Redbuds Are Not Red: Memoirs of an Appalachian Woman

By Carol Ison

The redbud tree that is so prominent in the landscape of eastern Kentucky during the early spring when they are profusely blooming is something that “draws” people back to the mountains. “I want to come back when the redbuds are blooming” is a common refrain from many folks who want to come back home or a stranger who wants to just come and experience the beauty of the mountains.

Yet the redbuds are not red; they are a deep pink, and neither are all of the natives of the Appalachian Mountains and the hills of eastern Kentucky lazy, illiterate, apathetic, drug addicts, and generally low-class citizens. But still this region is identified as being a society made up of these individuals.

Redbuds Are Not Red is written to illustrate that just as the tree is known for its “red” name, there is a misconception about it. The same is true of the people who are perceived in a negative sense, and this story attempts to describe a region that has good people, respectable and honest people, who need to be seen through a different perspective.

It is written to illustrate that despite the poverty, deprivation, and lack of many needed resources, there is a way of life here that is good, decent, and deserving of the same respect and acknowledgment as any other segment of this great nation. People can come out of these hardships and rise to positions of productivity, respectability, and prominence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664109452

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Carol Ison.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 11/05/2021

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CONTENTS

Foreword

Introduction

Chapter 1:   Just Trying to Make Sense of It All

Chapter 2:   Early Beginnings

Chapter 3:   Sad Beginnings in My Life

Chapter 4:   Positive Events in the Life of My Family

Chapter 5:   Hog Butchering

Chapter 6:   Christmas in Scuttle Hole Gap

Chapter 7:   Donald Gay

Chapter 8:   Everyday Life in the Mountains

Chapter 9:   It’s Sallet Picking Time

Chapter 10: Summer Gardens

Chapter 11: Sweeter Things of Summer

Chapter 12: A Traditional Mountain Stir-Off

Chapter 13: Religious Beliefs and Practices

Chapter 14: Funerals and Deaths

Chapter 15: Raising Children and Teaching Values and Discipline

Chapter 16: Early School Memories and Meeting My Future Husband

Chapter 17: Lunchtime under the Pine Trees

Chapter 18: School Days, School Days, Happy Golden Rule Days

Chapter 19: Susan’s House

Chapter 20: Laundry Day at Susan’s House

Chapter 21: Crossing the Bridge from Childhood into Adolescence

Chapter 22: The Joys of School in Rural Appalachia

Chapter 23: Fundraising/Pie and Box Supper + Square Dance

Chapter 24: Here Are the Doctor and Nurse to Give Shots

Chapter 25: A Life-Changing Experience

Chapter 26: The Day of the Operation Arrives

Chapter 27: My Hero Arrives

Chapter 28: More Family Hardships

Chapter 29: Starting a New Phase of My Life

Chapter 30: Fulfilling a Promise

Chapter 31: Hazel and Earl

Chapter 32: Helen and Ralph

Chapter 33: Off to College

Chapter 34: Life as a College Student

Chapter 35: My Last Summer as a Single Girl

Chapter 36: Kendall’s First Job

Chapter 37: The Unplanned Wedding

Chapter 38: Being a Wife and a College Student

Chapter 39: End of Semester and Coming Home

Chapter 40: Our First Married Housing

Chapter 41: Beginning Our First Teaching Experience

Chapter 42: Becoming Parents for the First Time

Chapter 43: Teaching Then and Now

Chapter 44: Our Baby Girl Arrives

Chapter 45: Life-Changing Decisions

Chapter 46: Another Life Changer for Me

Chapter 47: Adjusting to Life Changes

Chapter 48: Cowan Community Begins a Long Relationship with Save the Children

Chapter 49: Another Hero Emerges

Chapter 50: Becoming a Player in the Community

Chapter 51: The Great Pandemic

Chapter 52: Redbud Winter Again

Chapter 53: The Pandemic Is Ending, and So Are My Stories

FOREWORD

T HIS PROJECT HAS been a much anticipated and discussed topic in our family for several years. My Granny, Carol Ison, spent most of her free time working on and thinking about her book. It was a dream of sorts for many years and we all encouraged her to finally put the stories of her life down. It was not an easy life, but she never complained about the hardships she faced in her childhood; it was simply her story.

I was honored to be there when she ‘hit send’ on her draft to email to the publishing company. Sadly, for her and all of her friends and family, she did not see the final stages of her work come to fruition. Carol Ison passed peacefully from this life on September 12, 2021, just a few short days after finishing the telling of her life’s story. These pages will be all the more precious to us because of that. I wish she could be with us to celebrate the publishing and sharing of her book, but I believe that she would be honored in knowing that each of you are taking the time to read her work. If you gain nothing else from this, I hope you do gain an understanding of how important it is to be kind to others anytime you have the chance; after all it is what Granny would’ve done.

We love you all and appreciate all the gestures of kindness shown to our family in this difficult time. For me, knowing that her story and legacy will live on in the form of Redbuds Are Not Red is a comforting thought.

Wishing you all the best and happy reading,

Callie Horn Blair, Granddaughter of Carol Ison

INTRODUCTION

T HE REDBUD TREE is an extremely popular tree here in the mountains of eastern Kentucky, especially when they are in full bloom in early spring, covering a lot of the roadsides and hills with their brilliance. This happens in mid-March or early April. However, redbuds are not red ! Neither are all the so-called Appalachian hillbillies lazy, toothless, ignorant, and drug addicts.

What does that have to do with the stories and memories I am going to share with you? Redbuds are a big deal here in the Appalachian Mountains where I was born and have lived all my seventy-eight years. We even have a short spell of wintry weather that happens each year after spring has arrived, which is known as redbud winter. But the truth is, redbuds are no redder than a green apple is blue.

Redbud season is one of the most beautiful times of the year in the hills of eastern Kentucky. They bloom profusely along every hill, hollow, and beside the roads in the region; and people plan trips into the mountains when they are expected to be at their peak. Since they have such a prominent part of our culture, it seems to me that it should be noted that they really are not red. Instead, they are a very succinct shade of mauve or a deep pink. There is not even a hint of red about them, and I have never understood why they are called redbuds.

Why is this important to me and my stories, which are really my memories and life experiences? Well, just as there is the misconception about redbuds, there are also many misconceptions about my little corner of the world and its people, that of southeastern Kentucky, right in the middle of the Appalachians. The misconception has been perpetuated throughout many decades, supported by television shows and documentaries of the Appalachians, reports by the nation’s leading reporters, and stories by countless thrill seekers who have come to the hills of Appalachia to see these strange creatures who are called hillbillies.

Each documentary producer promises the people and the community they are spotlighting that their production will show the real people. These people are decent, hardworking, ordinary to beautiful people, people who genuinely care and want better things for themselves and their children. They are so tired of being portrayed as the Beverly hillbilly, or a character on Dukes of Hazzard, or as those depicted in a major production narrated by Walter Cronkite that helped launch President Lyndon Johnson’s war on poverty.

Yet without question, the productions all turn out to portray the same elements: poverty, ugliness, vulgarity, violence, and indifference or apathy that is always the prevailing impression taken from the production. Perhaps it is the same as with producing any major film for entertainment: if it does not have certain elements, it will not sell. So the documentaries keep showing the ugliness and unworthiness of the Appalachians, while at the same time trying to defend them.

Truthfully and sadly, there is a proportion of people living in the Appalachians who do fit the stereotype most often portrayed by the media. There are those who actually are lazy, toothless, obese, dirty, apathetic, living in shacks with abandoned cars or trucks in their yards, standing in line for handouts, allowing their children to miss school when they want to, living for one fix to the next, selling and promoting drug use, and many other negative attributes. Why these people are like this, I do not know. Perhaps for many of them, circumstances have just not allowed them to rise above it.

But can one reading this story not find the same types of behaviors and lifestyles somewhere within driving distance of where you are residing in your comfortable middle-class or upper-class residence? Don’t all regions, towns, or cities have their poor or slum communities? Does that section cause an entire region or city to be identified and stereotyped by some negative title such as hillbillies or another put-down name making the residents ashamed to admit they are from the same region? Just wondering and would really like to know.

I think our region has been defined too long by that segment of our population that does not represent most of the people. It is a negative identification that should be redefined; and I know there are many authors, artists, and media producers who are always working on the problem. It will likely not happen in my lifetime; but let it be known by anyone who reads this, whether it be my son or daughter, or one of my grandchildren or great-grandchildren, that I have tried to promote my people and the region of southeastern Kentucky in a realistic sense and with as much positivity as possible. These are people of the Appalachians, especially those living in eastern Kentucky with whom I am most familiar. I want to promote them as I have known them: decent, independent, hardworking, honest, proud of their heritage, and trying their best to make a better world for themselves and their children. They also are doing it in a region that is sadly lacking in many resources that would make this a better place and that the greater part of the nation has in abundance.

Just as Redbuds Are Not Red tells the truth about the popular tree, my memories of my life are intended to tell the truth about Appalachia. They will tell about poverty; they will tell sad stories and will depict life as ugly and heartbreaking at times. Yet they will also tell that there is a positive side of the story as well. There was and is happiness in the homes of the poor. There is an intense sense of family and community in many of the Appalachian homes and communities that towns and communities from across the nation would duplicate if they could. Let me give you an example of that.

In 2017, after the election and Donald Trump was elected, a community development worker, Ben Fink, who had initiated a new program here in my county, known as the Culture Hub, wrote an article that received widespread, even national, attention. Simply stated, the Culture Hub is a connection of several nonprofits, small businesses, and organizations coming together to work together for the good of all and to support the efforts of each other.

In his article, he discussed what he felt was the rationale people in this part of the nation had used to justify voting for Donald Trump. The article was read by a group of citizens in Leverett, Massachusetts, an upper-class district, the exact opposite of this community. A representative of Leverett contacted the Culture Hub and suggested forming an alliance whereby the two communities could send representatives to the other community.

The purpose would be to try to get to know each other to determine what commonalities they might have, as well as what were the basic differences that caused their communities to have such differing political views. In other words, they wanted to bridge the divide, to see how communities that were so different could come together and share a dialogue. The goal was that the dialogue would promote healing the hurt and disappointment each side felt toward individuals and communities that did not share their same political views.

Well, the folks from Kentucky in the fall of 2017 made their trek to Leverett for a four-day, packed agenda filled with hours of dialogue, led by an international peace coordinator, Paula Greene. The visit was deemed successful because there had been peaceful dialogue, and the Kentuckians had enjoyed the hospitality extended them from the Leverett community. They came back with the announcement that Leverett would too be sending a delegation to Kentucky in midspring. In fact, it was to be during the redbud season.

So a group of seventeen Massachusetts upper-class citizens in the spring of 2018 came to the rural foothills of the Appalachians in eastern Kentucky. Were they surprised? One of the visitors confessed openly that before coming, he had the people here categorized as cardboard box characters. Yes, they were very surprised, and what were some of the surprises they found? Here are a few:

• The land, the mountains, and the overall terrain were more beautiful than they could have imagined.

• The people they met were so friendly, open, intelligent, and easily understood, much more than they had anticipated.

• There was such a sense of community as evidenced by the community centers they visited and where they saw such a pride in the community in which they were located, and how much pride there was in what they were doing. They left here with the idea that they would like to initiate community centers like ours as a way of strengthening their community.

• They were touched and impressed by the longevity of families, like third-generation families still living on homeplaces, and so many people in the communities had connection through family. Many of the people who were visiting from Leverett confessed to having left their home communities and had for the most part not looked back. They did not have long claims of identity with Leverett, and they did not have extraordinarily strong ties with family they had left behind.

• They also left with the idea that regardless of how we all had voted, we all wanted the same things for our communities and our families.

So what I am saying is that regardless of how the public has perceived Appalachia and how the media keeps on showing it, that is not the real side, the real Appalachia as I see it. There is something positive about our life here, which even some of our own people do not recognize. My goal in sharing these memories of mine is to portray a land of people who have long been misrepresented and shown to be less worthy than those in other parts of the nation. I want them to be acknowledged as a people who are deserving of positive recognition by the media and by persons throughout the nation. I also want the region to gain a positive identity so that when one leaves the area, they do not have to be ashamed to admit they came from the mountains of eastern Kentucky.

It is to show these people even in the depths of deprivation, hardships, and many challenges, they are trying to be the best they can be with what they have been given. My life story is full of those conditions, yet I feel that I have overcome them and have given back to my community as much as I possibly could. Hopefully, readers may gain a greater appreciation for the region and its people and not lump all of them together as less worthy than their neighbors in other regions of the country.

CHAPTER 1

Just Trying to Make Sense of It All

I T IS THE beginning of a New Year, 2018, and a very cold beginning it is! For days now, the temperature has been hovering in the tens during the day and dropping into the low single digits during the night hours. Snow lovers have been hoping to get the first real accumulation of the season, but so far, all that is happening are the frigid temperatures; not even a skiff to cover the ground.

For me, it is a bit depressing to be dealing with the temperatures and in getting the house undecorated from Christmas. I really love Christmas, and I love all the decorations Kendall and I have accumulated in our fifty-six years of sharing a home together. But it does become challenging to get all the decorations out and display them and then get them all put away again for the next year. Sometimes it is hard to even plan for the day, and it is easier to just sit and drink coffee with Kendall and think about the past.

It sometimes feels like there is nothing left to look forward to, except heaven. But on the better days, it is easy to look forward to another spring, another summer, or another Christmas or whatever life happens to place in front of me. This thought is one of the motivating thoughts that prompts me to work on this writing, which is sharing my memories of what life has been like as an Appalachian woman who has spent her lifetime here.

Here in southeastern Kentucky, in Letcher County, and in a small community known as Cowan, is where I have lived all my life. For just a few years I left the community to attend Morehead State College, but I returned home before obtaining a college degree. A Mrs. degree seemed more important when I came home for Christmas break during my sophomore year, but I did go back for the last semester of that year. It would be nearly ten years before I finally did receive that first college degree; but I did, followed by a master’s degree, and then followed by a degree in guidance counseling. All those degrees came after the birth of my two children.

Kendall, my childhood sweetheart whom I married when coming home for a Christmas break, and I are both now happily retired after long and vigorous careers. Life is good, but looking back, I cannot help but wonder how it ever ended this well.

CHAPTER 2

Early Beginnings

T HE GREAT DEPRESSION and World War II hit Cowan and all parts of southeastern Kentucky hard. For my family, it really was hard. The youngest of nine children, I was born near the end of both in 1943. My father, Grant, and one of my sisters, Hazel, had left home, as had a number of their relatives and neighbors, to go to Baltimore where they found employment and were able to send some money back home to their families during the last few years of the war.

My family composition at the time of my birth consisted of my eldest brother, Doug, who had been in the navy where he was injured and never was well again. He was only home on visits and one period when he tried to live here. One infant child of the family had passed away when only six months old; and Hazel, the eldest child in the family, was already married at this time. So still in the household at the time of my birth were five children, Helen, Mary Lou, Fred, Ed Neil, Donald Gay, and myself, Carol Ann, who made six.

My sister Hazel, in her older years, let it slip that she had cried when she learned that my mother was pregnant with me. Probably after several of her siblings had been assigned to Hazel to help with through their babyhood and childhood, it was not a very welcome announcement. One of the advantages of a large family was the assistance that the older children could provide to the family, but it was not always with the greatest feeling of elation on the older one’s part. I had always felt that the older children had a lot more in common with each other than they did with me, and Hazel’s admission of crying when she knew my mom was pregnant again rather confirmed it. What I have later come to believe is that Hazel was just sorry that our mom was going to have to go through childbirth again and be responsible for raising another baby.

I was born in April, springtime. Springtime is still one of my favorite times of the year, and my daughter Valerie was also born in April. It is beautiful here in the mountains of Kentucky, and I especially love the redbuds. I look forward to seeing the first sign of one blooming alongside the road. All the hillsides that have been barren throughout the winter months suddenly begin to blaze with color, and even the ugliness of the ditches by the sides of the road that are filled with litter begins to recede, and the ugliness is replaced with the splendor of the redbuds. These are so wonderfully spaced together in a natural formation that sometimes for miles there will be rows of these beautiful redbuds, which are not really red at all.

Spring is so beautiful it almost causes you to forget how ugly some of the sights were during a long frigid winter. It is like God is rewarding us with a bountiful supply of something good to make up for what we had to endure all winter long. It makes you know why you love these mountains of eastern Kentucky and why you would not leave if you could and why you choose to remain here and call this place home. Also, despite my complaint about the ugliness of winter, I must say there is also much beauty to be found if one chooses to look for it.

Grant, my dad, had come home from Baltimore and found a job in a small coal mine, Kingdom Come Coal Company, where he drove a pony that pulled the coal out of the mines. He and my mother, Jane, were building a new house on the land where they had always lived; but the old house was being torn down. They were living in a barn during the building process.

I never did hear very much about my birth, except I knew that I had been delivered by Lizabeth, who lived on the mountain above our house. You will learn more about Lizabeth as my memories unfold. Hazel had shared with Kendall that she remembers my dad sitting outside by the chimney with his head in his hand during the entire delivery process.

I have often wondered what my dad’s thoughts were as he sat there. What did he really think about having another mouth to feed just when it looked like the family could get ahead? Was he disappointed that the new mouth was a girl and not another son? I often wonder what kind of relationship I would have had with him had he lived, and how would I have been different if I had grown up with a father in a home? Kendall, my husband, has sure wondered about it also, because he says that I have too much of a matriarch personality. What he is saying is that I am not too inclined to let the male in my life be the dominant one and I, as a woman, be more submissive. But he loves me anyway and has stayed with me for a lifetime.

CHAPTER 3

Sad Beginnings in My Life

M Y DAD’S DEATH resulting from a slate fall in the mines that crushed his chest and his face was a very traumatic event for the entire family, and it is one of my first memories of life and certainly of my father. It happened on October 24, 1946, on a day when the elder brothers and sisters were out on a neighboring hillside where they had raised corn that summer. On this day, they were gathering the corn and making fodder shocks that would be used to feed the cow and the mule throughout the long chilly winter. The corn by now had hardened and would be used for feeding the animals, and some would be taken to a mill where it would be ground into cornmeal. I was at home with my mother.

The memory is not noticeably clear, but I do recall that my mother cries out at a sudden sound of loud weeping and crying. She is saying, That sounds like the children coming up the holler, and why are they coming home now? She starts down the holler to meet them with me only three and a half years old at the time running behind trying to keep up. Soon she meets the children, and they start screaming to her, "Poppy is dead! Poppy is dead! He got killed in