Edith, On June 5th. you posted information on your Brewster Family. I'm thinking I can add something to your line. Martha Brewster married my grandfather, Abijah Burns in 1903. There was a divorce (date ?) and in 1906 Abijah married Mary "Polly" Brewer.I believe there was one child born to Martha and Abijah, however I'm still working on this. I'll let you know if I have anything further. Cosetta Melbourne FL see ya c

Thanks, Beryl, That is all I can remember about them - the fright. On hot summer nights when the house was to hot to live in Daddy would go get a big, cold watermelon. All us kids would sit on the back porch in a huddle, eat watermelon and listen to Daddy tell the ghost stories. I was so scared, I would shake; but I would't fess up because I wanted to hear those stories. It is strange that I can't remember them. Elvira

Hi. I enjoyed the crawdad story. My father was from Clay Co., but i was raised in OH. Daddy used to tell us the story of Rawhead and Bloodybones; but he always called it Chalkeyes and Bloodybones. I have forgotten the story. I would love for someone to post it on here. Thanks. Elvira

Evelyn, I don't know the stories, I just remember being scared sick of them and laying in the dark with my cousins with the cover over my head. Sorry Beryl __________________________________ Do you Yahoo!? SBC Yahoo! DSL - Now only $29.95 per month! http://sbc.yahoo.com

Hi Beryl, Who is the Bond family that you are referring to in your response? Thank you, Catherine "Beryl M." <hikepax@yahoo.com> wrote:I can remember many times, as a child, going to catch crawdads so we could go fishing. We would have been up the night before with a couple of coffee cans with some dirt in them, into which we put the night crawlers which were reckless enough to be out in the open. We did a lot of "yuck" and "ooohh", particularly the girls, while our brothers and male cousins spen their time trying to creep us out. Back in the house, we would all have a pallet on the floor, maybe eight to twenty of us, and grandad would stay up late with us, telling us Rawhead and Bloody Bones stories. Then he'd wish us a yawning good night and go off to sleep, while our wide open eye lay there and comtemplated the monsters waiting in the dark. Jesus help you if you had to go to the bathroom, which was outside and around the hill. Next morning we'd go crawdadding early. There would be bait buckets and some plastic pails and a piece of old sheet or pillowcase. Granddad and the one good seine and some of us with the sheet would be downstream. The rest of us would be upstream. We'd carefully turn over rocks, dreading snakes and hoping for crawdads. We'd do this aways down the stream, until the bait bucket was full, and grandad was tired of the splashing and accidental falling in. Back home, we'd gather our cane poles, which grandad had made, our "bobbets", sinkers and a fish stringer, and the sandwiches grandma had made and go off to a deep spot in the river, near the limestone quarry, and fish. If we were really lucky, grandma would send a plastic jug of Koolaid with us. It seldom lasted until we got to our fishing hole. We always caught something. Chigger bites, mosquito bites, sunburn, a million laughs and enough good memories to last a lifetime. Granddad pasted away many years ago, but we all, first cousins, remember him as the greatest man and our fishing trips as the greatest moments in our lives. And, Mr. Wilson, my Granddad was a cousin of the Bond's you knew. They were all good people. My granddaddy Otis, was the best. __________________________________ Do you Yahoo!? SBC Yahoo! DSL - Now only $29.95 per month! http://sbc.yahoo.com

Jess, I too enjoy your stories. I never lived in Ky. but my parents were both born and raised in Clay county. My oldest brother was born there too. Then my folks moved to Ohio so my dad could find a better job. My sister was born in Ohio and they then moved to Indiana where I was born in 1933. We moved back to Ohio briefly but came back to Franklin county, In to settle for good. We lived on a hilly little 80acre farm until I graduated from highschool. It was the closest thing my father could find here that was like home to him. We didn't have electricity nor water in the house as long as I was home. We also caught crawdads and minnows and thought we were fishing. We picked blackberries and greens and got a lot of food that way from outdoors. We had it hard but I would not trade my child hood for anything in this world. I believe our children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren would be a lot better off if they could experience a l ittle of this way of life instead of some of the things they experience today. I can't help but believe it is a l ot of our fault that things have gotten so out of hand. Enough of my spouting. I do really enjoy your stories. You might be interested in knowing that Denver Reese , son of Charles and Sophia Reese is my brother-in-law. Ruby

I can remember many times, as a child, going to catch crawdads so we could go fishing. We would have been up the night before with a couple of coffee cans with some dirt in them, into which we put the night crawlers which were reckless enough to be out in the open. We did a lot of "yuck" and "ooohh", particularly the girls, while our brothers and male cousins spen their time trying to creep us out. Back in the house, we would all have a pallet on the floor, maybe eight to twenty of us, and grandad would stay up late with us, telling us Rawhead and Bloody Bones stories. Then he'd wish us a yawning good night and go off to sleep, while our wide open eye lay there and comtemplated the monsters waiting in the dark. Jesus help you if you had to go to the bathroom, which was outside and around the hill. Next morning we'd go crawdadding early. There would be bait buckets and some plastic pails and a piece of old sheet or pillowcase. Granddad and the one good seine and some of us with the sheet would be downstream. The rest of us would be upstream. We'd carefully turn over rocks, dreading snakes and hoping for crawdads. We'd do this aways down the stream, until the bait bucket was full, and grandad was tired of the splashing and accidental falling in. Back home, we'd gather our cane poles, which grandad had made, our "bobbets", sinkers and a fish stringer, and the sandwiches grandma had made and go off to a deep spot in the river, near the limestone quarry, and fish. If we were really lucky, grandma would send a plastic jug of Koolaid with us. It seldom lasted until we got to our fishing hole. We always caught something. Chigger bites, mosquito bites, sunburn, a million laughs and enough good memories to last a lifetime. Granddad pasted away many years ago, but we all, first cousins, remember him as the greatest man and our fishing trips as the greatest moments in our lives. And, Mr. Wilson, my Granddad was a cousin of the Bond's you knew. They were all good people. My granddaddy Otis, was the best. __________________________________ Do you Yahoo!? SBC Yahoo! DSL - Now only $29.95 per month! http://sbc.yahoo.com

Dear Jess and Gail, Loved reading your story and as a big city girl entering Clay Co in1960 myself (as a young bride 19yearsold) I can relate to Shayna's thinking. I was at that time, of the false belief that people didn't live without electricity, running water or inside toilets anymore. Talk about your cultural shock. I was born and raised in Norfolk Va. and was dropped in Ashers Fork by a very loving husband who helped me learn about and adjust to the back woods way of living, My oldest 2 children were born in Clay, 1 at Red Bird Hospital and 1 at home (no Time to leave the house),a log house over 2 hundred yrs old. no electric, no water, no bath,no Dr. My parents in Va. had fits. But as a child in Va I also got to catch crawdads in the swamps close to the house and also had a tree house, I was quite a tom boy and spent most of my younger days with the boys. I have 7 brothers. I fished with string and safety pins and tried to catch minnows. You sure stirred a bunch of memories up with both of your last 2 stories. Thanks......... I loved reading your stories for a long time, Jess and now you and Gail are continuing to entertain the public. Again Thanks. Mary in Corbin @prtcnet.org> To: <KYCLAY-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Tuesday, June 17, 2003 5:44 PM Subject: [KYCLAY] Fw: The License > Here is another story by daughter, Gail > ----- Original Message ----- > From: "Elizabeth W. Chandler" <CurtisandGailC@compuserve.com> > To: "Jess Wilson" <jswlsn@prtcnet.org> > Sent: Tuesday, June 17, 2003 8:18 AM > Subject: The License > > > > Paw...that story seemed to have met with some success..Shall we try > another > > one? This one is called "The License." Your daughter Gail. > > (curtisandgailc@compuserve.com) > > > > THE LICENSE > > The green hair did not pose a problem. Neither did the tattoos, > > six piercings in each ear or the arrogance. When our daughter Tara told > us > > she was bringing a friend home from college, we knew to expect a unique > > individual. Tara attended Antioch, a college that encouraged > individuality > > and consequently, all of her college friends brought surprises. So it was > > not Shayna's appearance, it was the mention of the movie Deliverance. > > They arrived after midnight in a black sedan bearing California > > tags and several inflammatory bumper stickers. Shayna wore a black > t-shirt > > bearing the slogan, "Antioch, boot camp for the revolution," a metal > > studded dog collar and jeans with multiple rips. She carried in lieu of a > > purse, a green military ammunition case. Her first commentary on Kentucky > > was not long in coming. "Is someone going to shoot me?" > > She did not seem reassured by the quiet suburban neighborhood on a > > lake, the feta cheese and imported olives supplied for a midnight snack or > > the books throughout the house. She was soon painting verbal images of > > shaggy over-hauled men with shotguns crawling into the subdivision to > > attack her. > > I may kill this girl myself, I thought. > > I spent the weekend trying to convince Shayna of our exposure to > > the outside world. I discussed the Louisville Center for the Arts, the > > universities and the science museum. I left a stack of New Yorkers by her > > bed. As they left on Sunday, she wondered if they would run into a > > moonshine still on the way back to college. I managed not to comment to > my > > husband Curtis until they pulled out of the driveway. > > Over the next three years, Shayna visited us often. The trip to > > California was too long and expensive for Thanksgiving and she spent most > > of them with us. She came to visit several times on Tara's pre-Christmas > > birthday, the day we always decorated a freshly cut pine. She drew a Star > > of David for the tree and we added it to our collection of favorite > > sentimental ornaments. She sent beautiful thank you notes and gifts after > > her visits. Still, she and I could not get past the "Kentucky" issue. > > Antioch required all of their students to participate in a > > cross-cultural work-study program. Shayna selected Thailand and within > > weeks, managed to get herself kicked out of the country. According to > > Tara, the placement advisor told Shayna the reason for her removal was "a > > lack of cultural sensitivity." I had to laugh. > > When the Shayna and Tara arrived for the next weekend, I quickly > > realized how painful the incident was to her. She described the people, > > events and the injustice of the termination. However, her parting words > > transformed my empathy to furry. > > Around the time I completed college, I developed a desire to learn > > French but did not attempt the challenge because of difficulties with > > pronunciation. The fascination for the language seemed to epitomize a > > conflict in my identity between the mountain immigrant I was and the > person > > of the world I wanted to be. After I attended a bilingual conference in > > Canada, I decided that despite language disabilities and fears, I would > > learn French. I shared this with Shayna just as they were leaving. > > "With your Appalachian accent?" she said with a disbelieving > snort. > > > > My mouth opened but for a change, no words came out. I had the > > ultimate, "I should have said" experience. Anger did not begin to > describe > > my emotional state as the sedan rolled out of the driveway...I boiled, I > > fumed, I laid in bed at night planning speeches. By telephone, Tara > > provided the most frequent ear for my tirades and she stayed firm on her > > advice, "You need to tell her Mom and you need to do it so she hears you." > > They arrived at 3:00 am a few days before Christmas. Not only was > > I ready, but so was the coffee pot. I enjoyed the apprehension in > Shayna's > > face. Tara had forewarned her. Not deterred by her tired eyes, I said, > "We > > have to talk." > > "Let's go outside, I need to smoke," she said as we stepped into > > the unseasonably warm December night. > > I started with childhood recollections of the funny paper and > > Little Abner Yocum, the ultimate hillbilly stereotype. I reported > comments > > by the friends of my northern Indiana cousins. I explained the shoe > > questions encountered by every Appalachian who has wandered outside the > > mountains. I discussed the War on Poverty of the 1960's and the desire of > > the journalists to photograph only the poor leaving the outside world with > > the impression this represented an entire section of the country. I > > explained the reaction to the regional accent we carry was an especially > > sensitive point for with it, come questions about our intelligence. > > "Being Appalachian is comparable to being the member of a minority > > group. Members of such a group can make jokes. Only those who understand > > the culture are invited to join, only when they are given a license and > > then they must do it with great care. You do not know who I am-you do not > > have a license!" > > The sun rose a few hours later. We had a wonderful Christmas and > > added some Chanukah traditions as well. I gave Shayna a copy of Creeker, > > the autobiography of an Appalachian woman. > > She called me a few weeks later. "I loved the book. It was > > surprisingly well written." > > I rolled my eyes but told her how glad I was that she enjoyed it. > > She did seem to be making progress. > > Shayna graduated from college with honors. She moved to a large > > metropolitan area and works for a worldwide human rights organization. > > Shayna has followed my war against the CBS planned reality show, The New > > Beverly Hillbillies. Last week, she sent me a page from Newsweek > > containing a quote from Zell Miller, Democratic Senator from Georgia. > > "What CBS proposes to do with this cracker comedy is bigotry, pure and > > simple. Bigotry for big bucks." > > On the back of the envelope Shayna wrote, "Do I get my license > > now?" > > I considered the mileage left in the issue. "Naw, not yet." > > >

Gail & Jess, Thanks again for another great story. Gail, it's wonderful that you inherited your Dad's talent. I love the stories. I have printed them all. Guilda

Hi Jess & all, I laughed out loud at this one! Hubby is from TN., and every time I go on a genealogy kick, he tells the neighbors her sent me back home to be retrained! LOL! Love your stories! Hugs, Katie ----- Original Message ----- From: "jess wilson" <jswlsn@prtcnet.org> To: <KYCLAY-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Tuesday, June 17, 2003 5:44 PM Subject: [KYCLAY] Fw: The License > Here is another story by daughter, Gail > ----- Original Message ----- > From: "Elizabeth W. Chandler" <CurtisandGailC@compuserve.com> > To: "Jess Wilson" <jswlsn@prtcnet.org> > Sent: Tuesday, June 17, 2003 8:18 AM > Subject: The License > > > > Paw...that story seemed to have met with some success..Shall we try > another > > one? This one is called "The License." Your daughter Gail. > > (curtisandgailc@compuserve.com) > > > > THE LICENSE > > The green hair did not pose a problem. Neither did the tattoos, > > six piercings in each ear or the arrogance. When our daughter Tara told > us > > she was bringing a friend home from college, we knew to expect a unique > > individual. Tara attended Antioch, a college that encouraged > individuality > > and consequently, all of her college friends brought surprises. So it was > > not Shayna's appearance, it was the mention of the movie Deliverance. > > They arrived after midnight in a black sedan bearing California > > tags and several inflammatory bumper stickers. Shayna wore a black > t-shirt > > bearing the slogan, "Antioch, boot camp for the revolution," a metal > > studded dog collar and jeans with multiple rips. She carried in lieu of a > > purse, a green military ammunition case. Her first commentary on Kentucky > > was not long in coming. "Is someone going to shoot me?" > > She did not seem reassured by the quiet suburban neighborhood on a > > lake, the feta cheese and imported olives supplied for a midnight snack or > > the books throughout the house. She was soon painting verbal images of > > shaggy over-hauled men with shotguns crawling into the subdivision to > > attack her. > > I may kill this girl myself, I thought. > > I spent the weekend trying to convince Shayna of our exposure to > > the outside world. I discussed the Louisville Center for the Arts, the > > universities and the science museum. I left a stack of New Yorkers by her > > bed. As they left on Sunday, she wondered if they would run into a > > moonshine still on the way back to college. I managed not to comment to > my > > husband Curtis until they pulled out of the driveway. > > Over the next three years, Shayna visited us often. The trip to > > California was too long and expensive for Thanksgiving and she spent most > > of them with us. She came to visit several times on Tara's pre-Christmas > > birthday, the day we always decorated a freshly cut pine. She drew a Star > > of David for the tree and we added it to our collection of favorite > > sentimental ornaments. She sent beautiful thank you notes and gifts after > > her visits. Still, she and I could not get past the "Kentucky" issue. > > Antioch required all of their students to participate in a > > cross-cultural work-study program. Shayna selected Thailand and within > > weeks, managed to get herself kicked out of the country. According to > > Tara, the placement advisor told Shayna the reason for her removal was "a > > lack of cultural sensitivity." I had to laugh. > > When the Shayna and Tara arrived for the next weekend, I quickly > > realized how painful the incident was to her. She described the people, > > events and the injustice of the termination. However, her parting words > > transformed my empathy to furry. > > Around the time I completed college, I developed a desire to learn > > French but did not attempt the challenge because of difficulties with > > pronunciation. The fascination for the language seemed to epitomize a > > conflict in my identity between the mountain immigrant I was and the > person > > of the world I wanted to be. After I attended a bilingual conference in > > Canada, I decided that despite language disabilities and fears, I would > > learn French. I shared this with Shayna just as they were leaving. > > "With your Appalachian accent?" she said with a disbelieving > snort. > > > > My mouth opened but for a change, no words came out. I had the > > ultimate, "I should have said" experience. Anger did not begin to > describe > > my emotional state as the sedan rolled out of the driveway...I boiled, I > > fumed, I laid in bed at night planning speeches. By telephone, Tara > > provided the most frequent ear for my tirades and she stayed firm on her > > advice, "You need to tell her Mom and you need to do it so she hears you." > > They arrived at 3:00 am a few days before Christmas. Not only was > > I ready, but so was the coffee pot. I enjoyed the apprehension in > Shayna's > > face. Tara had forewarned her. Not deterred by her tired eyes, I said, > "We > > have to talk." > > "Let's go outside, I need to smoke," she said as we stepped into > > the unseasonably warm December night. > > I started with childhood recollections of the funny paper and > > Little Abner Yocum, the ultimate hillbilly stereotype. I reported > comments > > by the friends of my northern Indiana cousins. I explained the shoe > > questions encountered by every Appalachian who has wandered outside the > > mountains. I discussed the War on Poverty of the 1960's and the desire of > > the journalists to photograph only the poor leaving the outside world with > > the impression this represented an entire section of the country. I > > explained the reaction to the regional accent we carry was an especially > > sensitive point for with it, come questions about our intelligence. > > "Being Appalachian is comparable to being the member of a minority > > group. Members of such a group can make jokes. Only those who understand > > the culture are invited to join, only when they are given a license and > > then they must do it with great care. You do not know who I am-you do not > > have a license!" > > The sun rose a few hours later. We had a wonderful Christmas and > > added some Chanukah traditions as well. I gave Shayna a copy of Creeker, > > the autobiography of an Appalachian woman. > > She called me a few weeks later. "I loved the book. It was > > surprisingly well written." > > I rolled my eyes but told her how glad I was that she enjoyed it. > > She did seem to be making progress. > > Shayna graduated from college with honors. She moved to a large > > metropolitan area and works for a worldwide human rights organization. > > Shayna has followed my war against the CBS planned reality show, The New > > Beverly Hillbillies. Last week, she sent me a page from Newsweek > > containing a quote from Zell Miller, Democratic Senator from Georgia. > > "What CBS proposes to do with this cracker comedy is bigotry, pure and > > simple. Bigotry for big bucks." > > On the back of the envelope Shayna wrote, "Do I get my license > > now?" > > I considered the mileage left in the issue. "Naw, not yet." > > >

Jess and Gail, After living all but 2 years of my 65 in Bell Co Ky I loved you story.. I lived the two years in San Diego CA. Husband was educated at Georgia Tech and served two years in the Navy in and off the coast of California. One day we went to the base to the PX. He had chosen several small things and at the check out counter he turned to the lady and ask her for a "poke". I for the life of me can not remember if she said any thing, but the look on her face was worth a million words. Kay G. Adams Middlesboro, KY

Here is another story by daughter, Gail ----- Original Message ----- From: "Elizabeth W. Chandler" <CurtisandGailC@compuserve.com> To: "Jess Wilson" <jswlsn@prtcnet.org> Sent: Tuesday, June 17, 2003 8:18 AM Subject: The License > Paw...that story seemed to have met with some success..Shall we try another > one? This one is called "The License." Your daughter Gail. > (curtisandgailc@compuserve.com) > > THE LICENSE > The green hair did not pose a problem. Neither did the tattoos, > six piercings in each ear or the arrogance. When our daughter Tara told us > she was bringing a friend home from college, we knew to expect a unique > individual. Tara attended Antioch, a college that encouraged individuality > and consequently, all of her college friends brought surprises. So it was > not Shayna's appearance, it was the mention of the movie Deliverance. > They arrived after midnight in a black sedan bearing California > tags and several inflammatory bumper stickers. Shayna wore a black t-shirt > bearing the slogan, "Antioch, boot camp for the revolution," a metal > studded dog collar and jeans with multiple rips. She carried in lieu of a > purse, a green military ammunition case. Her first commentary on Kentucky > was not long in coming. "Is someone going to shoot me?" > She did not seem reassured by the quiet suburban neighborhood on a > lake, the feta cheese and imported olives supplied for a midnight snack or > the books throughout the house. She was soon painting verbal images of > shaggy over-hauled men with shotguns crawling into the subdivision to > attack her. > I may kill this girl myself, I thought. > I spent the weekend trying to convince Shayna of our exposure to > the outside world. I discussed the Louisville Center for the Arts, the > universities and the science museum. I left a stack of New Yorkers by her > bed. As they left on Sunday, she wondered if they would run into a > moonshine still on the way back to college. I managed not to comment to my > husband Curtis until they pulled out of the driveway. > Over the next three years, Shayna visited us often. The trip to > California was too long and expensive for Thanksgiving and she spent most > of them with us. She came to visit several times on Tara's pre-Christmas > birthday, the day we always decorated a freshly cut pine. She drew a Star > of David for the tree and we added it to our collection of favorite > sentimental ornaments. She sent beautiful thank you notes and gifts after > her visits. Still, she and I could not get past the "Kentucky" issue. > Antioch required all of their students to participate in a > cross-cultural work-study program. Shayna selected Thailand and within > weeks, managed to get herself kicked out of the country. According to > Tara, the placement advisor told Shayna the reason for her removal was "a > lack of cultural sensitivity." I had to laugh. > When the Shayna and Tara arrived for the next weekend, I quickly > realized how painful the incident was to her. She described the people, > events and the injustice of the termination. However, her parting words > transformed my empathy to furry. > Around the time I completed college, I developed a desire to learn > French but did not attempt the challenge because of difficulties with > pronunciation. The fascination for the language seemed to epitomize a > conflict in my identity between the mountain immigrant I was and the person > of the world I wanted to be. After I attended a bilingual conference in > Canada, I decided that despite language disabilities and fears, I would > learn French. I shared this with Shayna just as they were leaving. > "With your Appalachian accent?" she said with a disbelieving snort. > > My mouth opened but for a change, no words came out. I had the > ultimate, "I should have said" experience. Anger did not begin to describe > my emotional state as the sedan rolled out of the driveway...I boiled, I > fumed, I laid in bed at night planning speeches. By telephone, Tara > provided the most frequent ear for my tirades and she stayed firm on her > advice, "You need to tell her Mom and you need to do it so she hears you." > They arrived at 3:00 am a few days before Christmas. Not only was > I ready, but so was the coffee pot. I enjoyed the apprehension in Shayna's > face. Tara had forewarned her. Not deterred by her tired eyes, I said, "We > have to talk." > "Let's go outside, I need to smoke," she said as we stepped into > the unseasonably warm December night. > I started with childhood recollections of the funny paper and > Little Abner Yocum, the ultimate hillbilly stereotype. I reported comments > by the friends of my northern Indiana cousins. I explained the shoe > questions encountered by every Appalachian who has wandered outside the > mountains. I discussed the War on Poverty of the 1960's and the desire of > the journalists to photograph only the poor leaving the outside world with > the impression this represented an entire section of the country. I > explained the reaction to the regional accent we carry was an especially > sensitive point for with it, come questions about our intelligence. > "Being Appalachian is comparable to being the member of a minority > group. Members of such a group can make jokes. Only those who understand > the culture are invited to join, only when they are given a license and > then they must do it with great care. You do not know who I am-you do not > have a license!" > The sun rose a few hours later. We had a wonderful Christmas and > added some Chanukah traditions as well. I gave Shayna a copy of Creeker, > the autobiography of an Appalachian woman. > She called me a few weeks later. "I loved the book. It was > surprisingly well written." > I rolled my eyes but told her how glad I was that she enjoyed it. > She did seem to be making progress. > Shayna graduated from college with honors. She moved to a large > metropolitan area and works for a worldwide human rights organization. > Shayna has followed my war against the CBS planned reality show, The New > Beverly Hillbillies. Last week, she sent me a page from Newsweek > containing a quote from Zell Miller, Democratic Senator from Georgia. > "What CBS proposes to do with this cracker comedy is bigotry, pure and > simple. Bigotry for big bucks." > On the back of the envelope Shayna wrote, "Do I get my license > now?" > I considered the mileage left in the issue. "Naw, not yet."

Dear Cousin E., No, Tara and Zenas don't have a computer. Her Mom told me today that she sent me a letter yesterday so when I answer her, I'll make sure to include the info. Sound okay? Shalom, Diane

Jess, Thanks to you and your daughter for utilizing your wonderful talent and your gift of sharing! Catherine Johnson Flores jess wilson <jswlsn@prtcnet.org> wrote:Here is another story by daughter, Gail ----- Original Message ----- From: "Elizabeth W. Chandler" To: "Jess Wilson" Sent: Tuesday, June 17, 2003 8:18 AM Subject: The License > Paw...that story seemed to have met with some success..Shall we try another > one? This one is called "The License." Your daughter Gail. > (curtisandgailc@compuserve.com) > > THE LICENSE > The green hair did not pose a problem. Neither did the tattoos, > six piercings in each ear or the arrogance. When our daughter Tara told us > she was bringing a friend home from college, we knew to expect a unique > individual. Tara attended Antioch, a college that encouraged individuality > and consequently, all of her college friends brought surprises. So it was > not Shayna's appearance, it was the mention of the movie Deliverance. > They arrived after midnight in a black sedan bearing California > tags and several inflammatory bumper stickers. Shayna wore a black t-shirt > bearing the slogan, "Antioch, boot camp for the revolution," a metal > studded dog collar and jeans with multiple rips. She carried in lieu of a > purse, a green military ammunition case. Her first commentary on Kentucky > was not long in coming. "Is someone going to shoot me?" > She did not seem reassured by the quiet suburban neighborhood on a > lake, the feta cheese and imported olives supplied for a midnight snack or > the books throughout the house. She was soon painting verbal images of > shaggy over-hauled men with shotguns crawling into the subdivision to > attack her. > I may kill this girl myself, I thought. > I spent the weekend trying to convince Shayna of our exposure to > the outside world. I discussed the Louisville Center for the Arts, the > universities and the science museum. I left a stack of New Yorkers by her > bed. As they left on Sunday, she wondered if they would run into a > moonshine still on the way back to college. I managed not to comment to my > husband Curtis until they pulled out of the driveway. > Over the next three years, Shayna visited us often. The trip to > California was too long and expensive for Thanksgiving and she spent most > of them with us. She came to visit several times on Tara's pre-Christmas > birthday, the day we always decorated a freshly cut pine. She drew a Star > of David for the tree and we added it to our collection of favorite > sentimental ornaments. She sent beautiful thank you notes and gifts after > her visits. Still, she and I could not get past the "Kentucky" issue. > Antioch required all of their students to participate in a > cross-cultural work-study program. Shayna selected Thailand and within > weeks, managed to get herself kicked out of the country. According to > Tara, the placement advisor told Shayna the reason for her removal was "a > lack of cultural sensitivity." I had to laugh. > When the Shayna and Tara arrived for the next weekend, I quickly > realized how painful the incident was to her. She described the people, > events and the injustice of the termination. However, her parting words > transformed my empathy to furry. > Around the time I completed college, I developed a desire to learn > French but did not attempt the challenge because of difficulties with > pronunciation. The fascination for the language seemed to epitomize a > conflict in my identity between the mountain immigrant I was and the person > of the world I wanted to be. After I attended a bilingual conference in > Canada, I decided that despite language disabilities and fears, I would > learn French. I shared this with Shayna just as they were leaving. > "With your Appalachian accent?" she said with a disbelieving snort. > > My mouth opened but for a change, no words came out. I had the > ultimate, "I should have said" experience. Anger did not begin to describe > my emotional state as the sedan rolled out of the driveway...I boiled, I > fumed, I laid in bed at night planning speeches. By telephone, Tara > provided the most frequent ear for my tirades and she stayed firm on her > advice, "You need to tell her Mom and you need to do it so she hears you." > They arrived at 3:00 am a few days before Christmas. Not only was > I ready, but so was the coffee pot. I enjoyed the apprehension in Shayna's > face. Tara had forewarned her. Not deterred by her tired eyes, I said, "We > have to talk." > "Let's go outside, I need to smoke," she said as we stepped into > the unseasonably warm December night. > I started with childhood recollections of the funny paper and > Little Abner Yocum, the ultimate hillbilly stereotype. I reported comments > by the friends of my northern Indiana cousins. I explained the shoe > questions encountered by every Appalachian who has wandered outside the > mountains. I discussed the War on Poverty of the 1960's and the desire of > the journalists to photograph only the poor leaving the outside world with > the impression this represented an entire section of the country. I > explained the reaction to the regional accent we carry was an especially > sensitive point for with it, come questions about our intelligence. > "Being Appalachian is comparable to being the member of a minority > group. Members of such a group can make jokes. Only those who understand > the culture are invited to join, only when they are given a license and > then they must do it with great care. You do not know who I am-you do not > have a license!" > The sun rose a few hours later. We had a wonderful Christmas and > added some Chanukah traditions as well. I gave Shayna a copy of Creeker, > the autobiography of an Appalachian woman. > She called me a few weeks later. "I loved the book. It was > surprisingly well written." > I rolled my eyes but told her how glad I was that she enjoyed it. > She did seem to be making progress. > Shayna graduated from college with honors. She moved to a large > metropolitan area and works for a worldwide human rights organization. > Shayna has followed my war against the CBS planned reality show, The New > Beverly Hillbillies. Last week, she sent me a page from Newsweek > containing a quote from Zell Miller, Democratic Senator from Georgia. > "What CBS proposes to do with this cracker comedy is bigotry, pure and > simple. Bigotry for big bucks." > On the back of the envelope Shayna wrote, "Do I get my license > now?" > I considered the mileage left in the issue. "Naw, not yet."

Thank you Bridget. I have Scalf's in my family to. Pauline ----- Original Message ----- From: "bridget perez" <bridget42653@hotmail.com> To: <KYCLAY-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Monday, June 16, 2003 10:45 PM Subject: [KYCLAY] Re: KYCLAY-D Digest V03 #135 Mary Polly Eversole > > > Mary Polly Eversole married Jesse Scalf in 1836 and she was the daughter of > Peter Eversole. > > > > From: KYCLAY-D-request@rootsweb.com > Reply-To: KYCLAY-L@rootsweb.com > To: KYCLAY-D@rootsweb.com > Subject: KYCLAY-D Digest V03 #135 > Date: Mon, 16 Jun 2003 16:52:43 -0600 > > << message2.txt >> > << message4.txt >> > << message6.txt >> > << message8.txt >> > << message10.txt >> > << message12.txt >> > << message14.txt >> > << message16.txt >> > << message18.txt >> > << message20.txt >> > << message22.txt >> > << message24.txt >> > << message26.txt >> > << message28.txt >> > << message30.txt >> > << message32.txt >> > << message34.txt >> > << message36.txt >> > << message38.txt >> > << message40.txt >> > << message42.txt >> > << message44.txt >> > > _________________________________________________________________ > The new MSN 8: advanced junk mail protection and 2 months FREE* > http://join.msn.com/?page=features/junkmail >

Thanks Joyce, we do have all of that info. Yes like you we believe that it is the same Judy divorced or widowed from James Scalf. All of Eliza's info matches. Thanks again. We just can't find where Eliza's husband was raised or by whom. Ezekiel is our brick wall. lol. Thanks again. From: KYCLAY-D-request@rootsweb.com Reply-To: KYCLAY-L@rootsweb.com To: KYCLAY-D@rootsweb.com Subject: KYCLAY-D Digest V03 #131 Date: Wed, 11 Jun 2003 23:01:53 -0600 << message2.txt >> << message4.txt >> << message6.txt >> << message8.txt >> << message10.txt >> << message12.txt >> << message14.txt >> << message16.txt >> _________________________________________________________________ MSN 8 with e-mail virus protection service: 2 months FREE* http://join.msn.com/?page=features/virus

Mary Polly Eversole married Jesse Scalf in 1836 and she was the daughter of Peter Eversole. From: KYCLAY-D-request@rootsweb.com Reply-To: KYCLAY-L@rootsweb.com To: KYCLAY-D@rootsweb.com Subject: KYCLAY-D Digest V03 #135 Date: Mon, 16 Jun 2003 16:52:43 -0600 << message2.txt >> << message4.txt >> << message6.txt >> << message8.txt >> << message10.txt >> << message12.txt >> << message14.txt >> << message16.txt >> << message18.txt >> << message20.txt >> << message22.txt >> << message24.txt >> << message26.txt >> << message28.txt >> << message30.txt >> << message32.txt >> << message34.txt >> << message36.txt >> << message38.txt >> << message40.txt >> << message42.txt >> << message44.txt >> _________________________________________________________________ The new MSN 8: advanced junk mail protection and 2 months FREE* http://join.msn.com/?page=features/junkmail

Jess and Gail, I want to thank you for the story. However be sure that there are still a few places in our world where children still can catch a crawdad. We have been blessed with a farm where there is no TV, telephone, not even the cell phone will work or electricity. So no computer games or TV. Grandsons do play sports but the also hunt and fish with their grandfather and father, grandmother too at times. Cook on an old wood cook stove like my Grandmother Downey did. Even have a warming oven like she had. We do have an Ice Box..Just no one to bring that big block of ice to us. We have a small 4 room house on the farm with a sleeping loft. We have 125 acres of deer, turkey, squirrel and raccoons etc. Big woods and streams. Snake Hollow is just the most beautiful place in the world. Just think we should change its name. Kay Goforth Adams

Me again Jess! Oh what memories you have----How I wish my kids & gran'kid's could have grown up like that. They have missed so much. I was a city girl but we still made pallets for all the cousins that spent the night during the summers. We had a tire swing, Dad made us a Flying Ginny, we had a monkey bar running between two elm trees. More fun! My older brothers bought a used boys bike for $5. They cut the bar off at Dad's shop & gave it to my younger sister & I. Of course, that was just the thing for two kids to fight over. After Mom took it away from us until we learned to share, it didn't take long before the fighting stopped! Sunday afternoon, after Church, all the aunts, uncles & cousins, coming over & making ice cream out under all the elm trees that separated our property from next door. Our house was the gathering place for the kinfolk. You started me down memory lane with "How to Catch a Crawdad". Thanks again for sharing your memories with us. Guilda

Paw...could you put this story on Thousand and one nights? I don't seem to have the skill to do it. Gail Sure can, daughter. I will also send it to the KyClay roots webSee below folks. Jess Wilson HOW TO CATCH A CRAWDAD Directions for catching a crawdad: Go to the creek. Take off your shoes. Roll up your pant leg. It helps to be about nine years old-easier to bend and closer to the water-wade in and look for a flat rock about the size of a plate. Flip it over but be ready to jump back in case you see a snake. Bend over and look - there, he is! Slowly move your hand down until it is just over the back of his neck behind his pinchers, leading with your thumb and forefinger. Get in real close-and grab him! But it is not that easy anymore. A few years ago, my father and I went back to Huckleberry, a hollow in Clay County, to chase a few memories. We stopped, parked and walked to the creek. At the edge of the bank, I smelled the rancid water. We did not need to walk down the bank to see the piles of trash, broken glass and dead vegetation. We did not look for minnows or crawdads-nothing could live in that filth. I returned to the car and asked to go home. On the short drive back to my parent's home on Possum Trot, I thought about the summer days 50 years or so ago. My parents, aunts and uncles visited Grandmother. The cousins, like a pack of puppies, headed up Huckleberry. We might be gone for half a day. Nobody worried-they figured we would come home when we got hungry and besides, the house was quieter without the racket. While catching crawdads was high on the agenda, other entertainment was readily available. Some days we would go to my grandpa's stave mill and crawl up the huge piles of sawdust, marvel at the heat under the surface, and slide down the other side. We might jump out of the hay mound on the second level of the barn or peal sassafras and soak it in creek water-tasted all right with enough thirst. We might go to adjoining Sexton Creek and if we had a string and a hook, catch suckers. One section of the creek had many large rocks on the bank. If we turned them over, a sleepy snake might crawl out. We could scream, run and come back to turn over another rock. After dinner, we spent our time rolling down a little hill and giggling. And in the evening, we caught fire-flies. I ended the trip home thinking about billboards and public service announcements. One said, "We don't own the land, we borrow it from our children." Another is the picture of an elderly Native American looking at a pile of litter while a tear flows down his cheek. I suppose today's children will have pleasant memories of playing computer games, watching TV or playing organized sports. They might as well-they can't catch crawdads.