunday Afternoon Rocking"
by List user
From: Jan, unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
When You Can Almost Touch the Day (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series)
Sometimes I can reach hardly at all, and almost touch the day. I find
myself thinking, "Oh! I must call Aunt Kay and tell her this!" and for
just a moment I can hear her infectious laugh on the other end of the phone
line, hear her slow southern drawl telling me to "get myself down
there". It is so real I can almost touch the moment. And then I
remember. I think of Gin, and I can hear her soft whispery voice, can see
her spreading icing on a cake, can hear her bid me to get her a "Coke-Cola"
from the fridge. And though I suppose in a way I said goodbye to her long
ago, since for a number of years before her death, her mind had not been in
the present, it is so real I can almost touch the day she was herself.
They were my aunts. There were four of them, and three of them never with
children, and so I was their surrogate, and a surrogate for the other too,
when she lost her only daughter. I was the only daughter of their baby
brother, and he they lost first. Because there were so few of us, we were
entwined and close. My aunts, the two that are left, are as interested in
their great great nieces and nephews as if there were no "greats" in the
description. Indeed if they are reminded of it, they look startled, as if
they wonder when so many generations had a chance to "hatch". Our blood
family members we can count on the fingers of two hands, literally.
The sheer knowledge that there were so few of us was a part of the
closeness, and so was the tragedy of our lost legacy. For this family was
one of the many who lost the legacy of their ancestors, the home place of
generations to LBL. It was a scar that never quite healed, and I grew up
in the shadow of the knowledge of what it was. For those who were not
intimately involved, let it be known that the story will never be written
in books of scholarly and academic intent as it was, will never appear in
the public records of the sales and auctions as it affected a people. And
in my mind, I can go back, and swing on a front porch, walk down a dusty
road, and almost touch a place now a wilderness as it was when a people
lived and loved there.
They will be 90 and 91 this fall, these two who are all that are left of a
family. I hear from them most every day, and several times a month will
make the journey to see about them. In some ways they are not so different
as they must always have been. The sibling rivalry that began in 1911 is
clearly still in evidence, as one aunt clasps her "baby" protectively and
the other snorts and tells her that is the "ugliest doll she ever saw!" I
imagine that to be somewhat the same conversation they might have had in
1918. The spirit of fierce independence is still in evidence as one warns
the other that if she does not eat better "they will put that tube in your
belly!" The other reminds her quickly that permission must be granted for
tubes in a belly, and "they won't be getting it!" I imagine they must have
bickered in much the same way about getting one another in trouble with
Mama or Papa. The good humor is evident as they laugh and clap their hands
in time to the singing Santa Claus I decorate their rooms with at
Christmas. I remember a letter their own Mama wrote telling of them diving
like "greedy little pigs" over a package of sweets their Papa had sent at
Christmas time when he was away visiting his own mother in 1917. When I
read that letter, and others, I could almost touch the day, though it was
long before I was even thought of.
My aunts have lived long and they can tell stories of times and places and
people that no one living remembers. They can remember an uncle going away
to fight in the Great War, and never returning. They can remember
Prohibition and they can remember the Depression. Though they may falter
over what was their morning meal, they remember with startling clarity all
of the great events of the 20th century. And they remember all of the
smaller parts of history that had little to do with what was written in a
history book, but much to do with history of the common people. They can
tell you of their mama sitting to make a shroud for an aunt using her old
treadle sewing machine, and they can tell you of family gatherings in the
yard when the circuit rider came. One can tell you how it was to teach in
a one room school, to board with a family while doing so. She can tell how
she canoed her way to a school where she was not just the teacher but also
the fundraiser, the cook, the janitor, the stoker of fires, the nurse and
the counselor. One can tell you how it was to own and operate a corner
grocery store in the days of the Depression. She can tell you how it was
to extend credit to folks knowing they had no way to pay it back, but also
knowing one could not turn his or her back on neighbors. Hearing them
talk, I know that for them it does not seem so long ago really, and they
can almost touch the day.
Because I know the time is drawing nearer now when all I will have is
"almost touching the day", I store up their stories, listen carefully to
their words, study their faces and try to memorize their expressions. They
have been my family now for night on half a century, and they are the roots
that have held up my world for so long I cannot imagine standing without
those roots. But as long as I can "almost touch the day", I can make it
live for the "greats" my aunts are startled to realize are "greats", I can
make it live for me, and I can foster the roots that held up my world, that
they will hold up the world for those yet to come in our family. As long
as there are stories, as long as there is a link, as long as there are ears
to hear and a heart to speak, we can "almost touch the day".
Just a thought,
jan
Copyright ©2001janPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be
shared...simply share as written without alterations...and in entirety.
Thanks, jan)
Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday
Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per
week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to
Sundayrocking-subscribe(a)topica.com
Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to
unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18 years, 3 months
[Cleaver] "Sunday Afternoon Rocking"
by List user
From: Jan, unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
The Dumb Supper (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series)
She laughed, her voice tinkling as clearly as any silver bell, "Oh
yes! Did it at midnight we did! Wanted to see who came!" And she grinned
mischievously at me, waiting for my obvious question. She is frail and
tiny, not much more than eighty pounds soak and wet. Her legs don't work
very well any more, but there is nothing wrong with her sense of slyness
and mischief, evident in dancing eyes and a quirky little smile. Nor is
there anything wrong with her sense of audience, and her love of a good story.
My aunt, nearly 90 years of age, may well have a bit of trouble remembering
what she had for breakfast, but she has absolutely no trouble with the
past. Now it is true that many pieces of her past are pieces that I
remember myself, and her memories are not always entirely accurate, and
frequently embroidered with details from another story. But who is to
argue with something she remembers from seventy or eighty years
ago? Certainly not I! And all too many times, her stories have the ring
of truth, and always an interesting twist.
We had been talking of my son's recent marriage, and the topic of "old
beaus" had come up. She twisted in her wheelchair to peer at me
mischievously. Grinning, she told me of her youth and of the perils
involved in "courting" two beaus at once. I laughed, thinking of my very
traditional old aunt as a young attractive schoolmarm caught in the age-old
dilemma of wondering which beau to keep. (Actually it turns out she "kept"
both of them, and married both, at different times of course, marrying the
second after being widowed by the first).
And then she glanced slyly out the corner of dancing eyes at her sister,
elder by a year, and grinned again, "We tried to figure out which would be
the keeper, didn't we, Sister?" Although this Sister generally has a very
good memory, she didn't remember, much to my aunt's frustration. She
frowned, and if she could have stood to her feet, I am sure would have
stamped them smartly and given Sister a quick rap on the head to jog her
memory. "Oh yes you do too remember, Sister!", emphatically pronounced
this aunt, who has a great deal of difficulty remembering just where she
lives these days, but considers the past in sparkling clarity. "It was the
night we had the dumb supper!"
I had been listening with amusement, quite used to this exchange of sibling
frustration between the two. But now, I knew I was going to hear a story I
had never heard before, and my spine straightened as I scooted to the edge
of my chair, ready to hear yet another story. She responded to my eager
questions with her typical slyness, unwinding just a bit of the tale at a
time, teasing me to ask another question, and yet another until the whole
of it was unwound. And this, I take, is the gist of it:
"Reba was who put us up to it," she said, laying the blame on a neighbor
girl a lifetime ago. "Reba it was that filled us in on most things." She
glanced surreptitiously out at the hall; to make sure no one was in
passing, then lowered her voice to a slight whisper. "She told us how
babies got here! And she was the one put us up to the dumb supper too!"
Ever ready to work a tale to its end slowly, holding the audience in
suspense, she waited. And of course was rewarded by my next barrage of
questions. "Well," she said, pausing for effect, "You have to wait till
after dark. They come at midnight, if they are going to come. Mama and
Papa were asleep of course. We didn't tell anyone what it was we were
doing! Don't you remember this, Sister?"
Sister didn't, and my aunt shook her head sadly at the thought of her
sister's forgetting.
"Set out the supper and turned off the lights and waited," she said,
pausing again maddeningly.
The Dumb Supper, was of course an old tradition, but one at the time I was
unfamiliar with, and it took a bit of our give and take of teasing hints
and eager questions before I realized that the "dumb supper" was a way for
hopeful young girls to catch a glimpse of the "shade" of their future
bridegrooms. The idea was to lay out a supper, backwards, in the
dark. Then the eager and somewhat nervous young girls would await to see
what phantom foretelling of the future would appear at the door.
"Well???" I asked as the suspense built, "Did you see him??"
"Heard him," she answered.
"Heard him??? What did he say???"
"Oh, he didn't say anything," she said, lowering her eyes, and
smiling. "He knocked something down out on the porch!"
"Well who was it? What did you do?"
"Put that supper up and went to bed!" she declared, and her laugh again
tinkled as surely as any silver bells. "Spect someone overheard us talking
and decided maybe to scare us!"
I laughed and she looked at me thoughtfully, "But weren't any tracks in the
snow. And Mama and Papa were in bed!"
And so ended yet another tale. They never fail to surprise me, these aunts
of mine, with the things that pop out in conversations so unexpectedly. I
have known them all of my life, and yet it seems each time I visit, they
have yet another surprise I have never heard tell of. It is true these
jaunts to the nursing home are sometimes tiresome. They mean meetings with
doctors and nurses and social workers. They mean endless discussions over
medications and treatments, diets and well being. They mean searching for
a "missing" bit of laundry or misplaced partials. In looking after two
elderly aunts without children, I have often wondered what on earth the
Lord is preparing me for, so thoroughly has he made sure that my education
included any possible feasible problem that might arise in the care taking
of the elderly.
But this I also know. A good deal of my education has been in
appreciation. It seems the older they have gotten, the more time I have
had to actually sit down and listen. And the more time they have to
actually sit there and talk. And it is amazing, the fun and good times
that have come of that. It is amazing the chapters of family history that
have unfolded because of that. In the days I was a child, I had no time to
listen and they had no time to tell. In the days I was a harried young
mother, I had no time to listen and they had no time to tell. In these my
middle years, and these, their twilight times, it seems the Lord decided to
throw a special lesson in to sweeten the parts that have been so hard. It
was forced upon all of us, this time, and none of us wanted or expected
life to evolve quite as it has. But there is sweetness in it. And
everytime I come, I think we are having something of a "dumb supper"
together, sitting the table to see what will jolly good story will come
through the door next.
Just a thought,
jan
Copyright ©2001janPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be
shared...simply share as written without alterations...and in entirety.
Thanks, jan)
Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday
Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per
week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to
Sundayrocking-subscribe(a)topica.com
Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to
unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18 years, 3 months
[Cleaver] RICHARD CLEAVER
by Mellie
Hi folks, fairly new to this list, I am reasearching, amongst others Richard
CLEAVER, b abt 1804 possibly, in god knows where! possibly around Tipton,
Staffordshire England.
he married Nancy FEREDAY on 19 Aug 1822 in Tipton.
he died 24 sept 1840 aged 36. this information comes from St martins parish
register Tipton.
there is no mention of him anywhere before his marriage.
does anyone on the list have any clues?
TIA
Mellie
IBSSG
Diagonally parked in a parallel universe
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18 years, 3 months
[Cleaver] Sunday Afternoon Rocking
by List user
From: Jan, unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
Hello folks,
This is one of those days when my mind wanted to weave a story. Bear with
me as I explain just why.
One of the beautiful things about our ancestry is the patchwork of it, and
it is that very patchwork of different walks of life, different ideas,
different ways that has fascinated me. I have often thought of it, one
family coverlet, and all the pieces of different cloth that make it
up. Within my family are doctors and truck drivers, carpenters and
soldiers, lawyers and teachers, homemakers and factory workers, company
executives and craftsmen, ministers and nurses, bookkeepers and firemen,
janitors and construction workers. There are the wealthy and those who
live very simply. The list goes on. Folks from every walk of life, folks
who made all manner of decisions about the path they wanted to walk down,
yet call themselves "a family". And in this country, it was all possible.
Often I have wondered at the descendants of the same common ancestors,
descendants of the same roof overhead, and wondered how it was that a
common tree tended to branch out so many different directions leading to so
many different ways of conducting a life. And in my thinking, imagination
took hold, and I thought how it might be that branching off could have
begun. Excuse me now, I am going to step into the shoes for a moment of a
boy who could have been in one of those families. He could have had
brothers and sisters who chose a far different life than he, not any
better, not any worse, perhaps. Just different. Yet the fabric he was cut
from was stitched side by side that of a different texture and pattern, and
made up a part of the same family coverlet.
Something Like Poetry (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series)
Papa always said wasn't but two things for certain in this life: you gonna
pay taxes and you gonna die. From my point of view he might have added two
more: Mama gonna have a new baby this year and you gonna work from sunup to
sundown six days a week and have little for your efforts. The seventh day
you going to be so dagblasted wore out you can't hardly stay awake through
the sermon.
I don't rightly know what it was give me the idea, but it came to me at an
early age that all I had known in all of my young life was a new youngin
every year to scoot over and make room for, and rising at the break of day
to work in the fields, falling into bed too bone weary to even eat supper
at night come dark. Seemed that is all I saw of Papa's life too. And it
come to me if that was what life was all about, I was not real sure I
wanted any part of it.
Fact is what I hungered for was what I could not have, and it sung in my
heart like the beat of a fervent poem. Tickled me pink when the times when
farm work was slow and I could go down to the school house with the younger
ones. Got so Mr. Henry, the schoolmaster, took an interest in me. Loaned
me some of his books. He knew what I most wanted was books about doctoring
and he got ole Doc Watson who had studied some back east to loan me his
books too. Papa did not like to see me reading them. He couldn't rightly
make out how they were gonna do me any good, and he said I far better off
not to get ideas in my head about things that could not be. Papa said I
didn't need to know to read any better than enough to know I was not
getting cheated, didn't need to write much more than to make my name, and
didn't need any more figures than it took to figure what I would get for my
efforts and what I owed the general store. He said what schooling I had
would do that much if I stayed beside him and learned the common sense of
it. I would be a farmer, he said, same as him and his daddy before him and
before that even. And I best be getting used to the work of it and
learning what I could. No time for foolishness. Papa didn't see the use
in school.
I managed to slip off out to the barn some nights with a candle Mama
eased me and do my reading then. Sometimes when Papa was off to town or
over to the neighbors, she would rush in and help me with my chores, and so
I got an hour or so to myself. I don't know that Mama understood, but Mama
knew I had a hunger and she knew I was different from Papa.
If Papa ever wanted to be anything but a farmer I don't know what it
was. Seems like something about it was right for him, for I am not sure I
ever saw him truly unhappy about it. In fact, weary as he was, he seemed
right satisfied. Seems like sometimes I could see him feeling something
more when he picked up the soil in his bare hands, or he looked up at the
sky. Seems like sometimes there was something soft in his eyes, and
sometimes something like fire. Seems like he felt something I could not
see, and I could not feel. Seems like, but then Papa never really let you
know what he might be thinking. I can't imagine Papa with a dream, but
maybe he had one anyhow. Maybe he had one, same as me, just different.
The closest thing I ever heard to poetry come out of Papa's mouth was one
morning just as the sun rose when he looked out over his fields, at the
morning light tingeing the tops of his crops with a hint of gold, the mist
on the hills behind them. He saw it and he listened. Then he said the
reason the birds were singing was cause they had seen all that he had
worked for, and it was good.
Come the spring of my sixteenth year, I figured to do something about
it. I broached it to Mama first off. I think that was the first time I
ever realized Mama was getting old. She was working her bread dough, and
she put her hand up to brush a wisp of hair out of her face. Some of the
flour caught in her brown hair and it was then I noticed it was not just
the bit of flour making white of it. She sighed when she heard what it was
I had to say, and she turned after a while to look at me straight on. The
sun slanted in the window, lighting up one side of her face and leaving the
rest in shadow, and it was then I saw that the shadows were not smooth, but
played soft little wavering whispers on the planes of her face.
"I held my breath till you was ten," she said, "When a youngin reaches ten,
likely he will live. Then I held my breath till this day. And it has come."
I left the next morning at daybreak with a bit of ham and johnny cake
wrapped up in a leather pouch. I headed for the place Doc Watson had told
me to go. There was a loft there waiting for me, and chores to do for my
board, and a school where I could learn what I wanted to know. In a few
years he said, I could come back to him if I wanted, as he was feeling
winter in the summer now deep in his bones and there would be a place. I
would not work no easier than Papa, he said, just different. If that was
what I wanted. It was.
I left behind me a carving of a bird for Papa. I carved its mouth open,
like it was singing. I hoped he would remember the morning he spoke
something like poetry, and understand.
Copyright ©2001janPhilpot
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Thanks, jan)
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18 years, 3 months
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