As no other natural landscape, Appalachia’s splendorous color inspired my soul when I drove home from Matewan, West Virginia, October 15.
Eight days later, Marilyn’s directions led me southwest on I69 to the Charlotte exit on route to another Matewan Garden Club book talk. I’d never visited Charlotte before, and was glad to see a Big Boy still standing amongst every imaginable drive-through restaurant flanking the road through town. “Drive until road ends (Mooville on right side) Left on M66 south”, Marilyn’s printed directions said. “Mooville?” I’d emailed Marilyn the night prior. “A petting zoo,” she’d replied. “They have delicious lasagna in their frozen section.” The road ended and there sprawled Mooville, a dairy farm, on my right. And my destination? Plainwell, where Marilyn, a good friend from Warren Lincoln High School, lives in a golf community with her husband. To Marilyn’s delight, their daughter, son-in-law, and two grandsons live within walking distance. Marilyn had invited me to her home to meet her “west-side” neighborhood book club and answer their questions about my story. A perfect opportunity for a reunion. As I drove deeper into the home of W.K. Kellogg Co., the hillier and curvier the roads became. The land felt like Peter Creek, my Appalachian home. Large ponds with lily pads hugged the roads, a sight I never see in Appalachia. Then, on the next curve, farmsteads with large, rolling fields appeared beyond the gold-leafed hedgerows. As most of the crops were harvested, huge farming machinery sat resting like tired beasts. I parked my car in Marilyn’s driveway by 3:45 p.m. and found a beautiful table set with china and crystal. She stirred borscht soup, mashed boiled potatoes, and removed cabbage rolls from the oven as the book club members arrived. At last, our hostess placed on the table a bowl of sliced cucumbers in sour cream seasoned with dill. “Please take a seat,” she said. We filled and emptied our plates while the sun set, consumed kuchen, a Volga-German cake featured in my story. Members discussed their favorite characters, and what caught them by surprise. “I like what you named the botanists. I never heard the word before,” said one member. “Wayfarer?” I asked. “Yes. It fits the characters.” The word isn’t original to me. Several of my garden resource books use the term. “Does everyone have their book for next month?” a member asked. “Yes,” they echoed. “I reserved my copy of A Walk in the Woods from the library,” a member said. I read Bill Bryson’s memoir in 1988 when first released. A story about an unconventional wayfarer. Dear Reader, if you’re somewhat adventurous, intrigued by what’s on the other side of a hedgerow, mountain, or creek, you’ll find A Walk in the Woods an engaging read. By the way, I stopped in Mooville on my way home. A container of lasagna waits in my freezer for an occasion to remember Marilyn’s friendship, and this wayfarer’s double portion of October’s color. North to South. East to West.
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I'm ready to drive to Matewan, West Virginia, to sign copies of Matewan Garden Club in Appalachian Lost & Found, David Hatfield, proprietor I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth. Psalm 121: 1-2
This past September 18, I met with a friend for lunch. We go back over twenty years to an awards event where Debra was chosen to read her memoir about making éclairs with her Jewish grandmother. Then, I recalled my Holiness Pentecostal granny, the countless biscuits and pies she baked and served, and longed to honor Granny as Debra blessed her grandmother. October 9, three Mondays later, I drove south on I75 for a book tour in Kentucky and West Virginia. I cried while listening to news reports of the number of Jews/Israelis and Americans murdered by Hamas. I prayed for their families, and called Debra to confirm she and her household were safe at home in Michigan, New York City, and Chicago. Her husband answered. “Yes, we’re home. The kids are safe. Debra’s on a phone call. I’ll tell her you called. Thank you for thinking of us,” he said. “I’m driving to my sister’s house in Kentucky. I’ll call after I arrive,” I replied. “I’ll tell Debra.” At last, the Appalachian mountain range opened her arms in comfort and joy. Somewhere within the vast beauty of those ancient hills, my sister Patty and her husband Mike awaited my arrival in a town named Prestonsburg. Not far from their home, a serpentine drive within historic Hatfield-McCoy territory led to Matewan, West Virginia, my birthplace. I’d planned to save the best for last in my week-long book tour. My sister and brother-in-law set a table with pinto beans, fried potatoes, fried corn, coleslaw, and a pone of corn bread, Patty’s specialty. Oh, the perfect meal to soothe a hungry traveler’s soul. And so Patty and Mike fed me every evening and morning with tempting scents such as fried apples and pot roast. And treats like Mike’s zucchini bread. Each day, save Thursday when a migraine headache usurped my plans, Patty printed the route to my destination. There, in libraries, bookstores, and Appalachian Lost & Found in Matewan, I sowed seed with copies of Matewan Garden Club. “What’s the book about?” a Matewan teenager asked. “Even in our most desperate times, we’re never alone,” I said Before dark, I parked my car on Patty and Mike’s hill and carried my Shinola book bag inside their house. To sustain my positive spirit, I did not immerse my mind in the news reporting the Israel and Hamas war. Rather, I looked to the hills surrounding me. I read King David’s Psalms. “They that trust in the Lord shall be as Mount Zion which cannot be removed, but abideth forever.” Psalm 125:1. Dear Reader, in those seven days driving into, through, and from Appalachia, I witnessed His promise of seasons. Again, October turned the mountains from green to gold, orange, and russet. As in the blessed season Debra’s grandmother taught her to make éclairs. A purple morning glory catches my eye, trumpet lifted to the sun. Again, I read the wisdom of the lovely garden sign the bloom adorns: “We come from the earth. We return to the earth. And in between we garden.”
A gift to me from my daughter, Kelly, she appreciates the space her California yard offers for growing flowers and food. Bougainvillea. Pomegranate. Orange. Lime. Lemon. Avocado. Guava. She found the garden sign online and ordered one for me some years ago. Sure, I could ask her the year and occasion for which she purchased the gift. Yet, that’s one more thing I’ve forgotten, and she’s concerned about my memory. During her most recent call from the west coast, she gently repeated what she said some months ago in a phone call. “Mom, I don’t think you should drive to Kentucky and West Virginia by yourself.” “I drove alone down and back last October without incident,” I reminded her. “Yes, but you couldn’t recall turns when we drove back from Kentucky this past July,” she said. “Plus, it’s not safe for a woman to drive alone.” I didn’t point out that she drove solo from the San Francisco Bay Area last spring to meet her cousin Maegan to camp in the Joshua Tree National Forest. Just the two of them. Then she drove home alone. “I’m taking Dad’s car again,” I said. “The GPS will guide me if I miss a turn.” I sensed that wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Truth is, I have another story to sow, and I can’t do that through social media alone. Besides, it’s the end of gardening season. October is a beautiful time in Appalachia to drive from town to town with my books in tow. “Please keep me in your prayers, Kelly,” I said. “I will, Mom.” As they often illustrate in their lifestyles and choices, my daughters know we must take risks to grow. Some of their choices concern me. Frankly, some frighten me. So I pray for their safety as they grow. I’m thankful for their concern, and pray they understand I’m still sowing and growing. Not just flowers, trees, and stories. But in faith and trust in God’s mercy, grace, and faithfulness to show me His ways and teach me His paths. Eventually, as most people who earn their driver’s license as a teenager, if we live a long life, we will face the day when we retire the most used identity card in the United States of America. Dear Reader, I remember the long in between season with my mother, her flower and vegetable gardens, her decline to the point where she could no longer cultivate roses or food. Or snap, string, and cook a mess of green beans. That was soon after she couldn’t remember where she placed her car keys. Yes, the purple morning glory blooms again in my fading gardens. I’ve begun deadheading. The burn pile grows. God willing, I’ll sow more seed in Appalachia, the earth I come from. Our household inherited Aunt Gracie’s little lavender and white afghan sometime after my mother-in-law, Rosalie Kathleen Underwood, passed away September 17, 2015.
My father-in-law called her “Rose.” She didn’t like me to say “Mrs. Underwood,” so I addressed her as “Mom” as my husband did. She never objected. She named herself “Gramma Rosie” to our children. Goodness, how she loved to play possum on the living room sofa when we arrived from our long drive to their door in Grand Rapids. Our girls knew her game. They ran to the vintage coffee grinder she placed against the wall by the television in the living room, filled with Hershey kisses. Now, she purposely chose those foil-wrapped chocolates, for her only living brother and sister-in-law (Gracie) lived near Hershey, PA. Furthermore, our family of three little girls had previously vacationed at Uncle Len’s and Aunt Gracie’s home one summer. That’s when we toured the famous Hershey factory surrounded by beautiful Amish country. Uncle Len amused us by using the long “A” sound for “Amish.” The second the girls touched Grandma Rosie’s coffee grinder, she’d jump up from the sofa. “Caught cha’!” she’d say playfully. Those delightful years passed all too swiftly as her granddaughters left the nest, one by one. Gramma Rosie playing possum on the living room sofa fell into silent memory. Thankfully, Gramma Rosie never lost her “marbles” as she’d say, as did Nana, my mother. After Grandpa Underwood passed, Gramma Rosie’s two younger sons provided their mother with the latest electronic devices, programs, and lessons. Emails replaced her letters. She ordered product online rather than shopped, attended mass online, and self-diagnosed her illnesses by symptoms. She praised her younger boys who “rigged up” a pocket to her walker where she kept her ipad. She “klunked” room to room until she could no longer. Perhaps I saw Aunt Gracie’s lavender and white afghan on Mom’s lap during her two weeks a resident of Marywood Health Center. She must’ve found some comfort in her sister-in-law’s thoughtful gift, for she seemed at peace, and soon left this world. A multi-purpose, cozy blanket, Aunt Gracie’s gift is the perfect size for covering the chair arms and cushions where our pets nap. And when a winter chill seizes me, if the blanket isn’t occupied by Mitty or Cuddles, I throw it over my shoulders like a shawl. Washable and lightweight, the color hasn’t faded from washing and sunlight. The durable yarn withstands our cats’ and grand-dog’s claws. More so, the lightweight fabric washes and dries quickly. And never wrinkles. Dear Reader, in this season of my life where I’ve accumulated my portion of my parents’ belongings, including my in-law’s, many treasures remain packed away, out of sight. But not forgotten. Each item tells a story, such as my father’s Polaroid camera. However, Aunt Gracie’s afghan still serves many purposes in my household. Mitty and Cuddles, inseparable sisters, are glad about that. And so is Lily, our grand-dog. |
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