Bridle Path - Cupid Hits His Mark

Hello Everyone,

Here is Chapter 7 for my Packhorse Librarian story to go along with the Bridle Path quilt.

If you are new to my blog, I suggest you start at the beginning of the story.  I try to post a short chapter every month.  This is a fictional account of Lexie, a Packhorse Librarian in Kentucky in the 1930's.  She is writing a diary to her young daughter, Grace.

Chapter One    A New Beginning

Chapter Two   Aroma of Time

Chapter Three   Reflections

Chapter Four    The Christmas Surprise

Chapter Five    Les Misérables 

Chapter Six - From the Heart

Chapter #7 Month #7

March 1936

Dear Grace,

It has been several months now that I’ve totally embraced my new job as a packhorse librarian.  I was not expecting to have such a depth of fondness for the folks along my daily route.  Each day I feel as though I’m living between two landscapes, the rustic, and quaint town of Cobble Hill, and the backcountry and hollers nestled in the mountains surrounding the town.

I’ve known most of the people along my route my entire life.  But now, I’ve been invited into their homes and I’m really getting to know them at a deeper, more personal level, and I look forward to our weekly and, in some cases, monthly visits for those who live deeper in the woods.

After I drop you off at Grandma Millie’s house, I head over to the collection room at the back of the library we packhorse librarians use to gather and pack up the books and reading material we are going to distribute.  This morning, I decided to stop at the Spinning Wheel Café for a cup of coffee.  I was greeted by the tinkling of the bell as I walked through the front door and inhaled the blissful scent of freshly made cinnamon rolls right from the oven.  How could I resist the urge to splurge on a piping hot roll?  I had a few coins in my pocket and placed them on the counter.  I had just enough change for coffee and a roll which I decided to eat half now and wrap the rest in a cloth napkin and save to enjoy later in the day.

Sheriff McHenry sat at the end of the counter wearing his trademark trappers’ hat which was not standard issue for his uniform. Maybe it was worn in the northernmost reaches of Canada by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, but not in Kentucky.  The flaps were ‘up’ which meant he was listening to every word spoken in the café. You knew if the flaps were ‘down’ the sheriff was thinking about a case he was working on and he was not to be disturbed. His cases usually revolved around an illegal still, stolen horse, runaway husband, wife, teenaged child, or a fist fight at the local bar.  We had only one sheriff for the entire county and occasionally he had to draw on the resources of a neighboring town for a particularly serious case. 

For the most part, he spent his day in the café nursing a cup of coffee with a Lucky Strike cigarette building up ash in an ashtray, which Winnie, a very plump waitress, dumped out several times a day. I think Winnie enjoyed a few too many cinnamon rolls. Also, sheriff McHenry sported a large belly, probably a result of those cinnamon rolls too.

Sheriff McHenry always saved the spent pack of Lucky Strikes.  He would never wad up an empty pack in his fist.  He would remove the #2 Ticonderoga pencil from between his ear flap and ear and gently press the pencil over the empty pack to make it nice and flat. He was known to use the finished packs for target practice as the package looked like it had a bullseye on it.  He didn’t have to draw his firearm very often, but he certainly wanted to be ready and deadly accurate if the need arose.  The woods around Cobble Hill were decorated with empty packs of Lucky Strikes tacked to trees with the bullseye totally obliterated.  I guess this was a word of warning to any would be criminal.

The county issued the sheriff a 1927 Model T for his official duties.  He literally drove the car a consistent 27 miles an hour around town whether he was headed to an emergency or just cruising around the community looking for suspicious activity.  I wonder how fast he will drive if he were to be given a newer model?  I would think if he had been issued a 1936 model, he would still drive only 27mph, as 36mph would be totally out of control.

At the far end corner of the counter was his unofficial office, and we all knew not to sit on his personal stool.  When he brought folks in for an interview, he took them to a corner booth for privacy which was not very private.  As I walked in this morning, the sheriff looked up at me through a ribbon of smoke, with eyes squinted.  He was always surveying every café patron with suspicion.

I hung around the Spinning Wheel Café and listened to Walter Winchell on radio station WABC from New York. He was talking about the 1936 Summer Olympics which were going to be held in Berlin, Germany in August. There was a lot of talk about a working-class team of rowers from the University of Washington who had qualified to go to Berlin. The commentator was also talking about Jessie Owens, the Buckeye Bullet from Ohio State. It was going to be fun following the US Olympic team on the radio. I’m still amazed that a voice from New York can reach all the way to rural Kentucky!   I can’t imagine how a voice can travel across the ocean to our little corner of the world.

This morning, I could hear folks talking about a wake being held at the Craig Memorial Congregational Church for a long-time resident of Cobble Hill, Mrs. Gordon. Years ago, before I was in school, Mrs. Gordon was the schoolmarm.  I remember hearing how rigid and strict she was during her time at the schoolhouse. This was going to be a real social gathering as more than half of the residents were schooled by her and still spoke about the crack of the ruler they received on the back of their hands.  Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. VanAsperen were fast friends and when Mrs. Gordon retired from teaching, she gave Mrs. VanAsperen her ruler.  Unfortunately, Mrs. Gordon had trained the ruler well and Mrs. VanAsperen still used it to discipline her students.  I don’t think that ruler ever measured a thing except for the pain and humiliation it inflicted.

Sheriff McHenry would be at the wake too.  He would remove his hat during the prayer only, and then he’d slap it right back on his head.  You see, he has a perfectly egg-shaped bald head which elicited snickers and giggles whenever his hat was off. If you ever wondered what Humpty Dumpty looked like, just take a peek at Sheriff McHenry with his hat off. Poor man, I see why it seemed to be glued to his head.  Whenever we had a strong windstorm, the strings on the flaps were securely tied under his double chin. Heaven forbid his hat blew off and looked like an escaped monkey from a zoo rolling down main street.

Jenny Kenline, also known as the ‘grief catcher’ will be at the wake in full wake regalia and a plate of cookies. I’m not sure that Mrs. Gordon would be on the receiving end of one of Jenny’s carrot cakes, which were reserved for only the happiest of occasions.   I always wondered why a wake is called ‘wake’ when the object of all the attention is obviously far from being ‘a-wake’.   I’m sure Mrs. Gordon would be very disapproving if there was a drop of alcohol consumed during her wake, so cookies it is and absolutely no rum balls allowed.

I headed over to the library with my cinnamon roll tightly rolled up in a cloth napkin which I promised to return to Winnie.  I’m not sure how the roll would fare in my saddlebag packed with books, so I decided to keep it in my coat pocket. I knew I would probably have a grease stain on my pocket, but I didn’t care.  I threw the saddlebags full of books over Starkey’s hind end, and we were off for the day, and it was just barely 8:00 am.

I love these early morning rides.  The sky was pewter-colored over the green grass and trees. I could hear the birds chirping and singing their praise for the day.  I joined in with a silent prayer of thanks and gratitude for my life, my important job, and for you Grace.  I stopped at several cabins along my route before I went to see Nellie Welsh.  Her cabin was always so depressing, yet she was up and dressed to a ‘tee’ just in case this was the day she was going to pass over.  She offered me a cup of coffee, but I declined as I still had multiple stops along my way.

I came to the river which was higher than usual for this time of year. Starkey, my dog Blue, and I stood at the shore watching the swift water pass by.  I looked at the water and thought about my life racing by. Two leaves were flowing swiftly together until they came to a large rock.  One leaf moved smoothly around the rock, while the other one was caught in an eddy in front of the rock and was sucked into the water.  I thought about me and the fact that my life is the leaf heading downstream.  Your father’s life was swallowed by the eddy, and we aren’t going to be meeting downstream anytime soon. There are times like these when sadness washes over me to the point that I ignore everything around me when I should be paying more attention to everything surrounding me. Enough of these silent conversations with myself.

Starkey put his right hoof into the water, then reared and spun around as though he had been shot by a bullet from Sheriff McHenry’s handgun.  Starkey was whirling around in a frenzy, while I held on to the reins and saddle horn for dear life spinning in every direction like the needle on a compass. While I was spinning just like the Tile-A-Whirl at the local carnival,  I caught a glimpse of Little Georgie Stoltz stealing away holding his bow.  My guess is Georgie’s suction-cup arrow found Starkey’s rump at close range and startled him into turning circles in search of the culprit who attacked him. Before I knew it, I landed on my buttocks in the river.  All I could think about was the ruined cinnamon roll in my pocket! 

As luck would have it, Daniel from Leonardo’s Mill was driving by with a load of mill ends in the bed of his truck.  He parked and ran over to help me out of the water and grabbed Starkey’s reins.  Blue just stood there and barked at Daniel, then pursued Little Georgie off into the woods. I was secretly wishing Blue would take a little nip out of Georgie’s rump to teach him a lesson!  I know that is so un-Christian like but I wasn’t feeling very charitable at the time.

When Daniel got me upright, I realized that somehow on the way down, I had twisted my ankle, possibly my boot had gotten hung up in the stirrup.  Daniel thought I should leave my boot on, and he loaded me into his truck and thought it would be a good idea if he took me to Old Doc Wood’s office.  He tied Starkey’s reins to the back of the truck and Blue jumped up and played king of the mountain on top of the load of mill ends and we were off at a slow rate of speed, much slower than Sheriff McHenry.

Daniel waited for me while Old Doc Wood gently removed my boot, palpitated my ankle and proclaimed that I should stay off it for the day, and I’d be fine by morning.  I was not so sure that was the case.  My buttocks ached, my ankle ached, and my precious cinnamon roll was ruined.  Daniel then took me to Grandma Millie’s house so she could keep an eye on me during the day.  When the truck pulled up in front of her house, I got out and hobbled over to the chair on the front porch and sat down emitting a loud sigh.  We soon discovered that Grandma Millie and Grace must still be at Mrs. Gordon’s wake.

We sat in contented silence for a bit when Daniel asked if he could take me to the Spring Frolic at the Church in two weeks.  My mind was racing……I had only been a widow for a little over a year.  Would this be proper?  I was lonesome for the company of a man, but I was not lonely, in fact I had become extremely self-sufficient. I always said I would never want another man’s boots under my bed, but was that really the case?  It’s amazing the number of thoughts that can go through your head in a split second.  I told him I would have to think about it as I didn’t think I would be very light on my feet by the way my ankle was swelling.  Daniel suggested we move down by the stream and sit there for a bit before he had to go on his way.  The chilly water made my ankle feel so much better.  Maybe the water just took the edge off the pain and was beginning to numb my entire foot.

I sat and stared at the water rushing down out of the mountains and saw it part as it went around a rock.  This time, a leaf didn’t get stuck in an eddy and the two sides of the stream split then met peacefully on the other side of the rock and traveled down the waterway together.

Daniel helped me into Grandma Millie’s cabin, and he went on his way to deliver the mill ends.  He would have to explain to the mill owner why he was late with his deliveries that day, and he knew Mr. Leonardo would be understanding.  Daniel tipped his hat to me and said he hoped to see me in the next few days to find out my answer to his invitation. He said he hoped my answer would be yes.

I curled up on the chesterfield (Sheriff McHenry does not smoke Chesterfields since there’s no ‘target’ on the pack) and slept until you and Grandma Millie came back from the wake. After I told her what happened and why I was home, she said she must make Daniel a cake as a thank you for rescuing me from the river and taking care of me while she was gone.  She knew just the cake she was going to make because Jenny Kenline out did herself with a new cake recipe for the wake.  She must have had a soft spot in her heart for Mrs. Gordon after all.  Grandma Millie gave the recipe a new name in honor of Mrs. Gordon.

Soon,

Mama

 

Old School Walnut Pound Cake

3 cups cake flour

2 cups sugar

1 cup packed brown sugar

3 sticks of butter (room temperature)

5 eggs (room temperature)

1 cup whole buttermilk (room temperature)

½ Teaspoon baking powder

¼ Teaspoon salt

1 Tablespoon vanilla extract

1 Tablespoon pound cake extract

2 cups walnuts minced – save some to sprinkle on the top of the cake

 

THICK GLAZE

2 cups powdered sugar

1 stick of butter

4 ounces cream cheese

4 teaspoons half and half

 

Cream butter and sugars together until smooth.

Slowly add eggs 1 at a time

Add flavorings

Sift salt and baking powder with the flour

Add flour mixture and buttermilk to the butter and sugar mixture beginning and ending with flour

Stir in walnuts

Pour into a greased tube pan

Bake at 325 degrees for 1 hour.  Check after 45 minutes with a piece of straw from a broom.  The cake is ready when the straw comes out clean.

Let cool in pan for 20 minutes.  Place on a cake plate and frost when completely cooled

Bridle Path - From the Heart

 Hello Everyone,

It's that time again for another chapter in the life of Lexi, my fictional Packhorse Librarian in Appalachian Kentucky in 1935-36.  Lexi is writing a journal to her young daughter, Grace.

If you are new to my blog, I would suggest you start reading from the very beginning. 

Chapter One    A New Beginning

Chapter Two   Aroma of Time

Chapter Three   Reflections

Chapter Four    The Christmas Surprise

Chapter Five    Les Misérables 

Bridle Path - Chapter 6 - From the Heart

February 1936

Dear Grace,

This has become a time of reflection for me while I ride along my route into the hollers and back country of rural Appalachian Kentucky. I’m not only riding my route and blazing a trail, but as I ride, I’m sifting through an enormous number of memories in my life which have brought me to this new and very unexpected route my life has taken. 

As I look around, I realize the countryside is held captive by the grip of Winter.  I will not be held captive by Winter or by my own thoughts; I’m going to break the bonds and forge a trail even though my anxiety level grows with the height of the snow.  This is one of those times when I wish Starkey was 2 hands higher than he is. If he threw me, at least I would land in snow and not meet the hard earth with a thud.

There is such emptiness yet richness in the silence in the mountains which makes my senses more aware of everything around me.  There are times when I reign in Starkey, and we listen to the stillness around us.  Such sweet stillness that calms my mind and soul and gives me time to sort through my thoughts.  I marvel at the bluebird sky, a color truly designed by a higher power for our enjoyment and awe. I also love looking at the different tracks in the snow.  A very low-slung creature made an odd pattern through the snow in front of me. My first thought is a fisher cat. It doesn’t like fish and it’s not a cat, so I have no idea how it received that name.  I just know that I would rather not come face to face with one.

My saddle has become my chair as I spend more time in it than I do at home.  Was it comfortable….no, but my saddle fits me like a glove and adjusts to my every curve. Or maybe my body fits every contour of the saddle.  I wouldn’t call it an easy chair, but it is becoming a comfortable old friend.

I just stopped in and spent some time with Little Georgie Stoltz.  This is his favorite time of year as he likes to pretend he is Cupid with his bow and suction cup arrow.  I must remind him not to shoot me, so the arrow doesn’t startle Starkey.  The entire family has been enjoying Robinson Crusoe. I probably stayed longer than I should have and spent some time reading to them. Sitting by the fire and sipping a weak cup of coffee was just what I needed to get some heat back into my body. The words of Mrs. Stoltz resonated in my brain as I left their cabin.  “Land sakes child, please be careful out there!”

My thoughts travel back to Valentine’s Day, or the ghost of Valentine’s past.  This is the second February 14^th since your Daddy’s passing.  I feel as though the months of the calendar fly by one after the other without much delineation in time. But Winter, oh how Old Man Winter keeps such monotonous and repetitive time. The days tick away like the metronome in Mrs. Welch’s cabin.

I find myself drifting back to when I was in 5^th grade in Mr. South’s one room schoolhouse in Cobble Hill.  There were only three of us in the 5^th grade if you count Rocky, who took eight years to matriculate to the 5^th grade.  Rocky was just there to warm the pines of his chair but never absorb any knowledge between his ears.  His only pleasure in life was trying to torment the entire schoolhouse of students, and Mr. South.

On any given day, there was an assortment of small and large bodies from the age of five to fifteen.  For the most part, we all got along pretty well, except for Rocky and had known each other since we were old enough to walk.  You could say just about all of us were in the same poor economic circumstance. There was no income gap in town; we were all pretty much in the same boat.  Some boats rode a bit higher in the water than others. The good news is we never knew we were poor; we just didn’t know differently.

There was one student, Glen, who truly was poor, and was, as some said, from the wrong side of the tracks. I never knew that tracks had a right and wrong side until years later.  The boat his family was in floated lower in the water than the rest of us and was close to capsizing and taking in water at a fast clip. Glen was the eldest of five children.  The hand-me-down clothes he wore were well-worn castoffs from his father.  The clothes hung on his painfully thin bones like a scarecrow.  I remember he cut holes in the cuffs of an old sweater and stuck his thumbs through the holes to keep the sleeves from reaching down to his knees.  I thought that design modification was genius and told him so.

Glen was likeable but he didn’t see the inside of a bathtub on a frequent rotation with the other children in his cabin.  His face was usually dirty which made his smile extremely white. It was a winning smile that made you overlook the ever-present odor that followed him like a cloud through the classroom.

We were just kids who went to school to have fun, be with our friends, and yes learn a thing or two so we could better our lives. I have yet to understand why long division would make my life better.  Not to mention dividing and multiplying fractions!  Well, I take that back.  My knowledge of fractions has helped Grandma Millie with her quilting calculations.

Every day when we entered the classroom, each of the chalkboards were filled with arithmetic problems. We had to write the problems down on our paper and solve them.  I could breeze through the easy section and would really have to concentrate on the harder problems.  One by one we were called up to the board to solve the problem so we could all learn.  It became a fun game to see who could finish first and we were learning so much; well, some of us were always learning with the exception of Rocky who made a habit of making paper airplanes with his arithmetic paper.  Mr. South put a stop to that and challenged Rocky to design a paper airplane that would fly over the top of the swing set in the school yard.  He could only do that after he finished and solved all the problems on the chalkboard. That Mr. South sure had Rocky figured out. 

During lunchtime, Mr. South always sat with Glen as he knew no one else would sit with him.  Glen welcomed this as Mr. South always slipped him an extra sandwich, an apple, or a cookie made by Mrs. South.   The only one in the room who spoke out about this show of favoritism was Rocky, of course. Mr. South just asked Rocky how his paper airplane was coming along and would he please give us a demonstration of his aerial pursuit after lunch.

Mr. South was a fresh graduate right out of the new teachers’ college in Lexington. He was very tall with jet black hair and always wore the same double-breasted suit every day to school even when the temperature was way too hot to wear a suit.  Maybe this was why he got hot under the collar when it came to dealing with Rocky on a daily basis.

Our assignment for the past few nights was making cards to exchange on Valentine’s Day.  We had to use our best penmanship as taught to us by Mrs. Van Asperen.  Every night before Valentine’s Day, I would sit at the kitchen table and make Valentine cards for my classmates.  Throughout the year my mother saved scraps of paper, lace, ribbon, paper bags, and buttons, and I would sit and make cards.  I was so happy when she saved some paper doilies from a Church luncheon. This was the best addition to my Valentine cards ever! 

I thought about my best friends, and each of their Valentine cards received special attention and extra embellishments.  I had just one small piece of paper doily left and had to decide who would get it. I decided that Glen would appreciate it the most, mainly because Rocky wadded up his skimpy Valentine’s Day cards last year and threw them into the wood burning stove at the end of the day.

I labored over Glen’s card and thought it was the nicest one that I’d made.  I didn’t want him to think I was sweet on him, I just wanted him to receive a nice card since he had so little joy in his life.

The room mothers came into the classroom toward the end of the day, and we had a nice party with punch, homemade cookies and then exchanged Valentine’s.  Poor Glen, literally poor Glen, didn’t receive many cards that day. He shyly looked my way when he saw the card I’d made for him.  His fingers traced the heart on top of the paper doily and his smile lit up the room and my heart. I think both of us were blushing, but I couldn’t see the color rise through the smudges of grime on his face.

That sweet moment was fleeting as Mr. South rang the school bell and we all gathered up our goodies and headed for home.  When we filed out, Mr. South asked me to stay after school.  I was horrified!  I NEVER got in trouble in school.  My mind was racing through the day while I tried to figure out what I had done to warrant the punishment of staying after school. Was my long division that bad? I could feel myself close to tears and was so embarrassed!  I sat back down in my chair and awaited my punishment for whatever crime I’d committed that day. 

Mr. South came over to me and eased his large, lanky body into one of the student chairs with a long sigh.  He looked me directly in my eyes and thanked me from the bottom of his heart for the Valentine card that I’d made for Glen.  The tears of relief started to fall and spill out of my eyes.  He said my act of kindness to Glen made an impression on him and was an example to the other students, and for that he was truly thankful.  All these years later I still remember that day unlike any other day in 5^th grade.  I don’t remember any other Valentine’s Day, only that special day in 5^th grade. What I’d done made a difference in the life of another.

Remembering back to that day in 1923, took my mind off my current problems in 1936. The passage of those 13 years seems like a lifetime ago. I was now a young widow with a small child who depended on me for her survival.  I’ve known love and loss, too much loss for someone my age.  Then and there I decided that I needed to become a force of nature and blaze my way through the woods to those who came to depend on me for a cheerful smile, a book, a magazine, and to share any news about Cobble Hill and our country. I needed to make a difference in my community.

On my way back to town, I stopped by that one room schoolhouse which has expanded to two rooms.  Mr. South was cleaning the chalkboards in the room for the older kids.  Mrs. Van Asperen had come out of retirement to teach the little kids.  No doubt her Palmer Method of Penmanship was foremost in her curriculum.

I half expected to see Rocky there, but he finally graduated from 8^th grade sporting a full beard and moved on to join the service after a short time of working in the mines. I wonder if he’s now piloting a plane over swing sets in faraway places. I knew Glen wasn’t there as he moved away after 5^th grade to who knows where. Maybe his family headed off to California to become pickers out in the sprawling Central Valley. I wonder if he still has the special Valentine. I also wonder if his smile can still light up a room.

I asked both teachers if they could save any Valentine’s Day cards from their upcoming party before anyone had the chance to throw them into the fire.  I thought they would be a wonderful addition to the scrapbooks we Packhorse Librarians were making to become part of our distributing circulation.  The handmade Valentine cards would be colorful and good for those learning to read.  The scrap books also contained newspaper articles, hand drawn quilt patterns, recipes, and other tidbits of information we could find about our local area and the world.  We cut pictures out of magazines and catalogs that we were no longer distributing and put them in the scrapbooks. It was a fun diversion for us when the weather was too inclement for us to be out on horseback. I was thrilled to know Mr. South and Mrs. Van Asperen vowed to save the leftover cards for me.

As I left the classroom, Mr. South looked at me, winked, and asked how my long division was coming along.

Soon,

Mama

Bridle Path - Chapter 5 - Les Misérables

 Hello Everyone,

I'm finally posting Chapter 5 for my Packhorse Librarian story.  I've had a very busy start to the New Year, and there just aren't enough hours in the day to get everything done!

Chapter #5 Month #5

January 1936

Dear Grace,

When your daddy was alive, I always looked forward to the first snowfall of the season. You and I only ventured outside to bring in firewood and then we would briefly play in the white powder.  You would mimic me and look up at the sky and squeal with delight when a snowflake landed on your tongue, and you would wrinkle up your little nose and make a face.  That precious little face always made me laugh. I don’t laugh as much as I used to, and I need to work on that.

Now when it snows, all I can think about is breaking trail through the snow to get to the back country to deliver books to those who have come to depend on me, not only for the books but for my company.  When I signed up to become a Packhorse Librarian, I did it to help feed my family.  Little did I know at the time I was feeding my own soul and helping myself heal while helping others.

My mama gave me an old oil cloth tablecloth to wrap around my shoulders to keep the snow from soaking through my jacket.  The oil cloth was held in place by a large safely pin. I found out quickly that the clothes pin I was using to keep it closed was inadequate when it came to keeping the oil cloth snug around my shoulders.  The clothes pin kept popping off and landing in the snow.  This meant I had to get off of Starkey’s saddle and dig around in the snow like a rutting pig to find the clothes pin.  How could something so light get buried so quickly?

This week I have a new couple on my list to visit, Mr. and Mrs. Portage.  Their cabin is located 5 miles outside of Cobble Hill.  I have seen them only a couple of times when they’ve come into town to either see Old Doc Wood or pick up a few supplies.  They are always pleasant when I saw them around town, and they seemed to enjoy the company of others.

Mrs. Portage is a tall, wispy woman with thick white hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck.  There is a regal and elegant quality about her even in poverty.  Mr. Portage was a thin, wiry man who always wore a felt hat with a wide brim.  He appeared to look more like a scarecrow in his worn-out bib overalls and plaid shirt.  When he took off his hat you could see a few strands of iron-gray hair neatly combed across the top of his head. 

They were lucky their cabin received more sunshine than most, making Mr. Portage’s garden the envy of the holler. Maybe it was his scarecrow-like appearance that kept the birds and small critters away from his flourishing garden.  He set up snares around the perimeter of the garden to catch an occasional rabbit on a midnight marauding spree.  After skinning, the rabbit went directly into a big black pot and kept them fed for a few days with the addition of a turnip, carrots, onions, and potatoes.

Mr. Portage shared with me that he loved it when he snared a raccoon.  His face would light up and tell me it was a delicacy which they enjoyed.  They truly lived off the land and nothing went to waste. The snared raccoon meant there was one less predator in the woods to steal the eggs right out from under the chickens in the coop.  Mr. Portage pointed out the shotgun by the front door of the cabin that took care of a raccoon or two over the past few months who were ‘poaching’ eggs from his chickens.  He laughed when he used the phrase poached eggs!

I looked forward to my ride to see Mr. and Mrs. Portage in the early morning hours through the woods.  The snow has a way of silencing and muffling all sound.  Except for the occasional snort from Starkey, and the crack of a broken branch, the woods were quiet.  The avian chorus was also quiet while we made our way through the woods. Blue would bound off in search of a scent while following a trail of tracks through the underbrush.  The world, the morning, and my thoughts were peaceful as we made our way along the path.

Quite often my thoughts were not peaceful as I tried to get through each day.  Not only were we trying to survive after the depression, but there were also rumblings about a new leader in Germany named Adolf Hitler. Your grandma spoke often about WW1 and the thought of another war were just too much for me to comprehend. Just like Starkey, I needed to put one foot in front of the other and make progress through the day and only entertain thoughts about the good I was doing, and how I was able to put food on our own table and make our lives a bit better through the Packhorse Librarian program.  

Starkey, Blue, and I arrived at the Portage’s cabin at different times.  Blue was way ahead of me and was enjoying a belly rub on the front porch from Mr. Portage by the time I rode into the front yard at their cabin. On the outside, I could tell the cabin was small yet well cared for. The inside was as neat as a pin. There was an exceedingly small woodburning stove in the living area flanked by one overstuffed chair and one rocking chair. The wood stove didn’t have to work too hard to keep the cabin toasty warm as it was so small. 

There was a double bed in one corner with an iron head and footboard and a well-used quilt to keep them warm.  I commented on the beautiful quilt and Mrs. Portage shared that she made the quilt for their wedding in 1922.  I looked at them and was doing some mental calculations and soon realized they had only been married for 16 years.  They must have both been older when they married as now, they both appeared to be in their late 60’s, maybe early 70’s.  Time has a way of adding years to a hard life here in the hollers.

There was a small kitchen cupboard in the other corner with a basin for washing dishes.  The open shelves housed two cups, two plates, a couple of bowls and cooking utensils, all serviceable but sparse. Mrs. Portage said she would love to have a piece of calico fabric to cover the shelves to keep out the dust and add a bit of color to the inside of the cabin.

They were incredibly grateful when I asked them if they would enjoy a Reader’s Digest. They quickly said yes as the only reading material they had in the cabin was their family Bible which they read every single day.  They would sit by the fire and take turns reading to each other while watching the storm clouds gather all around them. They were snug as two bugs in a rug inside their modest, little slice of heaven. 

They said they would read an article a day as that was the way the Digest was originally set up at its inception in the early 1920’s.  Mr. Portage said he would very much enjoy reading Humor in Uniform since he was in the Navy during WW1. That brought a smile to my face when I thought about the Popeye the Sailorman cartoon, I’d watched with your daddy at the Senator Cinema in Lexington.  The cartoon played before the main attraction of Les Misérables, which at the time was all the rage.  Mr. Portage looked like Popeye! 

After watching the movie, I asked myself why I wanted to see a movie with the word miserable in the title?  I felt drained and sad at the conclusion as the movie lasted almost five hours!  On a positive note, I felt as though got my money’s worth, and my life wasn’t nearly as tragic as Victor Hugo’s characters….at least not yet since your daddy was still alive.

I wanted to learn more about Mr. and Mrs. Portage, and I knew I would develop a strong friendship with them over time. I didn’t want to ask too many questions, but I expressed my concern over a large sore on Mr. Portage’s lower lip.  He said he was a pipe smoker for years, and his lip was just irritated.  That added more to my image of Popeye! I’m sure Mr. Portage was also growing cans of spinach in his garden which the rabbits could not eat!

Soon,

Mama

Bridle Path - Chapter 4 - The Christmas Surprise

 Merry Christmas Everyone!

Well, it's that time again, another diary entry from my packhorse librarian, Lexie.  The months slip by so quickly, especially this month with all of the Christmas preparations, entertaining, and parties. 

My friend Sharon made a Christmas Ribbons quilt pattern this year.  I love the large polka dot fabric and large stripe! Sharon will be enjoying her quilt on display for many years to come.

Now it is time to travel back to Christmas in Cobble Hill, Kentucky in 1935 to spend a few minutes reading about Lexie, my fictional packhorse librarian. The packhorse librarian program was started as part of the WPA program by Elenor Rosevelt. This is Lexie's fourth diary entry to her daughter Grace. Enjoy. To find chapters 1-3, in the search box on the blog, type in Packhorse librarian story.

 

Chapter #4 Month #4

December 1935

Dear Grace,

It is frigid and icy on these early December mornings when I get up around 4:30. I must wake you from a deep slumber and get you ready to stay with Grandma Millie. Before we leave the cabin, I try to bank the fire well enough to keep the chill off until we return. By the time we get home, there are just a few embers remaining, just enough to get a small fire going for warmth and light.

We cuddle up by the glow of the fire, and I read you a story from a picture book.  This is one of my favorite times of the day and it keeps me going just knowing I’m coming home to you after my rounds. I’m so thankful that Grandma Millie always has a pot of stew on the stove and a biscuit ready for me no matter what time I get to her cabin to pick you up. Even though I’m totally tuckered out, I devour the bowl of stew and biscuit that I’ve completely covered with elderberry jam.

Since your daddy passed, it is now up to me to haul the firewood to the cabin from the cords of wood your daddy so neatly stacked to get us through the winter. I look at the woodpile and know I’m going to have to spend a lot of time during good weather to replenish it.  The thought of sawing trees down and splitting the wood sounds exhausting, but it will need to be done on the days when I’m not working.  I never appreciated a single log of wood until now, and I thank your daddy every day for keeping us warm. It’s as though he’s giving us a comforting, warm hug and wrapping us in his love.

I’m so thankful for Daniel who works at Leonardo’s Mill.  He brings over a wagon full of mill ends for Grandma Millie and me. The mill ends are a perfect size to use as kindling and use in our wood burning stoves for cooking. You love to sit on the floor and stack up a pile of mill ends and squeal with delight when you knock them over. Your pile looks like the leaning tower of Pisa before it topples to the ground.

I put you to bed and devote a few minutes sitting by the fire, mesmerized by the flames licking the inside of the fireplace. This is my time to think about my day, the people I met, my path through the mountains, and the good the packhorse librarians are doing by bringing literacy and companionship to the people in the hollers.  I’m filled with gratitude for the opportunity to help my own family with the dollar a day that I’m earning, but the cost of my new job means less time for you, Grace.

There have been nights when I’m so hypnotized by the flames, that I fall asleep by the fire and wake up in the rocking chair with a stiff neck in the early morning hours and must start a new day. I thought that dawn was a dream, but then reality set in, and it was time to start my route all over again. This is the new route of my life for which I am very thankful.

My mama tells me the only way to work through my grief at the loss of your daddy is to help others in need.  I’m determined to blaze a trail through the mountains and through my grief at the same time.  So, I pack up my memories in the pillowcase filled with books and head out into the hollows to bring a spark of light to those in need.

Those McKevitt boys are at the forefront of my mind, and they tug at my heartstrings. I stopped by last week to pick up the Primers and Sears & Roebuck catalog I left with Mrs. McKevitt and the boys, Harley, and Donny.  There was an extra glimmer of excitement in their faces when they told me what they thought they were getting for Christmas…..an erector set.  They said their daddy told them they could make anything in the world they wanted with the gift they were going to receive. They were sure it was an erector set, and in my heart, I knew their dream would not be fulfilled.

After my visit to see the boys the week before and I heard about their desire to get an erector set, I headed over the see Mrs. Jerome Reginald Steiniger, the pearl-sucking prude, and asked if there was anyway, she could find the funds from the Ladies Aid Society to purchase an erector set for the boys.  A look of concern washed across her face and was quickly replaced with a frown. Her frown was swapped with a look of sympathy as she gently told me there was too much poverty and need in the area to spend money on something as frivolous as an erector set to make two little boys happy.

When I dropped you off with Grandma Millie, I could see that she had been busy making ornaments out of clothes pins for our Christmas Tree. There were two of the new clothes pin ornaments on the table. She carefully paints each face on the top of the clothespin, and paints black shoes on the bottom. She fashions little dresses and adds bows and bits of ribbon leftover from items she keeps in her wicker sewing basket. She sold some of the ornaments for a penny at the Christmas bazaar at the church. With her earnings, she bought a few oranges for Christmas and some lemons for pie.

I kissed you goodbye then headed over to the packhorse librarian room at the back of the library to fill my pillowcases with books and catalogs. I like to think I’m filling the pillowcases with knowledge.  I will be so pleased when I have enough money to purchase a set of saddlebags, because I’m afraid my pillowcases are going to deteriorate sooner rather than later. It also concerns me that my Starkey is getting poked by the corners of the books.

Some new items were available for me to choose from for the folks on my route. When I spied a Popular Mechanics magazine, I knew Harley and Donny would love it as they were so intent on learning how things work. Their poverty never put a damper on their thirst for learning.

I found out that I have a new stop along my route, Mr. and Mrs. Stoltz and their son Georgie. Everyone in Cobble Hill (us locals call it Cob Hill because cobble sounds too much like gobble) have always called Georgie ‘Little Georgie Stoltz’ even though he is now forty-two. Little Georgie thinks there is an Indian behind every tree and carries around a toy bow with a suction cup arrow. The family lives fairly close to town, so they are the first stop on my route today. 

Apparently, Georgie’s birth was a tough one, and Old Doc Wood needed to use forceps to assist in the delivery of a very reluctant and large baby.  Little Georgie was never right in the head, but he was very dear to his parents and everyone in town. The townspeople would pretend to be injured and feign terrific pain when Little Georgie shot a suction cup arrow at them. Little Georgie would collapse into gales of laughter which was a welcome sound around town. When he was talking to you, he was always pointing out the Indians behind the trees. We all played along with it and Little Georgie would dart off in search of the elusive Indians.

I found a copy of Robinson Crusoe while I was loading up my pillowcase and wondered if Little Georgie would enjoy it if I read a chapter or two aloud. I am not sure he could sit still long enough, but I think his parents would like to have the distraction of their minds being carried off to a different world filled with adventure.

Starkey, my dog Blue, and I headed off along the fence line up to those on my route. The first part of the route is easy traveling, but fairly soon the fence line ends, and the game trails begin, and up, up, up we travel. I enjoyed listening to the birds sing, an avian chorus as my mama calls it. The squirrels dart about storing nuts in anticipation of the harsh Winter. How do they remember where they store them?

Today is the Winter Solstice, which changes the rhythm of life in the mountains. Livestock was slaughtered so they did not have to be fed during the hard months of Winter. The meager gardens will stop producing and fresh vegetables will not be on the table. Only canned vegetables will be available for those who were able to put some away in root cellars.

Soon I arrived at Little Georgie Stoltz’s cabin. The rock foundation supporting the front porch is in need of repair, as is the rest of the foundation.  Georgie met me on the front porch with bow and arrow in hand. I raised both of my hands in the air in complete surrender and asked him not to shoot as I didn’t want Starkey to get spooked. I felt that I only had time to read one chapter of Robinson Crusoe, which they all enjoyed. Little Georgie was able to keep still long enough before he ran off in search of Indians. I told them I’d be back the week after Christmas and I’d try to make time to read some more to them.

When I arrived at the McKevitt’s I was surprised that the boys didn’t meet me outside. When Mrs. McKevitt opened the door, I saw the boys over in the corner engaged in activity with their one hand-carved truck made by their father. Mrs. McKevitt shared with me the news that her husband had recovered from his injury at the mine and was able to return to work, which was a godsend.

The boys were rather sullen until I took out the Popular Mechanics magazine out of my pillowcase for them.  They quickly abandoned their truck and laid right down on their stomachs in front of the fireplace on the cold cabin floor so they could both look at the magazine at the same time. They were very curious about an article on plumbing and asked me to read it to them. I had to explain to them what plumbing was, and they were amazed that people actually had an indoor outhouse!  Harley asked me if there was a half-moon on the door to let in the light. I didn’t have to worry that the pages of the magazine would end up in their outhouse! 

I told them I would be back right after Christmas to see them, which brought smiles to all of their faces.  I think baby Stanley even smiled.

Our Christmas Eve dinner was wonderful. We were so grateful when Old Doc Wood stopped by and gave us a rabbit and a few potatoes the day before. His patients often paid him with food, and he had more than he could use. Grandma Millie supplemented the fried rabbitt with cooked turnips and carrots from the root cellar. We also had a delightful and heavenly lemon meringue pie. What a treat and feast!

After dinner there was a knock at our door. We both assumed it was a neighbor stopping by to swap howdies and wish us a Merry Christmas. Much to my surprise, I saw Mrs. Jerome Reginald Steiniger’s ample bosom staring at me in the face. She handed me a round container of Tinker Toys and told me this was a more appropriate gift for boys their age, and I best get over to the McKevitt boys first thing in the morning. I never had such happy tears spring so quickly from my eyes. I wanted to hug her, but her bosom and the container of Tinker Toys got in the way, and I didn’t think she would accept a hug. This Christmas Eve is when I stopped calling Mrs. Jerome Reginal Steiniger the pearl sucking prude.

I dressed quickly first thing Christmas morning and rode over to the McKevitt’s with the Tinker Toys safely packed in my pillowcase, The Tinker Toys were wrapped in brown paper with a sprig of greenery on the top. I also had two oranges for the family.

The boys were on the floor of the cabin playing. They came running over to me and told me they didn’t get an erector set for Christmas, but instead they got a box of chalk.  They told me they could make anything with a box of chalk just like their daddy told them! They were drawing all over the cabin floor and complained to little baby Stanley when he crawled across their pictures.

As the miners went down into the mine, using a piece of chalk they put an ‘X’ by their name indicating they were in the mine. At the end of the day, they erased the ‘X’.  Mr. McKevitt asked the paymaster if he could have the small bits of chalk leftover at the end of the day. By the end of the week, the paymaster gave Mr. McKevitt a handful of small bits and pieces of chalk.

I did not want to diminish the importance of the gift from their parents, so I took them aside and told them what I had for the boys. Mr. McKevitt said the boys could use the chalk to draw roads on the floor for the cars they could make with the Tinker Toys.

The look of amazement on their faces was priceless when I opened the pillowcase and gave the boys their present. I told them Santa had delivered the present to the wrong cabin. I was just the delivery person without a sleigh and reindeer…..but I did have Starkey to lead the way. The oranges weren’t a huge hit with the boys, but they were for their parents.

I rode away from their cabin with a full heart and thinking 1936 is going to be filled with promise.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Soon,

Lynn

 

Bridle Path - Chapter 3 - Reflections

 Hello Everyone,

Here is chapter three in my Packhorse Librarian story, which is late getting posted.  Life has a way of getting in the way with trips to Quilt Market, my Sew'n Wild Oaks retreat, and Thanksgiving. It's been a very busy six weeks.

Remember this is a journal that my fictional packhorse librarian is writing to her daughter.  Month #1 is posted HERE.  Month #2 is posted HERE.

Chapter #3 Month #3

November 1935

Dear Grace,

Twenty miles a day in a saddle gives a woman a long time to think. I’m heading back to Cob Hill as it was my first day delivering books, literacy, and dreams packed in my pillowcases to families and individuals living out in the hollers of Cob Hill. My first day on the job was successful yet taxing.

As I was getting ready to leave the cabin very early this morning, I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror.  I looked a bit distraught since I had been rushing around the cabin getting myself and you, ready to leave for the day and stay with your Grandma Millie.  I stopped in my tracks when I saw myself in the mirror and I wondered just how many times your daddy looked at himself in this same mirror while using the shaving mug I gave him for our first Christmas together.  I just wish that mirror kept a record of reflections.  Maybe if I could look deep enough and hard enough in the mirror, I could see your daddy’s handsome face hiding somewhere in the depths of reflection. 

He would have been so proud of me as I’m trying to become independent and help us survive during these hard economic times.  I wouldn’t say that we are thriving as I haven’t received my first paycheck for $28.00 yet.  The check will arrive in December, just in time for Christmas.

The book drive at the annual Fall Festival was very successful thanks to the organizer, Mrs. Jerome Reginald Steiniger, president of the Ladies Aid Society and the pearl-sucking prude.  Many books, several old Sears & Roebuck catalogues and magazines were donated for all age groups.  I’ve been told by other packhorse librarians that the catalogs are very popular. To me, the catalogues seem very cruel to hand out as the items for sale are well beyond the monetary reach of most of the people in Cob Hill, including me.

I’ve also been told to be careful who I hand out the catalogues to.  Some of the folks like to tear out the pages and use them for chinking every nook and cranny in their cabins.  Maybe that was the origin of the phrase, ‘if walls could talk’.  The cabin walls would be talking up a storm in some of the cabins.  Unfortunately, over time, the mice shred the catalog pages for their nests.  We have the most educated mice in our county as they feast on words.

I headed over to the packhorse librarian room at the back of the library right after I dropped you off with grandma. I started selecting some items I would like to distribute, but I also had to keep in mind the names on my route which ranged in age from 2 to 92.  I only have two pillowcases to carry the items and soon as I get enough money, I plan on buying a used set of saddlebags for Starkey which will make our travels so much easier.

My first stop was at Nellie Welch’s cabin.  Nellie is a widow and has been living alone for the past few years.  Nellie has snowy white hair parted in the middle then wound around into a bun on the top of her head.  The bun is held in place by a tortoise shell comb, which I found out is one of her most prized possessions given to her by her husband.  I was so surprised when I saw Nellie all dressed up in her Sunday finest.  Nellie is 92 and she said she expected to leave this world any day now and she wanted to be all dressed and ready for her laying out. 

Nellie’s husband was an accountant for one of the largest mines in the area.  His accounting may have been a bit creative which allows Nellie to live in relative comfort after his passing.  They came to Cob Hill from Lexington where Nellie was a seamstress and made clothing for men. She told me she always wanted children but that was not meant to be as she had miscarriage after miscarriage. I felt that her body had healed but the trauma of a lost child was still visible in her deep-set eyes.  It was evident that age and misery had settled on her shoulders like a worn-out coat.

When I walked inside her cabin, I was overcome by the excessive heat.  She had shades on every window which were yellow with age and cast an earie yellow pall in her home.  As I sat on her horsehair couch, I watched the dust motes travel slowly before my eyes in a dance that only the dust knows each choreographed step. I’m sure the shades were drawn to keep her comfortable and safe inside her little cocoon of memories.  A Seth Thomas clock was in the corner with an excessively loud tick.  I imagined the clock was ticking away the seconds of her life like a metronome, while she waited for her end to come.  While she spoke, her lips kept perfect time with the ticking clock along with the clicking of her ill-fitting dentures.  She worked her tongue around her lips in part to keep the dentures in place, and as a habit while she spoke. She wore a large, elegant broach at her neck which I could only catch an occasional glimpse of when she moved her neck and her double chin wagged out of the way.  

Luckily Nellie’s neighbors took pity on her and shared some of the vegetables they grew.  She also had a handyman who brought supplies to her from town which she paid for with her creative funds from an account her husband left her. She shared some of the purchased supplies with her neighbors. 

She was absolutely delighted when I asked her if she would like to borrow a Good Housekeeping magazine until my next visit to see her.  Maybe, as she looked at the pages in the magazine, she would see that housewives kept their shades open and let the world inside and would give her the courage to venture outside.

My conversation with Nellie travelled with me to my next stop, the McKevitt’s, a family of five whose life had hit a hard patch. The dad had been home healing from an injury he suffered at the mine.  Hopefully he could go back to work soon as the family was really struggling to put food on the table and clothes on the three growing boys, Harley, Donny, and Stanley.  Mrs. McKevitt was the glue that held the flock together.  Worry was etched in her brow, and deep lines in her face, but she greeted me with a hesitant smile.  The boys quickly took my horse Starkey over to the water trough, but they had no grain to offer her.

The boys looked like they could be extras in the Spanky and Our Gang movies although they weren’t as well fed or well dressed as the actors.  They were full of mischief and wore the scrapes on their knees and elbows as a badge of courage.  Stanley was too little to join in the exploits and antics of  Harley and Donny, which was a good thing.  Those boys were a handful!

Mrs. McKevitt tried and succeeded in teaching the rambunctious brood to read since she had a 5^th grade education.  I had some easy primers tucked away in the pillowcase, and her face lit up when she saw them as they were books she had read with when she was in school.  She promised to take good care of them until I returned with other books for them. 

Harley and Donny were keen to look at the toys in the Sears and Roebuck catalog.  The way they were tugging at the catalog, I seriously wondered if there would be anything left of it when I returned.  They quickly settled down on the floor and started pouring over the catalog page by page.  Oh, how they giggled when they came to the pages of corsets and girdles.  When they came to the pages of erector sets, they begged their mama for one for Christmas.  A look of sadness crossed her face as she knew that request could never be granted.  Mr. McKevitt just rolled over in bed and stared at the wall as he knew the family wouldn’t be able to put anything under the Christmas tree this year. 

Harley and Donny were the kind of kids that would flourish with an erector set. It could be life-changing for them to use their active young minds and create anything they could dream about.  My heart was heavy as I left the boys on the floor still looking at the toy section in the catalog.  I decided I would ask Mrs. Jerome Reginald Steiniger if they had any funds to purchase an erector set for the boys.

I continued up into the back country delivering books and dreams.  I was exhausted by the time I headed for home.  My mind couldn’t stop thinking about the people and poor living conditions I’d seen during the day.  I know everyone was trying to make do with what they had, but the future looked so bleak for many of them.  I slowly road back to Grandma Millie’s house while the images of all that I’d witnessed and listened to during my first day rolled around in the catacombs of my mind. 

I stopped at a stream to give Starkey a rest and a drink of water and saw the reflection of my face for the second time today.  This reflection wouldn’t last as it would flow downstream and take the image of my travel-worn worried face with it.  No one would ever see it but me…..it was gone forever.

When I got back to town, I was greeted by Grandma Millie cleaning a turkey out on the back porch.  Walt, the owner of the local gun shop, dropped the turkey off for us.  I’m not sure how Walt was able to go out shooting after his tragic fall out of a tree when he was much younger. Visions of Harley and Donny following suit worried me.  Walt got along on his crutches while dragging his legs behind him.  He still loved to shoot and would maneuver himself out into the woods and sit by a tree for the day and wait for the game to come his way.  He was a turkey whisperer and always managed to keep himself fed with small game.  It was so sweet of him to think of us in our time of need.

Grandma Millie planned to make a pumpkin pie for us, and of course a pie for Walt.  That’s what people do here in Cob Hill.  We look after each other and try to share the burdens we all carry with us.  This is Grandma Millie’s excellent pumpkin pie recipe.

I never knew how she was able to keep the temperature of her wood burning stove to an even 475 degrees.  She had a sixth sense when it was time to add more kindling or open the door of the stove for the wood to get more air and burn hotter.  No matter what, the pie was always perfect. 

I’ll write more in my journal to you soon, Grace.  There is so little time with you now that I’m gone during the day in my new role as a Packhorse Librarian.  It is such important work that I must do.  It’s a though this is my calling to spread literacy and goodwill throughout my area.  Now I must go over to Mrs. Steiniger’s house and see if there are any funds to purchase an erector set for the McKevitt boys for Christmas.  I’m not hopeful, but I must try.

Soon,

Mama