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Day Four:
Today started early for me. I woke up wondering why I was wide awake and everyone else was deeply asleep. I finally raised up off the bed and craned my head to look at the clock. It was 5:23am. I laid there for quite awhile before falling asleep again. Light poured in from around the heavy curtain when we all woke at 7am.
We weren’t sure how the day would go because both museums we wanted to visit weren’t open. I decided our best option was to start at the local library.
Calhoun, GA is like many other small towns in the south. The buildings around town are old and in need of repair, but there was character. Things moved slow like in a haze. It could have been that running the air conditioner in the van has started to make it leak antifreeze and we are doing without it at a time when north Georgia had its first day in the 90 degree range.
In front of the library in Calhoun...
John took the girls and I went to the special collections area, while they explored the kids wing of the library. I found some interesting books that I’ve decided I’ll purchase for my collection. They were Cherokee history and tradition books. I was really excited about one I found on Cherokee Cooklore.
I discovered Echota (a big difference between Old/New Echota) was not only the Cherokee capital, but a city of refuge for those who had killed someone. There were stipulations to that refuge, however. I found it interesting and useful for my novel in that Arizona’s father went to New Echota after possibly killing his wife and young daughter. This is speculation as no one has evidence of that, but everyone agreed that he was a violent man. Echota gave him refuge, but not Arizona.
After looking in a few neat local shops and a folk art exhibit at the Harris Arts Center, we had lunch from the cooler and went to look for the historic sites we’ll visit tomorrow. I’m excited about what we’ll find tomorrow. It is bringing me closer to the past that made me. At the Vann House, I got a short peek at an unfinished, large, woven reed basket that was abandoned in a Cherokee home during the 1838 removal – The Trail of Tears. It brought to me a feeling of anger and grief. I mourned for the woman who was forced from her home so quickly that she had to leave her work unfinished.
Overlook on the way up the hill to Fort Mountain...
From Chatsworth, we moved on to Fort Mountain State Park. Apparently, the Cherokee met up with white folks prior to Columbus who had crossed the ocean from Wales. These men built a tower fort, which we got to see.
Tower possibly built by Prince Madoc of Wales - predating Columbus
We read of the legends of the moon-eyed people who were fair skinned, light hair, and blue eyed. It was said they were blind in the daylight and/or during certain phases of the moon. The Cherokee claimed the Creeks annihilated them during one of their blind periods.
Probably the best thing we say today was a scenic overlook at Fort Mountain. Flat land met the beginning/ending of the Appalachian mountains in such a way that can only be described as breathtaking. I know John found it hard to breathe. 🙂
A start/end of the Appalachian Mountains
Overlooking...
Back in town, sweaty and tired, we tried to shop at some outlet stores. Don’t go shopping without money to spend. It ruins the mood. Giving up on shopping, we searched for a local establishment to get supper. Failing at that, we pulled into Ruby Tuesday and had a wonderfully satisfying meal and spent way too much money on it. It had been while since we had eaten at a Ruby Tuesday – prices had went up! But, we needed a full meal, and it was delicious. Deladis ate all of hers and some of ours.
Stopping to smell the flowers at Fort Mountain
After picking up some coffee at McDonalds, we went back to the motel for baths and rest. I feel like things are moving sluggishly, but too fast all at once. If you can be happy and melancholy together, that’s what I am.
On a tower window ledge at Fort Mountain
Kelli B. Haywood has received professional development funding through the Kentucky Arts Council, the state arts agency, supported by state tax dollars and federal funding from the National Endowment for the Arts.
The following series of blog entries are compiled from my journal writings during my recent trip to research the historical background of a novel I am working on loosely based on the life of my Cherokee great great grandmother. There are seven days and each has an abundance of pictures. Hope you enjoy the ride.
Day One:
Preparing our little home for us to be away for ten days was more work than I had expected. We woke to rain and weird red bugs all over the potato plants, feasting away. I worked non-stop all morning and through the afternoon. Our departure time of noon was shot down. We left our holler around 5pm.
The trip to Spartanburg was wonderfully uneventful. Driving through the mountains brought an easy peace to us. The girls were happy and quiet. My body released all the aggression I had been holding onto all day. We had a nice dinner in Johnson City at a Cracker Barrel. Surprisingly, I found suitable food there (or just inside good enough), and we all ate good. Dark clouds threatened rain that never came. We arrived at my family’s home around midnight.
Day Two:
Today, the plan was to be with our kin. That’s exactly what we did. Ivy and my Papaw hit it off as I thought they would. Deladis spent hours playing with an Ewok village that I had spent hours with as a child. She did some painting too.
I took a three mile run, and came back with an awful headache. Lack of sleep really gets to me. We didn’t get in bed until almost 2am. That, coupled with weak coffee brought on a migraine that progressed in intensity through the day.
We lounged and talked. My Mamaw showed me the best picture of Arizona (great great grandmother). It gave me chills to see her in such a regal stance. She was amazing to look upon. Her native features were clear. Her unsmiling lips just soft enough to reveal a proud contentment.
I found out she married around age 16 on Walden’s Ridge. Looking at her brought new face to my journey. I’ll never know the real story, the whole true story, but the one I will imagine will be inspired.
Day Three:
We arrived in Calhoun, GA around 7pm. The four hour trip was interesting and felt very commercial. When we got close to Atlanta, the interstate was lined with billboards. Some were digital and changed advertisement every few seconds, which is something I had never seen. Overwhelming – almost.
There is always a little insecurity that comes with traveling to a place unfamiliar. We left my family this afternoon after a yummy lunch. I fought tears, the urge settling somewhere in the spot where my head connects to my neck. Deladis didn’t want to go and I didn’t want to take the girls from them so soon.
I wonder how Arizona felt. A young girl of 14 or 15 setting out alone through the mountains in an unfamiliar way. Leaving her brothers. The mountains here are more foothills. I’m looking forward to seeing how they grow as we enter into Tennessee. The motivation was apparently too strong and overshot any fear she might have had.
Mamaw shared a letter written in Arizona’s hand in 1919 to her brother Walter that she had left behind. Her husband had been killed in the mines in 1918, and she was writing of wanting to move to a farm in Ohio from where she was in east Kentucky. She had to be attached to the land. She lived in town in Hazard, KY. I know I was always finding safety and solace in the hills as a kid, when I was troubled. I can imagine her wanting that comfort back, seeking it. I don’t think she saw Walter again after she ran away. It had to feel lonesome sometimes.
Now, as the girls play on the hotel beds. I think about where she slept her first night on the run. I’ve been disappointed with this establishment since we got here. The place is in poor shape, the pool is closed and unkept, our coffee was an empty wrapper, so we have none, and there is some kind of reddish brown bodily fluid splattered on the bathroom door. I wouldn’t have expected that of a hotel in this chain. At least we’re together and safe – joyful. I think of Arizona, alone – so young and totally alone.
My great great grandmother was Arizona Webb Walker. She was a Cherokee whose grandmother was one of the group who escaped the Trail of Tears and hid out to later create the Eastern Band of Cherokee in North Carolina. Arizona’s father was of Caucasian and Cherokee decent and from what we know of him very cruel to his wife and children. Their family traveled between Indian Territory in Oklahoma to New Echota, Georgia and Walden’s Ridge in Dayton, Tennessee several times. Arizona’s mother disappeared leaving her older children with their father. Arizona eventually escaped her father and walked the mountain ridge lines with a badly healed broken leg from New Echota, GA to be with her family in Tennessee. She was a young girl – alone. She married in Tennessee and she and her husband moved to Hazard, Kentucky for mining work in the early 1900s.
It is no small thing that I know this story. I grew up thinking that everyone had met most of their great grandparents. I thought it was common for people to know which country their European ancestors immigrated from. I thought it usual that most people’s family members hung onto things like copies of their ancestors’ names on documents like the Mullay or Dawes Rolls. Until I talked with friends who had no idea where they came from, I didn’t know exactly how fortunate I was to know so well my own heritage. I owe this all to my paternal grandmother Ida Lee Stacy Hansel, who with friends and cousins has spent years researching and documenting our family history. She spent hours with her grandchildren in the evenings and throughout the day telling us the stories as many times as we wanted to hear them. I was so proud of my heritage that I would walk with my head up no matter how I was tormented in my school days. I knew from where I came. I knew the strength, wisdom, and faith of my people.
Ida and Matt Horn her uncle... about age 30
The more I learn about Arizona, the more I have wanted to tell her story to the world. Her picture hangs in my living room and I stop and look at it several times a day. She leans on a garden hoe to support her bad leg, but is tall and lovely. There is so much raw strength and assurance in her eyes. Her hair loosely braided and hanging down her back. I see her in me.
I have decided to write her story as a work of fiction. I received a grant from the Kentucky Arts Council to do some preliminary research for the historical background of the novel. They have worked with me as a mother and provided a way for my family to go with me as well. Starting at the end of the week, we will be taking a trip to New Echota, Georgia and Dayton, Tennesee to retrace my great great grandmother’s steps in her journey to Kentucky. I will be researching the time in which she lived and the area’s visual appeal in order to create accurate settings. I’m very excited about this journey.
This journey has come about at the perfect time in my life. I fully believe in God’s timing for things, though I’m not the most patient person in waiting for it. I’m not spoiled, but I remind myself of Veruca Salt in the “I want it NOW!” sense. Our life is coming together in a beautiful way. As a mother, I feel like I could do so much better in my relationship with my girls. I do feel like our move back to the mountains was the best thing we could do for them, but I know I need to connect more with female members of my family. I need to learn from them the critical pieces of womanhood that I have tended to miss in my upbringing. I need to learn so I can pass them on. My grandmothers were irreplaceable in giving me any confidence that I had in my appearance and my intellect. I have a beautiful Aunt Sharon who taught me that common sense should be listened to, and a strong will can work both for and against you. I have a strong female presence in my life, but it is imperative for me to learn how to foster a strong and healthy mother/daughter bond. Because I didn’t feel comfortable in my ability to raise a girl properly, I didn’t think God would make me raise one. I should have known better. He’s given me two. 🙂
Also, I’m at a point in my life where I need to find who I want to be and what to bring forth from myself in the next ten years. I’m 30 1/2 years old. I’m not a kid anymore, but I have so much more to learn. It is my firm belief that we must know and understand our past in order to bring about a better future. I have so much to learn from Arizona’s life. I think fictionalizing the missing pieces will help me bond with her beyond stories being told. I will have to become a part of her in order to do her justice in my writing. I am looking forward to that eventhough I know that some of those places will be dark. The light that pours from her eyes is so much more.
This isn’t simply a vacation or a research project. It is a chance for my little family to reconnect. We haven’t been anywhere aside from work related things since before the girls were born. This is our chance to be fully present for each other. My grandfather has never seen Ivy. He will get to see her for the first time when we stop by their house on our way to Georgia. I will get to show the girls where they started. Teach them that they come from a people to whom this country rightfully belongs. A strong people who lived with the earth and used it as the Creator asked us to do – as stewards. A people who perservered through hardships, created a way to keep records when others were trying to destroy their heritage, and to this day is not afraid to break new ground. This is a quest for re-creation. From the past will be brought forth a new life.
The sky threatened rain all Thursday, Friday, and today, but it didn’t come. A gray sky and a humid breeze carried a warm hope that the seeds I planted Thursday would get some water. I got the garden planted from top to bottom and side to side. We have onions, carrots, potatoes, corn, cucumbers, zucchini, squash, cabbage, lettuce, sunflowers, and tomatoes in the ground and sprouting. I took walks with the girls, watched them play in the sandbox, read them stories.
The warm seasons are bittersweet for us. Bittersweet, as a word, has become cliche, but appropriate here. With a break from the cold and a promise of days spent in warmth and light, also comes a fact of life. Daddy will often be on the road. This is the season for artists and musicians to share their talents with the public. To bring forth the work of the winter like the trees bring forth their fresh leaves. As the leaves filter the sun and feed the trees, so the festivals, shows, and opportunities allow us to make a living. This weekend was one of those.
Eastern Hemlock
John is traveling for music this weekend. After Ivy was born, I stopped trying to go with him on the long overnight trips. Taking both of the girls was a bit much as we often slept in the truck or camped. The heat can get miserable, and being confined to a booth much of the time is no fun for little ones. We notice when Daddy is not with us. Deladis makes it known when she is ready for him to come home.
He came home last night on his way back from Roanoke, Virginia and on through to Morehead, Kentucky where he is recording with Brett Ratliff and The Blind Tiger Band. He had the band with him and Deladis braved a walk alone to be with her daddy on George Gibson’s front porch and hear the band play. I was cooking spicy stuffed cabbage for our guests, and thought it would be good for her to try the short walk on her own. It is funny what missing someone bad enough will allow us to do. It was her first time going it alone.
She sat with them last night as they played in the kitchen after supper, playing some on her little banjo. She sat there until she was bone tired, falling out of her chair with sleep, her head slumping into her daddy’s lap. Then, this morning, we ate oats and waved bye-bye as John and Brett set out again.
I’m looking forward to our upcoming trip to New Echota, Georgia and Dayton, Tenneesee (Walden’s Ridge) to research for my novel based on the life of Arizona Webb Walker my Cherokee great-great grandmother. I want to spend some time – just us, not trying to get ready to work, working, or thinking about work. I want to enjoy the warmth for awhile before it gets so hot we can’t breathe. I want to walk with my man and watch our girls enjoy the outdoors. To be filled with the light the Creator blesses us with each spring. There will be some time for that on our trip.
The wild blackberry bushes have bloomed like they tend to do when Mother Nature can’t decide whether it should be chilly or warm. I wanted to show John, and encourage him to remind us to take time to nuture the bushes and pick the berries at the first signs of ripeness. I’ll try to make blackberry dumplings this season.
Today the sky still can’t decide what it wants to do. Our seeds wait in the ground, covered and warm, to be soaked with the sprouting rain. Today, we are waiting for daddy to come home. We’ll take a rest in his warm arms until the time comes for us to miss him again.
In writing classes, we are told to write what we know. In writing what we know, we can create vivid more universal prose. I’ve always kept to this way of thinking with my writing in one way or another. I write what I’m passionate about. I’m finding it important to tell the story of my people. Fellow Appalachians and my peers.
So, I set out to write my first novel with characters I had visited before. Ones I had grown to care about. The main male character, Glenville, will be going underground to mine for the first time in his life in this novel. I will be going with Glenville there, but the only difference is that I physically won’t be going. I have never in my life visited an underground coal mine.
I am a coal miner’s daughter of generations back. My great great grandfather was part of the Harlan fights as was my great grandfather. (When miners looking for their workplace rights in Harlan, Kentucky literally had to fight gun thugs hired by the coal company.) My great grandmother was raised in a coal camp (housing provided to the coal miners’ families by the coal company). My grandfather was an electrician in the mines. My dad has worked both underground and in strip mining. Currently, he works in reclamation and environmental compliance of strip jobs as an environmental engineer. I was raised knowing that coal money fed us. I was raised knowing those men with the uncanny dark faces and respected them like you would a soldier returning from war. I also knew what they were putting on the line to provide for their family as they were taught men should do (and now women). It was as much a part of my life to see these working men and their black rimmed eyes as it was to wake every morning and see the mountains. But, in writing Glenville’s character I have realized one thing. I haven’t a clue as to where they have been or from where they are coming. It is something east Kentuckians live with everyday, but underground mining isn’t something we can say we know much about because many of us have never been down there.
I am relying on pictures I’ve seen on the internet and those I remember seeing of my dad underground. I am also reading Nathan Hall’s coal journal which documents his experience as an underground miner. I am taking what I have lived, looking at it from an opposite perspective, and writing the unknown. It takes imagination. A lot of imagination. It is also very strange to think that something that is so much a part of the Appalachian unconscious and conscious is really an unknown to so many of us.
I’m going with Glenville into that mine. We are going together. Right now he’s nervous and has no clue what he is up against, what will be expected of him, and neither do I. One thing I can guarantee, the next time I see that dust covered face at the grocery, I will see it a bit differently.
A Mountain Mama - East Kentucky Gal 