Friends of Southern WV I hope you can receive and will enjoy this short story taken from my own experiences of growing up in southern WV, which is intended to present our region as it existed in the early thirties and forties. Please respond if you like my approach and would like to see more of these stories occasionally. I recognize and respect the decisions of any of the mailing list administrators who are hesitant to allow these narrative inputs. Turkey Creek, Wyoming County My family left Coon Branch, West Virginia, for a short time in the early thirties and moved to the mouth of Turkey Creek on the Guyandotte across the road from where the town of Marrianna now stands. The road down main Turkey Creek connects with the road down Coon Branch and Mother occasionally took my brother, Gene, and sister, Augusta, and me up Turkey Creek and across the mountain to visit my grandparents on Coon Branch. We made the trip on foot except one time when Grandpa John picked us up in his Model-T Ford. The trip could easily be made in a day, even with three small children, but my mother stretched it out for a couple of days so that she could visit along the way. Now, in retrospect, I often consider that, because we were extremely poor, it was one of my mother’s ways of obtaining something for us to eat. We wound up Turkey Creek by the large farm and magnificent home of John Ball and then past the Turkey Creek Church. My Browning and Cook ancestors were charter members of the congregation that started that church. Our first stop was at the home of Uncle Walter R. and Aunt Minnie Cook. Aunt Minnie was my Grandma Martha Browning’s sister. Uncle Walter’s boys Sid and Dale were favorite relatives of my father and I especially liked them because they showed me a lot of attention. They were frequent guests at our house. They would stop in for coffee, a drink of water or just plain conversation as they walked off Turkey Creek on their way to somewhere else. Roscoe , who was older, visited our home at the mouth of Turkey after his corn was “laid by,” when he and his boys took time off from farming to visit their favorite fishing hole on the Guyan. One of our visits to Uncle Walter’s that stands out in my memory was during apple-harvesting time. The Walter R. Cook household was alive with activity ”working up” the apple crop. It was customary for neighbors to help each other on special workdays such as this so there was an unusual number of people present. Beyond the pleasure provided by this opportunity to meet friends and neighbors, people of the community depended upon each other. They knew they would be repaid in kind when they had a need for extra “hands.” My mother pitched in while my siblings and I joined the other children there for games and kid’s mischief. Later that day neighbors would be seen leaving for home after a hard days work bearing a sampling of the goods they had helped to produce. The ladies and girls were peeling and coring apples and everybody was involved in making cider, apple butter, “fruit” and jelly. (“Fruit” was a generic name for canned apples that often resembled what we commonly would call applesauce today.) Bushels of various types of apples were spread out on the porch and hundreds of yellow jackets crawled and/or circled over them. Different types of apples were best for different types of apple products and little was wasted, Rotting apples were not discarded; the rotting portion was simply removed and the remainder of the apple went into one or the other of the pots. Even the apple peelings were cooked, strained and further cooked to make jelly. They made apple butter in a huge copper kettle with a large hinged steel handle. The kettle and ingredients sat in a special steel frame over a large open fire, which had to be maintained religiously throughout the long operation. It took a long time for the apples to be converted into apple butter and they would easily stick to the container if not stirred continually. Stirring was accomplished with a long-handled, L-shaped paddle with several large holes through the blade. The business end of the device had been stained to a distinctive reddish-brown color from many hours of contact with hot apple mixtures of the past. Apple butter production was labor intensive. Cider was the best of all the products. Old Timers knew which apples produced good cider. Fortunately, cider could be made from small or “blemished’ apples, if they were of a variety that produced the right taste. Although the apples did not have to be flawless they could not contain any evidence of mold or spoilage. First, the apples had to be peeled, trimmed of any bad spots and washed. Next, they were crushed into pulp; I don’t recall how and can only guess at the procedure. Finally, the juice was extracted from the pulp in a press made especially for that purpose. It was common in that day for a farmer fortunate enough to own special implements, such as a cider press, to share it with neighbors who were not so fortunate. Of course, at this stage, Uncle Walter’s cider was only apple juice, called “sweet cider,” but we kids pretended it was the real stuff ("hard cider") as we feigned drunkenness and reeled about the premises. Nonetheless, we found it to be delicious, and there was plenty to go around. Some of the juice would be made into hard cider by allowing it to ferment naturally and age before use. This final step is very critical to get the right product and not vinegar, I have no idea of the details involved. Later on in the season, different kinds of apples would ripen on this and other local farms often resulting in different uses for the fruit. Apples from sweet-apple trees didn’t “cook up good” and were made into preserves. Other apples were peeled, cored and cut into wedges, which were strung on a cord and hung out in the sun until they were dry and ready for storage for use later on. Lots of people didn’t bother with stringing the wedges, preferring, instead, to spread them on the roofs of their houses to dry. Some varieties were good “eatin apples” and would be wrapped in paper and stored in the cool, hillside cellars or a deep hole in the ground so that the family could enjoy fresh apples far into the winter. Continuing up Turkey Creek from Uncle Walter’s the Browning family visited the homes of Uncle Birt and Aunt Fanny Stewart and Uncle Burl and Aunt Lilly Cook. Uncle Frank and Aunt Nellie Webb also lived on Turkey creek, but I don’t recall ever visiting them. The little Turkey Creek schoolhouse with the high steps in front, which had also served several generations as a community center, was a special landmark along the way. Neither Uncle Birt nor Aunt Fanny were close relatives, but it was easier to simply call them uncle and aunt than to take the time to try to figure out if they really were our kin. Youngsters habitually called elderly people aunt or uncle in our neck of the woods. I have never felt a necessity to change. Uncle Burl Cook was my Grandma Martha’s brother and Aunt Minnie Webb was her sister. All of our hosts were farmers. Usually, neither they nor their grown children who were still at home worked at public works, and a visit afforded an opportunity to meet the whole family. They were generous and kind and seemed always glad to see you. It was their nature to never let anyone leave their house hungry. Our last stop before crossing the mountain that separates Coon Branch and Turkey Creek was the home of John and Margaret (“Mag” or “Meggie”) Spence. I am guessing that Meggie was a favorite girlhood friend of my mothers because it was obviously her favorite visit. It was there that we stayed all night before we assaulted the steep mountain road that led to Grandpa and Granny Shumate’s house. Mother and Meggie spent hours sitting and talking after everyone else had gone to bed. It was no big deal that we slept on the floor. It was also my favorite stop because the Spence children were closer to my age than my cousins farther down Turkey Creek. Although I enjoyed frolicking with Wayman, Benton and Warren at Uncle Birt’s house, that was no substitute for playing at the Spence house with a house full of girls who had a brother who was only slightly younger than I was. On Nov 18, 2007, at 8:20 AM, LifeBuyDesign wrote: > Stan: > Thanks for the memories. I went to Wyoming School. I also attended > from time > to time the little white school house on Turkey Creek, the school > where my > Grandpa, Walter R Cook taught for so long. Your stories bring back > good > memories of good and peaceful times that always touch the heart. > Memories of > a time past that make us who we are today. Once a West Virginian, > always a > West Virginian. A place that touches the soul. > When my girls were small I would tell then stories of home and > family. My > one daughter finally confessed that when she was little she thought > I was a > pilgrim. HAHA! > Betty Cook Martinez > ----- Original Message ----- > From: "STANLEY BROWNING" <[email protected]> > To: <[email protected]> > Cc: "Business Source" <[email protected]> > Sent: Saturday, November 17, 2007 9:14 PM > Subject: [WVWYOMIN] School Days > > > To: Any who wish to take the time to read this > From: Stan Browning > > The following was originally written for the enjoyment of my two > granddaughters. It is offered here as a nostalgic reminder to us > all. Please look past the personal aspects to the descriptions that > typify conditions and attitudes of the times. I wager that the Old > Matheny Grade School was similar to the one that some of you attended. > > +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ > > SCHOOL DAYS > > Times were hard in Wyoming County when I became old enough that the > law required that I start school. I looked forward with much anxiety > for my first day of school commencing in September 1936. My mother > had outfitted me with some store-bought clothes from the Montgomery > Ward Catalog, which were probably the first clothes that I had ever > owned that had not been home made or worn first by some other child. > I was ready to show off. > > I guess I was fairly typical of the boys who were beginning a journey > that year at the old Matheny Grade School, in Wyoming County, West > Virginia, that would take us, by differing paths, from the confines >