Roxie: Daughter of the Mountains

By Becky Reece Kimsey

North Carolina, 1890Anticipation tempered by the uncertainty of her changing life swirl through Roxies heightened emotions. She is leaving her home and family in the North Carolina mountains to start married life in Georgia with her new husband. Crazy in love with Will, she still feels an aching conflict as she leaves her beloved family.

Being her parents sixth daughter with a natural inclination towards the outdoors has made Roxie the family tom-boy and her Poppas steadfast helper. As much as she desires this future with Will in their tiny cabin nestled in the north Georgia mountains, she is well aware that arriving in the dead of winter presents its own problems. Still, overriding her joy or worries is an overwhelming homesickness.

Wearied by the dawn to dust fight to eke out a sufficient life on this tiny spot of land, Roxie and Will discover much of their strength comes from leaning on each other and Wills sizeable family. But it is the generous providence of a loving God that sustains them the most. As days and years swell into a ceaseless flow of triumphs, backward steps, tears and joys, the love that binds them together stretches again and again to allow for every rough or unforeseen bend in their journey.

A moving, inspiring novel, Roxie: Daughter of the Mountains shares the remarkable resilience of one womans spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspiring Voices
• Release date: Feb 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781462405022

Becky Reece Kimsey

Becky Reece Kimsey is a busy retiree living in the beautiful mountains of North Carolina. There she is happily surrounded by many of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

Book preview

Chapter 1

1886---ROXIE AT HOME WITH MAMA AND POPPA

I should have brought my knitting, to work on while I’m waiting for Poppa to get back from hauling the wood down to the house. But it’s just too warm and beautiful to be doing such dreary work this afternoon. Sitting here on a freshly cut stump soaking in the scent of new-cut wood and basking in this soon-to-be-gone sunshine is the perfect way to spend this time. But a small nudge of guilt intrudes as I recollect Mama telling us to always use our time more wisely and our work will manage itself.

I wonder if Henley is helping Poppa unload and stack the wood or if Mama has let him skim by again and sent the girls to do the job. I know Mama was so worried about almost losing him when he was little, as they had little Avaline--while Poppa was gone to the war. And then later when I was only eight, baby Lydia had not lived past infancy. We know that it is not a good idea to mention these losses, because Mama will get that sad, lost look for days.

Poor Mama. She is such a good nurse and always there if any neighbor is sick or troubled. She’s had so much heartache herself but has never been one to complain. Mama always declares she has many more blessings than troubles.

Henley seems just not equipped for farm work, but then again Mama never pushes him to do what he isn’t inclined to do. Admittedly, in his quiet gentle way, he helps Poppa, as it is usually he who keeps all the harnesses oiled and mended and takes care of similar duties around the place. But I always leaned toward the belief that he would be stronger and healthier if he had to face up to more of the other responsibilities, instead of being encouraged to believe he will always be sickly and not hale and hardy. He has always been very finicky and delicate looking, and since he is Mama’s only boy, I guess even I can understand why she feels protective of him. Maybe because he is just younger than me, I feel inclined to see things different from Mama in this, but I can’t fathom what the future will hold.

Goodness knows, Poppa needs help, and often even I can’t help. I hate how hard he works with no one beside him. He never complains or seems to expect more, even though Mama has all us girls helping in the house and with garden chores. But then again if Henley helped Poppa, I wouldn’t have these days and times with Poppa. I do so love our work together and being outside. Henley has never displayed one iota of interest in things of that nature. I like taking the other end of the crosscut saw with Poppa teaching me just how to pull it so as not to bend it or put it in a bind. I feel very much needed and ever so close to Poppa, and we work smoothly together till each job is finished. It gives me a good deal of pleasure to hear Poppa brag that I’m his strong help and that anything others teach their sons, My Roxie can do.

Of course that’s not strictly true. Poppa forbids me to work with the ax most of the time, and when we are putting up hay in the summer, I can fork the hay into the wagon but not up and into the barn loft. My part is to fork it back to the farthest corners of the barn loft as Poppa tosses it up with his pitchfork. I’m pretty sure he and Mama have come to some sort of an agreement on what they think constitutes totally a man’s work and not good for a girl to be doing. Mama never hesitates to wade into the dirtiest of jobs when necessary, and she expects the same of us for the most part. But I can also see that she has set limits on what she wants her girls to be and do.

I think Mama made herself a promise while Poppa was gone during the war, when her help consisted mostly of what the Indian, Old Struttin, could give out of his own meager and difficult life. She would never want us to struggle in that way. I’ve heard her tell about trying to plant a garden after Struttin plowed it with Grandmother Addington’s mule and then for the most part single-handedly harvesting the vegetables and corn, wheat, hay and other things they must have to get through till another season.

Even though Struttin and some of her folk cut and hauled wood to the cabin for cooking and heat, often there was not enough split. She soon had to learn to chop wood to ensure that they would not freeze or go hungry. Jenny was almost seven when Poppa went to war and was an immense help to Mama. She and five-year-old Elizabeth could weed the garden, pick vegetables, and mind the babies. Jenny, Elizabeth and Callie were there through those difficult days, although Callie was too small to be scarred by the memories of such demanding times. They were precious company, but still Mama felt isolated, lonely, and afraid.

After a cold steady rain one spring evening with the milking and chores done, she and the girls had enjoyed a warm and hearty supper. She then put the bars over the door for the night. Always thankful that the last time Poppa was home he had added a bar across both the top and bottom of the kitchen and front doors, besides the one across the middle that had always secured the doors for the night. He had felt compelled to warn Mama of the many stories being told of deserters passing back through the country pillaging, stealing, raping, and in some cases killing--especially where women were isolated and without protection of a family or a weapon.

Poppa always had to take the gun and horse with him when he went back to the fighting. Not that a gun would have done her much good, since she was too small to handle it and had never been acquainted with the use of a gun. Poppa had impressed upon her the importance of keeping the ax inside the door at night because it was their only weapon. It was also important that it not be used as a weapon against them. Mama was very diligent about that.

That chilly evening she had read them a comforting passage in Psalms from the family Bible. They had prayed for protection for both themselves and Poppa, wherever he was. Mama always dreaded the nights and missed Poppa the most then, but something about this night disquieted her with a sense of foreboding. She tried to settle herself with the reassurance it was just the dreary unwelcome rain that had fallen steadily since sundown. She was so ready for the warmth and brightness that spring would bring.

As she tucked the girls in for the night, she sang and hummed them a hymn. Then she banked the fire for the night and prepared things for the girls to be able to tend in the morning while she took care of the chores. Alas, when her head hit the pillow, she knew she would be a long time meeting sleep that night. So she prayed and tried unsuccessfully not to worry about Poppa and whether he could somehow be in imminent danger this night. It was hard not to dwell on what she would or should do if he didn’t return to them after the war.

Her own dear father, Moses Addington, had died about five years earlier when his two-team horse-drawn wagon was smashed when something spooked the horses and caused a runaway as they were crossing the Cartoogechaye Creek on his property. He was thrown out and seriously injured. Up until then he had still been very active at the age of sixty-five. Though he lived for a couple of days, his injuries had proved too severe for him to survive. He had died on her twenty-fifth birthday, and she still grieved, missing him dearly.

She knew life would have been much kinder to them while Poppa was gone to war if her own dear father were still alive. Now there was just her mother left. Thankfully, her mother had a daughter, Mary Catherine, living with her to care for her. They kept each other company while Mary Catherine’s husband, Milus, Poppa’s brother, was also gone to the war.

Suddenly, in the midst of her rambling worry, someone violently shook the front door and started working at the leather strap in the latch trying to pull it back through the hole where it had been pulled in for the night. When this proved unsuccessful, the alarming visitor beat at the door and shoved against it until her heart started pounding so hard she was sure it could be heard, and her mouth became so dry she was afraid she would begin to cough.

For a wink of time, it came to her that it might be Poppa, home from the war again. Almost before she had completed the thought, though she knew Poppa would have announced himself so as not to alarm her.

She hoped fervently that none of the girls would wake or cry out. It was certainly not an animal. Whoever it was went about things systematically, pushing, shaking, kicking, and trying to get at the latch string. After some time of these disquieting efforts, there was a space of silence and then the same sounds began again at the kitchen door. This went on for a seemingly endless time, during which she felt that the impending danger would never cease, as she tried to prepare herself for what she should do. Even though she tried to steel herself to be ready to get the ax from beside the door if need be, she was nailed in place by fear, and the sounds were simply an underlying threat to any motion.

Eventually, the sounds came to an abrupt end. Her terror gradually abated as the quiet continued uninterrupted, and she thought that maybe the danger was past.

As soon as some measure of reason loosed her limbs, allowing her mind and body to function, she very quietly crept from her bed. Being careful and taking a good deal of time, she felt her way to where the ax was propped near the door. She was shaking with dread, lest she make a noise and alert the would-be intruder, or that he would return with a tool and begin working at the doors again. She knew she must be extremely cautious carrying the sharp ax back across the room in the dark. Finally, wet with sweat and frozen at the same time, she eased the ax down beside her bed and slipped back under her covers, feeling as if it had been forever since she had gotten up.

Her shivering would not be stilled and her mind raced from one witless thought to another. Finally the calming remembrance of the 23rd Psalm entered her spirit, and she began to whisper, The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want. As she prayed the Psalm, a soothing she could not quite understand under the circumstances drifted over her.

Still the night passed with no sleep whatsoever on her part, and when the morning broke, there was a compelling and insistent feeling that she must use caution.

Therefore it was a morning like no other. She did not venture forth to milk the cow, or to attend to the other chores until well on to midday. The children were quietly given milk and bread for their breakfast with an admonishment to be quietly hushed in all they did. The fire was not to be stirred for the day till after the chores were attended to and the situation gauged. The children were told something had happened during the night and that they must remain subdued and not leave the cabin for anything. Then Mama went out into the uncertainty of the day.

She wasn’t surprised to find there were signs everywhere that someone had stayed the night in the barn. Large boot prints were in the mud all around the house and barn. A couple of their valuable hens were missing from the hen house. She blessed the fact that Poppa had made the house so secure and that God had watched over them in Poppa’s absence.

Many times, weeks would pass without another person in her world. Too many of the women were left alone and did not stray far from their own home places. Then Old Struttin or a family member would show up and chop her some wood or help with chores when she desperately needed assistance. Oh, what sheer relief to know that there were still others on God’s earth!

The day after the night trespasser was one of those days when she was almost uncontrollably jumpy and felt she surely could not take another day alone. God truly knew she was at her wit’s ends because in the early afternoon He saw fit to send old Struttin by to check on them. With a strong need to be Mother’s girl again and a desire to assure herself that her Mother and her sister Mary Catherine also were safe from such an invasion, Mama and the girls, with Struttin’s encouragement, set about to make a swift trip to the Lydia Ducket Addington home before dark that day. Old Struttin made the trip on the trail with them and back to do chores for them for the night and for the week to come. Mama said it was the only time while Poppa was gone that she let her fears get the better of her. I have rarely heard Mama tell about those times and how hard it was, and it was always with tightness in her voice when she relived those awful years. Mama has always been just a slight woman, but she was always particularly careful and fearful afterward and kept that ax handy. There was that constant threat from deserters passing through. Thereafter, whatever she was working at or wherever she and the children were on the place, she kept a constant watch around them.

She, for months on end, had no word from Poppa, if he was dead or alive or wounded or taken prisoner. Only a few times was he able to come home to check on the family and help out for a very brief period and to take back some of the meager provisions for himself. It was in December of ’62, the first year that Poppa was gone, that three-year-old Avaline died, and Poppa never got to say goodbye. Mama had to lay her to rest and grieve alone without being able to tell Poppa or know if he would ever come home to know. I hope I never have to find out if I could be as tough as Mama was through those arduous times.

When the subject of the Civil War comes up, Mama always says the Potts boys did more than their duty for the South. I think most would agree that Lydia Caroline Potts sacrificed just as courageously as the men away in the fighting, as did many other women left behind during the war. Besides Poppa, who is known as Washington Potts, even though his first name is David, Uncle John Steven and Uncle William, who are Poppa’s older brothers, and Uncle Milus and Uncle Thomas Potts also fought for the South.

Uncle William and Uncle Milus had been captured by the Yankees in October of ‘63 in Tennessee and confined in a Delaware prison for the rest of the war. But by the grace of God, all five returned home to their wives and families in 1865. Poppa says about the war that if there is a hell on earth, the hunger, the cold or heat, the uncertainty, the noise and smells, the screams and moans of the wounded and dying and the constant worry and feelings of neglect for the folks back home was that hell. No living creature and surely not humans should ever be in those circumstances. But that was life twenty-one years ago, and a time that I never knew, thankfully.

Thinking about Mama back then makes me even more thankful for this week’s work. Poppa and Mama had our new house built this spring across the meadow from the little log cabin in which we all were born. The house is so light and roomy after the cabin. None of us could imagine or wanted to imagine living anywhere else, the cabin having been the only home we’d known. Since we had lived so many good times there, it somehow didn’t seem right to just leave it behind. But move we did, and now we couldn’t be happier settled into this new home.

It was a very timely move as most of us are about grown now, and we can have a little more space. Come next spring or summer though, before he gets too busy with the garden and crops, Poppa has in mind to move the cabin over here to use for storage. It won’t be its first move though, as it was taken apart and moved from a hill straight across the valley from us here, to its present location sometime after Poppa returned from the war.

Mama is enjoying having a cook stove instead of the fireplace to prepare our food. Now she declares she doesn’t know how she ever got her baking done and in a short time has grown accustomed to it. The rest of us too are just as grateful for our pleasant new home.

The day Poppa came from the town of Franklin with Mama’s cook stove, he also completely surprised us all when he also brought home a beautiful shiny walnut organ for Elizabeth to play for everyone’s enjoyment. He says he surprised himself too, as the storekeeper that had ordered the cook stove for him had offered him a bargain for the beautiful organ setting there. Whoever had ordered it had since fallen on hard times and could no longer pay for the organ. They had forfeited the down payment, and the storekeeper was just looking to get the return of the rest of his money.

Poppa had made the judgment that we would work a bit harder for the money for such a treasure and the pleasure it would bring to us all, and especially Elizabeth. Frequently now in the evenings with our outdoor work done and supper finished, Elizabeth opens the hymn book, and we all gather round to sing of the goodness of our Lord God and His abiding love. Sometimes we are still working at doing our hand chores, such as stringing beans or shelling peas, or knitting or tatting or sewing and Poppa and Henley often are mending the leather straps for the horses or whittling; but that doesn’t stop us from lifting our voices together at the end of a full and busy day.

Elizabeth plays the little old organ at church each Sunday at Mount Zion Methodist Chapel that we have attended all our lives. Our Addington grandparents helped to charter and establish it many years ago, and Grandfather Addington was one of the early members to be buried in the cemetery on the hill behind the church.

Poppa has also built a long, low covered woodshed, placing it along the north side of the house with only a narrow strip of yard between the buildings. Poppa says it will keep the wood dry as it cures and make a good wind break. With it divided across the middle, we can keep the green wood separated from what is already dry. After it was finished, we hauled the seasoned wood from the cabin site and stacked it neatly for the beginning of our life in our new home. Plenty of wood for our new cook stove and plenty for the fireplace for the coming year was our goal.

Now, after our profitable work this week we have our new shed full with the green wood, in addition to the dry. And each year we will continue with Poppa’s plan. Poppa seems very pleased that he and I have almost completed this essential undertaking.

Chapter 2

As I laze here, with the sky so very blue above me and the trees on the mountains surrounding our valley beginning to show signs of the colors changing, I suddenly realize the squirrels are no longer scolding in the trees around me. I guess we have upset their nest building and nut gathering in their preparations for the winter ahead. I bet the fat ones Poppa got this morning are already in a pot on their way to becoming an appetizing mess of squirrel dumplings for supper. I can almost smell their rich goodness. But now, I think I hear the creaking of the wagon as the horses start back up and around the hill following the tracks cut into the hill by the years of use, coming and going to this gradually cleared parcel of land. When we stopped for a breather this morning, Poppa had looked around with a satisfied air at the clearing we were expanding and reckoned that maybe he would be able to coax a few more beans and corn to grow here come spring. With a few groundhog traps and some luck, we could harvest a bigger and better crop here next summer. Poppa says green beans always do well on new ground if you can keep the varmints from eating them first.

As Maude and Minnie clop into view, I can hear Poppa whistling from his perch on the seat of the wagon. His brow is still damp, but the brick-red hue on his face has subsided. I knew Mama would have had Myra carry a fresh bucket of water from the spring as soon as they heard him coming into the yard. Mama is ever watchful to take loving care of Poppa. Mama laces the cold water with a little sorghum and apple vinegar. That way too much cold water won’t make an overheated person sick, and too, it will give a little jolt of energy to boot. Poppa would have sat on his chop-block in the shade of the two oak trees framing the woodshed to supervise the placement of the mounting ricks of woods. His growing children know by now what he expects, but they also aren’t as inclined to dawdle and get careless when he is resting in sight. Poppa always cherishes time he can spend in the company of his growing brood. He is a very affectionate and kind father.

Now Poppa whoas’ the matched mares into a patch of shade alongside the busted wood that I have ricked out of the way for him to continue busting more on his return. As he alights from the wagon on the far side from me, he retrieves his double-bit ax and commences on the remaining pile of maple and oak wood. As I begin loading from the other side, Poppa laughs and halts his ax in midair, then turns to me.

Whoa, Roxie girl, I don’t know how I could forget the refreshments your Ma sent you. There’s a nice big chunk of warm gingerbread in that cloth there and a good cold drink of water in the bucket scotched against the wagon seat.

I gulp a drink of the good cold water and begin devouring moist brown gingerbread while I return to my task of tossing the wood over the wagon’s side. When I have a good-sized pile in the wagon, I’ll climb up and stack it, so we can get it all on this last trip.

No way could Poppa and I have been through with this huge yearly task if Uncle Thomas and Cousin Judson hadn’t come a few weeks back on their horse-trading trip, donating a huge amount of labor. They, along with Poppa, had gotten right down to brass tacks, sawing down enough trees for our year’s use and getting the brush piled out of the way. Then they had set in to getting most of the logs sawed into the lengths needed for firewood. That still left them with plenty of jawing time to consult and argue over the new team of horses Uncle Thomas had bought from Mr. Patton down the road. Both Poppa and Uncle Thomas are fine horsemen, and they certainly have fun trying to out-brag and out-argue each other. That along with all the stories from their growing-up days made for great entertainment around the supper table and on the porch after chores. It makes me plumb light-hearted to see Poppa so merry and care-free for a change. It is truly a treat for them to spend that much time with each other, as Uncle Thomas lives off down on Cowee, the other side of the county, as do another brother, Uncle William and two of Poppa’s sisters, Aunt Sarah and her family, and Aunt Margaret Gillespie, whose husband was killed in the war.

Now it’s been settled that Mama and Poppa will go down for a week in November and visit their families and get in on the hog killing. Mama and Poppa have decided things here will be pretty well harvested and in for the winter, and they will spare this time for a rare and long-awaited family visit. I think they are both very excited, but Mama says she hopes she can stand the trip. Poppa says we are all very capable of seeing to ourselves and that he will have our brother-in-law, Charlie, check on us every few days.

Then there are plans for Uncle James Burnett, Aunt Sarah’s husband, and Uncle Thomas and some of their boys to all come in December and help Poppa butcher our hogs. I’m sure there’ll be hunting and more story swapping, lots of eating, and some merry times so close to Christmas. We may plan that time for a community corn-shucking for socializing and introducing our men cousins to our neighbor girls. If it’s not too rainy and cold, maybe Poppa will consider roasting a pig in the ground for the corn-shucking or some other time while they are here. It is something we have heard about, but we’ve never done. But Poppa talks of times they did when all his brothers were still at home. With sixteen pigs from the two broods, this year maybe one of the young shoats can be spared and still have plenty of sows for breeding and shoats for butchering and selling.

Presently, I’m all full of energy again and raring to get this last load of wood finished, but I pause and watch Poppa swing his ax so expertly in his big calloused hands, with true precision and strength. There comes over me this warm comprehension of the gratitude and love I have for this man, seemingly capable of any labor put before him, and still as gentle as any mother would be. Thank you God for such a wonderful Father. Thankfully, I have never known a time without my father and mother together, sheltering us from the hardships of life. I cherish our warm loving Godly home they prepared and maintained for us but that we are also required to contribute to.

As I bend back to my task of loading the wagon, my mind wanders to our plans to begin the sorghum making next week. But if it shows any signs of frost before we are ready, we will be pushed to cut the cane immediately and lay it under a shed. It’s always a tedious undertaking to keep the fires going hot, but not hot enough to scorch the syrup. Then the foam must be skimmed off, and judged for when the liquid cane is just the right thickness for a perfect sorghum. Mama and Poppa have a reputation for making some of the best sorghum around. The importance of our work has always been impressed upon us, for otherwise there will be no molasses cookies, gingerbread or anything to sweeten with except for our honey for the coming year.This entire process requires all the family’s cooperation to be successful. Today may have been the day for Mama and the girls to empty the big crocks of any remaining sorghum into the smaller crocks and then clean and place them in the sun to dry, in readiness for the new syrup. Someone besides me was probably thinking of the sorghum making, since the gingerbread had been made since dinner today.

Shortly, Poppa lays the ax under the wagon seat and I place the last sticks of wood high on the top of the load, and we both clamber aboard for the last time today. Poppa clucks the horses out of their reverie and circles them around as I stare down on our farm below. Oh Poppa, don’t you think this has just been a perfect sort of day? I exclaim exuberantly.

Well ... he starts to reply.

But I distractedly go on, I know you have worked hard today but don’t days like this make you wish they could go on forever, that things would never have to change and we could be together like this for always?

Poppa clears his throat before answering, Yes, my nearly grown little ‘hoyden’... well I guess I can’t really call you that anymore as you have become a very pretty and settled young lady. You can’t know how often I feel exactly that way about holding on to the way things are, but at the same time I am so proud of the way you are all growing up. Before I know it, you will be sparking with one of those Patton or Blaine boys and never look back as you leave us behind.

Poppa, don’t be silly. I’ve never seen anyone that could tear me away from my home. Just look at our orchard down there and the new apple trees that we have grafted. Before many years they will be producing more ‘Early Harvest,’ ‘June apples’ and ‘Sheep’s-nose,’ alongside our old tree varieties. And the plans we have to graft more strains of apples for fragrant dried apple pies Mama turns out! I love the pear and quince trees, and the peaches are wonderful when they don’t get frozen back in the spring and can bear those luscious juicy peaches. Today, I could hear the hens cackling as they left their nests and that old big Dominecker rooster crowing as he bragged to all the world about his barnyard territory, and it was as sweet as any music, even Elizabeth’s beautiful organ playing.

Yes, girl I know what you mean, and I will tell you that Henley did help with the wood today. I know it rankles you more than anyone about what he does or doesn’t do, but we don’t all march to the same tune. I have to leave your Ma be on that situation, as I can’t chance making a wrong choice; she has already suffered too many losses. Besides, Henley usually stays busy. It just isn’t what most expect a nearly grown man to be doing. In his way he is a big help to me, so don’t be so perturbed about him.

I’m sorry, Poppa, I don’t mean to cause you more worry and you know that I truly love him and recognize his gentle nature. I just wish you had more help, and it frustrates me because it can’t be helped.

Poppa straightens on the seat and laughs, and in trying to throw out his broad chest succeeds more in projecting his slightly portly midsection. Look at me! Doesn’t it look like God knew what he was doing when he endowed me with this sturdy frame sitting next to you?

I brush at a bee buzzing and worrying around our heads, probably on his way back to the hives in the orchard just below us now, and then I pat Poppa’s damp back as I agree, Poppa, I think you could lick the world if need be.

Well, looky here, Poppa whoops as we descend into the yard, and Hattie, with brown pigtails flying, approaches Poppa’s side of the wagon. Hattie at eight is a lovely child and not at all spoiled as you would think the baby might be. She has a happy, sunny disposition and is rarely without a smile. She brings joy wherever she goes and seems always to have energy to spare.

Poppa, do you need me to help unload? she chirps, as Poppa pauses the horses long enough to swing her up on his knee.

That’s a really good offer. Yes, my little chick-a-dee, you may do your share, Poppa agrees as he plants a kiss on her cheek, before bringing the wagon to a halt and setting the brake.

Myra, followed by Henley and Cordel, comes from the house to make quick work of this load as it is getting on to time to do the chores before supper. Poppa and I clamber down and we all make quick work, competing to see which of us can carry a bigger load or the most loads, but often dropping some if we pile too much on our arms. We laugh when it isn’t our load, but are reminded by Poppa not to get in too big a hurry, especially in stacking it.

I don’t want it falling down like a drunken lout had ricked it, he half teasingly warns us then, as he heads to the barn with the horses and wagon.

Hattie shouts, Poppa I would ride to the chicken house with you if you will wait till I get the egg basket, and she makes a mad dash through the house, coming out on the kitchen end of the house, just as Poppa pulls the team to a stop.

Are you going a long way, Miss Chick-a-dee? he teases as Hattie climbs in for the short ride to the chicken house just this side of the barn.

She can be heard telling him, laughingly, that she is not a chick-a-dee! Minnie and Maude swish their tails impatiently when Poppa pulls them to a halt again, as Hattie sings to them one of the many little ditties she is constantly coming up with.

Hear Minnie whinny, for her oats a plenty, because she’s not a ninny, Maude do you want any? And she happily alights at her destination and goes in to claim the eggs from the fat clucking hens.

Mama keeps a large flock of chickens. We have plenty of eggs for baking, for breakfast, and for setting the hens in the springtime when they want to stay on their nests to hatch more chicks thereby enlarging the flock. Of course, throughout the year the older hens and the young roosters are occasionally taken to bake or for a pot of dumplings as there is not much need for the extra roosters. Some of the roosters are taken for fryers as they become big enough each summer. The older hens decline in their laying as they age, and Mama does not believe in feeding them unnecessarily, which means a delicious chicken dinner for us.

Sometimes we share eggs or chickens with a neighbor when their hens aren’t laying or a varmint gets into their henhouse. Mama believes in always being a good neighbor. Hattie will feed the chickens their corn, too. The chickens roam the farm and barnyard all day, sometimes hiding a nest out which means we will have to watch and find the nest to recover those eggs. Usually the hens are happy to lay their eggs in the nests provided inside the chicken house but particularly in the spring when the hens brood to set, they tend to get crafty and lay elsewhere. Hattie really dreads when the hens get broody since they peck at her when she tries to gather their eggs. That’s when Mama works out with her which nests to leave full of eggs for the hens for hatching and which ones to gather every day for fresh eggs.

Occasionally a big ole black snake will find his way into the henhouse and swallow the eggs. That snake has to be killed or it will come back for more eggs. Usually Poppa has us leave the black snakes around the barn and corncrib as they feed on mice and other small pests. Poppa, or Henley, as he goes to do the milking, will close the chickens in their house for the night so the foxes, possums and weasels can’t get them.

Poppa and Henley will also take care of the rest of the animals. One of us girls will carry the hogs’ slop bucket out to pour in the hog trough, but all the grain for the horses, cows, ducks and pigs will be fed by the men. The barn cats will be given their milk in the barn when there is an overabundance of milk; the rest of the time they will get by on their mouse hunting. Old Boony, the hound dog, will get some table scraps from the supper table for his supper.

Soon now, it will be time to bring the oxen and sheep in from the outlying pastures so they can be fed for the winter and also to protect them from panthers, bears or other predators. Poppa always uses the oxen more on the wagon when the ground gets to freezing and thawing. The oxen have more endurance and are not