Blount and Beyond
September2026
Series Seven Volume Nine
August 30, 2026
78th edition
Each article is published exactly as submitted, verbatim.
Editor’s Corner
Dear Friends,
September has always seemed like a month of gentle change. The long, hot days of summer begin to give way to cooler mornings, and before long the hills and mountains around us will be painted with the beautiful colors of fall. Here in Blount County, we are blessed to live where nature puts on one of its finest shows each year. Whether it is a drive along the Foothills Parkway, a walk through town, or simply looking out your kitchen window, there is beauty waiting to be enjoyed.
September also reminds us to slow down and be thankful. Labor Day gives us an opportunity to honor the hardworking men and women who have helped build our communities. On September 17, we celebrate Constitution Day and remember the freedoms we enjoy as Americans. Later in the month, Grandparents Day gives us a chance to thank those who have shared their wisdom, stories, and love through the generations. It is also a wonderful time to begin gathering family recipes, photographs, and memories before another year slips by.
As we prepare this issue of Blount and Beyond, I want to say thank you to each of you. Whether you have been with us since our very first issue or have only recently discovered our magazine, your faithful readership means more than words can express. Because of you, our little magazine continues to grow, reaching readers across the country while still celebrating the people, places, history, and traditions that make Blount County so special.
I also want to thank our writers, photographers, and everyone who shares their stories, memories, and talents with us each month. This magazine truly is a community effort, and we could not do it without each of you.
As you enjoy these first days of autumn, I hope you will take time to watch the leaves begin to change, enjoy a quiet country drive, visit with family and friends, and make a few new memories of your own.
Thank you for allowing us to be a small part of your month.
Warmly,
Linda Kay
Phone: 865–233–0026 Email: Linda1352@gmail.com
What Do You Seek?
“To win the contest you must deny yourself many things that would keep you from doing your best. An athlete goes to all this trouble just to win a blue ribbon or a silver cup, but we do it for a heavenly reward that never disappears.” (1 Corinthians 9:25 TLB)
What do you seek above all else? Is it to be famous? Admired? Respected? Appreciated? Acknowledged? Obtain a particular career? Have a relationship with a certain person? Gain wealth? If you got it, would it truly satisfy you? How long would it last?
By 30 I had achieved all I had ever wanted — a loving, faithful wife, children I could be a father to, a fulfilling career that helped people and met our financial needs. But something was missing. I felt an emptiness I couldn’t escape.
I found the answer in an intimate, dynamic relationship with Jesus that completely filled that gaping hole. Oh, what a difference He has made in my life.
Though I trained every day in the blistering Texas sun for my high school football team, we didn’t win every game. I was lonely in the midst of adoring fans in my rock and roll band. I rose from volunteer to paid staff at national headquarters in DC, only to be arbitrarily riffed one day after 14 years of devoted service.
Nothing I did achieved world renown, but Jesus will never forget me and He gets the credit for every good thing I do now. And He’s right there with you offering you peace, joy, fulfillment, and His love, here and now, AND for eternity. You don’t have to do a thing but choose to love Him and surrender your life to Him. He’ll do the rest.
Love,
les
How Blount and Beyond Came to Be
I have had several people ask me why I started the online magazine, Blount and Beyond. Well, the truth is, it wasn’t really my idea. In fact, I tried every excuse I could think of not to do it, but eventually I knew I had to publish a magazine.
I prayed and asked God to give me something I could do to help my community. My health no longer allowed me to volunteer in the community the way I once had, so I asked Him to show me another way I could make a difference. The answer I received was to publish a magazine — a place where people could share their stories, celebrate the community, and bring people together.
I told God that I knew absolutely nothing about publishing a magazine. His answer was simple: the people I needed to help me would be there. I told Him I wouldn’t be able to come up with enough articles and material for a magazine. Again, He reminded me that the stories and material were already there; all I had to do was look for them.
I gave God excuse after excuse, but eventually, I stopped making excuses and started listening. That’s how Blount and Beyond began.
It may never become a huge success by traditional standards, but to me, it already is. Through this magazine, I have met so many wonderful people and made many new friends, and I hope there are many more friendships to come.
Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to write, contribute, share a story, or simply read Blount and Beyond. This is the magazine I never wanted to publish, but today, I am so thankful that I did.
Sometimes, the path we try hardest to avoid turns out to be the path we were meant to take.
Linda Kay
Jesse James Gang and the Russellville, KY Bank Heist
On an early afternoon in March 1868, William Douglas Meriwether, a bachelor farmer known as “Old Batch#39;' and his noon dinner guests had just finished their meal when a knock atthe door revealed five men in tattered gray uniforms who hadridden in on horseback. They said they were Confederate soldierson their way home and asked for food. Meriwether had the tablereset and fed them. This meeting took place at Meriville, thehome built in 1810 by Dr. Charles Nicholas Meriwether and wassaid to have been designed by Meriwether’s good friend, ThomasJefferson. The house, today still owned by Meriwether descendants, stands just over the Montgomery County line from Guthrie, Kentucky.
Following the meal, one of the five strangers pulled a pistol on “Old Batch” and demanded the $10,000 they heard he had in the house. They had been told he had just sold his tobacco crop. Meriwether insisted that he had no money in the house but the strangers did not believe him. One of them suggested that they take him out and string him up in a big oak tree in the backyard to jog his memory.
With the noose around his neck, “Old Batch” told them he had put the money in a bank 25 miles to the east in Russellville, Kentucky, and had the deposit book in his pocket to prove it. One of the strangers took the book and found that Meriwether was telling the truth. They let him go. But one said, “What is to keep us from robbing the bank and getting his money?” The five strangers turned out to be the Jesse James gang, which was about to begin its career as bank robbers. They were Jesse and his brother, Frank, Cole Younger, George, and Al Shepherd.At Meriville on the border of Montgomery County, Tennessee,and Todd County, Kentucky plans were conceived that the JesseJames gang used to commit their first bank robbery. Prior to theRussellville heist, they had only done scattered small robberies.The plan devised by the gang and tested in the Russellvillerobbery worked so well that they used it successfully in many other raids.
It was a simple plan. Days before the robbery, several of them rode into town posing as cattle buyers. They also rode along all roads leading into and out of Russellville saying they were looking for cattle. Some of the gang would go into the bank andengage in small transactions to get acquainted with the layout of the building. Their plan was to enter the bank at noon when few if any customers were there and when most of the employees were at lunch.
The gang robbed the Russellville Norton and Long Bank on March 20, 1868. Nimrod Long, the president, was there with two employees, Hugh Barclay and cashier T.H. Simmons. Two of the gang entered the front, two the back and two remained outside as lookouts. Evidently, they had been joined by a sixth member.Long was at the counter when Cole approached him and asked tochange a 50-dollar bill. The President told Cole he thought the bill was a counterfeit and he refused. Cole then drew his pistol, as did Frank and Jesse James.
Long was ordered to hand over the keys to the vault. He refused and lunged at one of the men who fired his pistol. Long was struck by a glancing blow on the head, knocking him unconscious. The robbers then scooped up between $9000 to $14,000 (accounts vary on the actual amount) into wheat sacks.According to one account, the robbers did not know about anadditional $50,000 inside the vault.
The robbers left the bank, mounted their horses, and galloped out of town on roads they had become familiar with in their scouting for the robbery while firing their pistols in the air. One account has them headed south east toward Franklin, Kentucky, where they camped out. People around Guthrie believe that Frank and Jesse actually headed back west. Once they were supposedly back in Guthrie they stayed several days at Gray’s Tavern. It is now a private home still standing and known as Stagecoach Inn.
Later, Jesse James denied anything to do with the robberysaying he spent the day visiting relatives at Chaplin, Kentucky,near Bardstown. Brother Frank also denied taking part in the raid.A few years after the bank heist, Cole Younger issued a statement saying it couldn’t have been him because “I was gathering cattle in Ellis County, Texas … I brought the cattle to Kansas that fall and remained in St. Clair County until February.” The bank, situated on the city square, remains the same as it was in 1868 but has been restored as an apartment building.
The city of Russellville conducts a re-enactment of the James Gang robbery during its annual Tobacco and Heritage Festival each fall.
Sources
https://tomrizzo.com/raid-at-russellville/ https://https://www.angelfire.com/mi2/jamesyoungergang/russellville.mhttps://www.wnky.com/throwback-thursday-when-the-jesse- james-outlaw-gang-came-to-town/ https://www.clarksvilleonline.com/2018/11/28/dodging-the-roadkill-bank-robbery/ https://www.theleafchronicle.com/story/news/2016/09/05/remember-local-link-jesse-james/89659038/
A Jack Foreman and One of Blount County’sGreat Lumber Companies
Sometimes an old document can teach us something completely unexpected.
While researching my mother’s family I ran across the name of James Lafayette Ayers, he was the father of Charles Ayers the husband of Reba Bell Humphrey my mother’s first cousin, I found his World War I draft registration card. Most of the information was what you would expect to find. It listed his birth date, where he lived, and his wife, Elizabeth, as his nearest relative.
Then I noticed his occupation. Instead of simply saying “logger” or “lumberman,” it listed him as a Jack Foreman for the Babcock Lumber & Land Company in Maryville. I had never heard of a Jack Foreman.
After doing a little research, I learned that a Jack Foreman was much more than someone who worked in the woods. He supervised a logging crew, assigned jobs, kept the work moving, and was responsible for getting the valuable timber from the mountains to the railroad. It was a position that required experience, leadership, and good judgment.
James Ayers was working for one of the largest lumber companies in East Tennessee. The Babcock Lumber & Land Company began operations in Blount County in 1907. It owned thousands of acres of mountain timber and harvested hardwoods throughout the Tellico River region and nearby mountains. The company built a modern sawmill near what later became the City of Alcoa and even constructed houses, a company store, and other buildings for its workers. At one time, it was considered one of the largest hardwood lumber operations in the nation.
Like many lumber companies of that era, Babcock eventually cut most of the timber it owned. During the 1930s, much of its mountain land was sold to the United States government and became part of the Cherokee National Forest and the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. As the timber supply declined, the company moved away from large scale logging and into lumber distribution.
Today, most people have never heard the term Jack Foreman. Yet men like James Ayers helped build an industry that shaped Blount County and the surrounding mountains. They worked long days in difficult conditions, helping turn towering hardwood forests into the lumber that built homes, schools, barns, and businesses across America.
Sometimes all it takes is one line on an old draft registration card to uncover a piece of local history that deserves to be remembered.
Source
Where You Come From — A Modern Roadside Parable
Sean Dietrich, Aug 15
There was an old man sitting outside the dusty bar. He sat in a plastic lawn chair. There was a dog with him. The dog was either asleep or dead.
He was whittling a stick for no reason — the old man, not the dog. This is what old men did before TikTok.
A truck with out-of-state plates arrived in the parking lot. An electric vehicle. One of those steel truck-looking things. The kind that looks like a stainless residential refrigerator.
The motorist stepped out. There were kids in his backseat. A wife on the passenger side. Luggage and cardboard boxes loaded in the back.
“Excuse me,” said the motorist, who was thumbing away on his phone. “My GPS isn’t working. Do you know where I can find a ChargePoint station?”
“A WHAT-station?” said the old man.
“To charge my truck.”
The old man lifted his Coke-bottle glasses. “THAT’S a truck?”
“It’s about to die.”
“Sure hate to see what that thing looks like alive.”
“It needs to be charged. I need a NEMA 14–50 or a standard public J1772 Level 2 station.”
“Run that by me again.”
“A V4 Supercharger, or a V3 charger, with a CCS-to-NACS adapter?”
“Do what?”
The young man finally ignored the old man. Soon, he was walking in circles, searching for cell signal in the parking lot.
“What brings you to these parts?” said the old guy.
“I just moved here. I’m opening the new data center in town.”
“Oh.”
“What’s this town like? What kind of people live here?”
“Well,” said the old man. “What were folks like back where you come from?”
The traveler laughed. “Honestly, the people were awful.”
“Really?”
“Yes. That’s actually why I moved. People were selfish, complained all the time, dishonest, and always gossiping. Nobody minded their own business. Nobody EVER helped their neighbor. Everyone was ALWAYS talking politics or looking for something to be angry about. We couldn’t get out of that place fast enough.”
The old man nodded sagely. “Well, I’m sorry to say you’re gonna find the same kinda folks here.”
The young man was annoyed. He climbed into his big triangle and drove away.
A few hours later, the old man was still outside the rundown bar. Still whittling. Still spitting. The possibly deceased dog was still there, too.
A vehicle pulled into the gravel parking lot.
“Excuse me,” said the motorist, stepping out of the car. It was a young woman in city clothes. “My GPS isn’t working. I’m lost.”
“Lot of that going around.”
“Which way is the highway?”
The old man pointed south.
“What brings you to these parts?” the oldster asked.
“I was hired for the new manager job at the Dollar General opening in town. Have you lived here long?”
“Since Truman.”
“What are the people like?”
Spit. “Well, young lady, what were folks like back where you come from?”
“Oh, people were great. Everyone was so nice. They were friendly, honest, and giving. If ever you needed help, someone always offered a hand. Nobody argued, or bickered, or found fault with each other. I hated to leave that place. I loved those people.”
The old man smiled.
“Well,” he replied. “I’m happy to say, you’ll find the same kinda folks here.”
And with that, the dog finally moved.
Sean of the South
Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, stand-up storyteller, and musician, known for his commentary on life in the American South. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Reader’s Digest, Southern Living, and he makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry.
What Candy Did You Love Most as a Child?
I recently asked a simple question on Facebook: What was your favorite candy when you were a child? I knew people would have answers, but I don’t think I realized just how many memories could be wrapped up in a piece of candy.
The answers came pouring in, and they reminded me that childhood treats were about much more than satisfying a sweet tooth. Sometimes it was the candy itself. Sometimes it was who brought it home. Sometimes it was something we only got at Christmas, or a treat we bought with a few coins from our pockets. Whatever the reason, those old candies still have a way of taking us back.
Some people had a clear favorite. Sheila Humphrey chose Hershey’s with Almonds, while Linda Moran remembered Mary Janes, peanut logs and Sugar Daddys. Mike McKinsey had a special memory attached to his favorite peanut butter logs. He said his uncle would occasionally come by the house and bring them some candy, making those peanut butter logs especially memorable.
Hilda Cummings Presley had more than one favorite, but hers came with some wonderful memories. Her favorite homemade treat was her mother’s chocolate fudge. For something purchased at the store, she remembered coconut candy around Christmas and orange slice candy. And who could forget the old-fashioned pleasure of Bazooka bubble gum?
Then there were those who still haven’t outgrown their childhood favorites. Connie Wright said it was Sweet Tarts and Smarties, adding that she still loves them. Janice Walker Mooney still loves Tootsie Rolls. Janice Ritchey said PayDay is still her favorite, and Judy Whitehead Parris hasn’t changed her mind about Milky Way either. Chocolate had plenty of loyal followers. Linda Albert admitted that she loved just about anything with chocolate and nuts and even remembered Zero bars. Sandy Everett Johnson chose Hershey chocolate bars, while Trudy Burchfield went with Hershey Kisses. Joyce Rowland said Snickers was her everyday favorite, but chocolate-covered cherries were reserved for special occasions.
And then there were the candies that made us wonder how we ever managed to choose just one. Sugar Daddys showed up more than once. Peanut butter logs, peanut brittle and peanut plank had their fans. There were Circus Peanuts, Pixy Stix, Bit-O-Honey, Red Hots, cinnamon candies, Necco Wafers, Sweet Tarts, Butterfingers and Moon Pies. One person simply answered, “Any kind,” which may be the most honest answer of all!
Some of the responses brought back candies that seem almost like time capsules. There were Sugar Babies and M&M’s, Slo Pokes and orange slices. Some of us remember buying candy at the little country store, while others remember a special treat brought home by a parent, grandparent, aunt or uncle.
Sandy Millsaps Norton remembered the 5th Avenue.She said “It wasn’t often, but if we ate Sunday lunch at Dixie Restaurant (drive in) I would get one afterwards. They had a counter with candy and gum at the checkout counter.”
And then there is the homemade candy. Several people remembered homemade fudge, but Hilda’s answer particularly stood out because she didn’t just name a candy. She remembered her mother’s homemade chocolate fudge. There is something special about that kind of memory. The recipe may have been simple, but the hands that made it and the kitchen where it was prepared made it something no candy company could ever duplicate.
Reading through the answers made me think about how little it sometimes took to make a child happy. We didn’t need a whole bag of candy. Sometimes one piece was enough. Maybe it was a Sugar Daddy that lasted long enough to keep us busy, a Tootsie Roll tucked away for later, or a Moon Pie that felt like a feast. A few pieces of candy could turn an ordinary day into a special one.
Today, we can walk into a store and find shelves filled with more candy than we could have imagined as children. Yet many of us would probably still choose the same candy we loved all those years ago. Maybe that is because we aren’t really choosing the candy. We are choosing the memory that comes with it. So now I’m curious: What candy takes you back to childhood? Was it something you bought at the county store, something your mother made, something your grandmother kept in a jar, or a special treat someone brought home just for you? Tell us about it. And if you can remember who gave it to you, where you ate it, or what you had to do to earn it, even better. Those little details are the things that turn an old piece of candy into a childhood memory worth keeping.
More Than a Meal
There is something special about food cooked by a mother or grandmother. It was not always fancy, and it certainly did not have to be expensive. Sometimes it was a pot of beans and a skillet of cornbread. Sometimes it was fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy. Sometimes it was chicken and dumplings, a pan of biscuits, or a pie cooling on the kitchen counter. Whatever was on the table, there was usually something more important mixed in with the ingredients: love.
Recently, I asked our readers, What was your favorite home-cooked meal that your mother or grandmother made? The answers brought back some wonderful memories, and judging by the number of people who mentioned chicken and dumplings, we may have found one of the great Southern comfort foods!
Sandy Everett Johnson remembered her grandmother’s stewed potatoes, which they called “granny potatoes.” She also remembered her grandmother’s vanilla cookies and pumpkin pie. Alice Foster Blevins chose fried cube steak and gravy with mashed potatoes and peas, a meal that still sounds good enough to make for supper.
Fried chicken was another favorite. Brennan Cooney LeQuire remembered her mom’s fried chicken with mashed potatoes, while Patricia Gail Hatcher remembered fried chicken made from chickens that came straight from the yard. Her mother would fry the chicken and then use the grease to make a skillet of chicken gravy, with a pan of biscuits to go alongside it. Sometimes, she said, her mother would make a pot of chicken and dumplings instead.
Several readers mentioned chicken and dumplings without hesitation. Paulette Baker Robinson remembered her mom’s chicken and dumplings and all the pies she used to make. Denise Reagan Jarboe chose chicken and dumplings, fried chicken and biscuits. Charlotte Foster Kirkland simply answered, “Chicken & Dumplings.” Norah Hord remembered chicken and dumplings with fried okra, while Janice Walker Mooney remembered chicken and dumplings with hot buttered biscuits and honey, followed by fried apple pies for dessert.
For some, it was not one particular dish but an entire Sunday dinner that stayed in their memories. Judy Whitehead Parris remembered chicken and dumplings, fried okra, stewed potatoes, corn on the cob and biscuits that “melted in your mouth.” Kathy Williams Burch remembered biscuits, fried chicken, dressing and cream-style corn.
Susan Teffeteller had a whole list of favorites from her mother’s kitchen: fried chicken, meatloaf, steak and gravy, biscuits and gravy, fried okra and green beans. Then she added something that many of us can understand: “Mother was a good cook, I miss her home cooking.”
There were plenty of meals that didn’t involve chicken at all. Vicki Adams Patranc remembered her mother’s potato salad and her grandmother’s roast beef. Sarah Smith chose her granny’s meatloaf with green beans and mashed potatoes, while Sandi Kay remembered her mom’s meatloaf and mashed potatoes and her granny’s chicken and fried potatoes. Michael Greer said steak and gravy was always his birthday meal. He knew exactly what he wanted when that special day came around.
Some of the simplest meals brought back some of the strongest memories. Mark Luttrell remembered beans, cornbread, greens, macaroni and cheese, green onions and a big glass of sweet tea. Joyce Rowland remembered pinto soup beans with cornbread and onions, along with meatloaf and fried potatoes. Michael Greer chose pinto beans and cornbread. These were not elaborate meals, but they were the kind of food that filled a hungry family and made a house feel like home.
Connie Wright had trouble choosing just one favorite. Her first choice was fried okra or yellow squash, cucumbers, turnip greens cooked all day with a hambone and fresh, hot buttered cornbread. Her second choice was chicken and dumplings with homemade dressing, followed by German chocolate cake with homemade frosting. Around the holidays, there was homemade fruitcake that took months of waiting. Her final words summed up the whole conversation perfectly: “DANG!!! Now I am hungry.”
And then there are the memories that have almost nothing to do with the food itself. Donna Roberson remembered her mama’s chicken and dumplings and her Maw’s yeast rolls. She said she could remember stepping off the school bus and smelling the yeast in the air. She would head straight to Maw’s house. That is the kind of memory that stays with you. Years later, you may not remember exactly what was in the kitchen that day, but you remember the smell, the feeling and knowing there was something good waiting for you.
Pat Thompson remembered biscuits and gravy along with chocolate cake topped with butter and homemade chocolate syrup. Doris Carrigan remembered her mother’s vegetable soup, fried chicken and cherry cobbler. Debbie Whitaker remembered pork roast and homemade dumplings. Patricia Taylor remembered fried chicken, chicken corn soup and chicken and dumplings. And Trudy Burchfield kept it wonderfully simple: biscuits and gravy.
There was one answer that may have been the easiest of all. Ken Sullivan said, “All of them!” I think there is a little truth in that answer. When we look back at the meals our mothers and grandmothers prepared, we often remember far more than what was on the plate. We remember the kitchen, the table, the people sitting around it and the hands that prepared the food. We remember the smell of biscuits baking, chicken frying, beans simmering and pies cooling. We remember being called to supper and knowing that for at least a little while, everything was right with the world.
Maybe that is why home-cooked food is so hard to duplicate. You can follow the recipe, use the same ingredients and cook it in the same kind of pan, but somehow it is never quite the same. The missing ingredient is the person who made it for you. Our readers reminded us that the best meals were not necessarily the most complicated ones. Sometimes the greatest feast was a plate of beans and cornbread. Sometimes it was chicken and dumplings on a cold evening. Sometimes it was fried chicken, biscuits and gravy or a slice of homemade cake waiting on the counter.
And sometimes, the most precious part of the meal was simply knowing that someone had made it just for you. That is what makes a home-cooked meal more than a meal. It becomes a memory.
Saving a Little Summer in a Jar
As summer begins to wind down, the garden seems to know it is time to slow down too. The tomatoes, beans, peppers and other vegetables have given us their best, and the herbs that filled the garden with their wonderful fragrance are ready to be gathered before the season changes. For me, one of the nicest ways to save a little bit of summer is to dry those herbs and tuck them away for the winter. It is simple, it does not take much space and there is something satisfying about opening a jar of dried herbs in January and knowing they came from your own garden.
Many herbs are easy to dry at home. Basil, oregano, thyme, rosemary, sage, parsley and mint are just a few that can be preserved this way. The best time to gather herbs is when they are fresh and healthy, before they begin to lose their flavor. Pick them in the morning after the dew has dried, then remove any damaged leaves and gently rinse them if needed. Let them dry thoroughly before beginning the drying process because extra moisture can cause problems during storage.
One traditional method is to gather small bunches of herbs and tie the stems together before hanging them in a warm, dry place with good air circulation. A paper bag with a few holes punched in it can be placed over the bundle to keep dust away while still allowing air to move through. A dehydrator is another easy method, especially for herbs with more moisture. However you dry them, the herbs need to become completely dry and brittle before they are stored.
Once the herbs are dry, remove the leaves from the stems and store them in clean, airtight containers. Small glass jars work beautifully for this, and I like being able to look through the glass and see what I have saved. Keep the jars in a cool, dark, dry place, away from moisture and heat. Dried herbs are much stronger than fresh herbs, so you usually need less when cooking. A good rule is to start with about one third as much dried herb as the amount of fresh herb a recipe calls for, then adjust to your taste.
I also like knowing that dried herbs can be used in so many ordinary meals. They can be added to soups and stews, sprinkled over potatoes and vegetables, mixed into meatloaf, stirred into beans or used to season chicken. A little dried thyme or rosemary can turn an ordinary meal into something that smells like it has been cooking all day. Dried herbs are one of those simple things that can make winter cooking feel a little more like summer.
There is something special about putting away food that you grew yourself. You remember planting the seeds, watching the little plants come up and finally gathering the harvest. By the time the garden is bare, those little jars on the pantry shelf are reminders that summer is not completely gone. A little piece of it is waiting there to flavor the next pot of soup, the next skillet of potatoes or the next family meal.
So as the garden begins to slow down for another year, don’t forget the herbs. Gather them while they are still at their best, dry them well and put them away. Come winter, when there is nothing growing outside but bare branches and cold ground, you can open one of those jars and bring a little of your summer garden right back into the kitchen.
Recipes
Herbed Butter
How to Make Herb Butter with Dried Herbs
Soften the butter — Let the butter sit at room temperature for 30–60 minutes until it’s soft enough to mix easily. This helps the herbs blend evenly.
Add the dried herbs into the butter. Since dried herbs are more concentrated than fresh, a little goes a long way.
Season to taste. Add salt and any optional seasonings like garlic powder or black pepper. Mix well until everything is evenly combined.
Use immediately, or spoon the butter onto parchment paper, roll it into a log, and refrigerate until firm.
Old Fashioned Herb Seasoning Blend
A simple mixture using dried herbs that can be kept in a jar and sprinkled into soups, beans, vegetables, meatloaf and casseroles.
The Oldest People We Remember
There is something special about the oldest people we remember from childhood. Sometimes we were too young to understand how much history was sitting in the room with us. We may not have known what questions to ask, and we certainly did not realize that someday the sound of their voice, the touch of their hand, or a simple story they told us might become a treasured memory. Yet those little pieces of childhood stay with us. Long after the people themselves are gone, we remember the things they taught us, sometimes without ever realizing they were teaching us at all.
We recently asked our readers a simple question: Who is the oldest person you remember, and what is one thing you learned from them? The answers reminded us that family history is not always found in old documents or family trees. Sometimes it is found in a child’s memory of a grandmother’s hands, a grandfather’s kindness, or an old house where generations once gathered.
Alice Foster Blevins remembered her great-grandmother, Maryann Trotter Walker. She was very old and bedridden when Alice was a young child, and the children would line up to visit her in her upstairs bedroom in the old house in Wears Valley. Maryann was the sister-in-law of the Walker Sisters, having married their brother John Henry Walker. Alice does not remember a long conversation or a particular lesson. What stayed with her was Maryann’s kind face and the way she would gently touch Alice’s face before the child was ushered out so another child could have a turn. Sometimes a gentle touch says more than a lifetime of words.
Linda McConnell remembered her grandfather Hatcher, who passed away when she was only six. She remembered how he and her grandmother spoiled her and how much she looked forward to visiting them. One particular memory involved something every child can understand: a watermelon. Linda was in her grandfather’s garden trying to get a watermelon off the ground when her grandfather saw her struggling. He told her mother that he guessed he should go over and help little “Lindy” get herself a melon. It was a small act, but to a little girl it was an act of love. She says her grandfather taught her about love by example.
Trudy Burchfield remembered a grandmother who lived to be 102. She described her as one of the hardest-working women she had ever known. She kept a large garden, canned, cooked every day, and spent her evenings crocheting beautiful things for the family. Trudy still treasures several of her grandmother’s doilies. Even when she reached her 80s and finally had to slow down, the example of a woman who could work hard, create beautiful things, and provide for her family remained.
Some memories came with names and family histories attached. Raymond Weaver shared information about Amos Rainer Trotter, who married Mary H. “Polly” Gamble, granddaughter of Josias Gamble, who built Gamble’s Station in Walland. Amos was born on Middle Creek Road near what is now Dollywood. He operated a substantial farming operation, ran a grist mill, and served as postmaster. Their son, Amos Alexander Trotter, died of typhoid during the Civil War. These are the kinds of details that turn a family name into a real person and connect one generation to another.
Fran Whiteman simply gave us a name and dates: Alice Mills Thomas, 1894–2005. Those few numbers tell us something remarkable. Alice lived through 111 years of history, from the horse-and-buggy era into a modern world that would have been almost unimaginable when she was born.
Janice Walker Mooney remembered Granny Belle Everett. Patricia Gail Hatcher remembered her grandmother, who was the only grandparent she knew. Patricia Gail was about nine when her grandmother suffered a stroke and became bedridden, but the stroke did not take away her ability to speak. She continued telling the children stories. She also remembered hearing that her grandfather Hatcher was a hardworking and good man and spoke of the uncles who stepped in and treated their nieces and nephews like their own children. Sometimes the people who shape our lives are not grandparents at all. They are aunts, uncles, neighbors, and other relatives who make sure a child never feels alone.
Marilla Payne-Cable remembered her great-aunt Harriet Payne Hill, who lived to be 104. Ruthie White Everett remembered her mother-in-law, Blanche Everett, who lived to within three months of her 101st birthday. Jo Lambdin-Greene remembered her aunt, Rowena Hamilton. Each answer was different, but together they form a remarkable picture of the generations that came before us.
Kathy Williams Burch remembered her grandmother, who was born in 1906. She was a seamstress and a wonderful cook who could knit, crochet, and quilt. She kept a garden and canned fresh vegetables. As a child, Kathy thought her grandmother was poor because she was so frugal. Only later did she realize that her grandparents owned a 200-acre farm and had no debt. Her grandmother was humble and kind, and those qualities were apparently worth far more to the family than anything they owned.
That may be one of the greatest lessons hidden in these memories. The older generation did not always teach by sitting down and giving us a lesson. They taught us by the way they lived. They showed us how to work, how to save, how to make do, how to grow a garden, how to preserve food, how to create something beautiful with our hands, and most importantly, how to love people. They also left us stories.
Many of the people remembered by our readers were born in a world that has almost completely disappeared. They knew life before television, before cell phones, before computers, and before many of the conveniences we take for granted. Some knew the days of horse-drawn wagons and wood stoves. They knew how to preserve a garden’s harvest because the family depended on it. They knew how to make clothes, quilts, doilies, and other useful things by hand. They carried memories of places and people that may now exist only in photographs and family stories.
As children, we may not have understood the importance of those memories. We were busy being children. We were thinking about watermelon, playing outside, visiting Granny, or waiting our turn to see an elderly relative upstairs in an old house. But now we understand. Those little memories are pieces of history. A kind face. A hand gently touching a child’s cheek. A grandfather helping a little girl pick a watermelon. A grandmother working in her garden and then sitting down to crochet in the evening. A woman who could sew, cook, quilt, can, and somehow make a dollar stretch farther than we thought possible. A grandmother lying in bed after a stroke but still telling stories to the children.
These are not grand monuments or famous historical events. They are ordinary moments from ordinary lives. And yet, perhaps that is exactly why they matter so much.
Because history is not only made by famous people. It is also made by the grandmothers who planted gardens, the grandfathers who worked the land, the aunts who helped raise children, and the great-grandparents who sat quietly in old bedrooms waiting for the next generation to come through the door.
If you are fortunate enough to still have an older relative who can tell you a story, ask them to tell it. Ask about the old house. Ask about their parents. Ask what their mother cooked. Ask what they did for fun. Ask what they remember about the community when they were young. Write the answers down. And if those people are already gone, write down what you remember. One day, someone may be grateful that you did.
Because the oldest people we remember leave us something much more valuable than dates on a family tree. They leave us a piece of themselves, carried forward in the memories of those who loved them.
One of the oldest people I have known was my Great-Aunt Mamie Ogle Sloan. — Aunt Mamie and the Quilt She Made for Me
Some people leave behind a great many possessions, while others leave something much more valuable. They leave memories, stories and little acts of kindness that stay with us for the rest of our lives. My great aunt, Mamie Alice Ogle Sloan, was one of those people. Aunt Mamie was born April 16, 1905, in Tennessee, the daughter of Samuel Houston Ogle and Nancy Jane Fagg. She married Joseph Absolum Sloan on August 10, 1921, in Blount County, Tennessee, and lived a long life, passing away June 18, 2001, in Walland at the age of 96. She lived through most of an entire century, and I often think about all the changes she saw during those ninety-six years.
I loved visiting Aunt Mamie. I can still picture us sitting together on her swing while she told stories. She had a way of making you want to sit a little longer because you never knew what story might come next. Her yard was another thing I remember especially well because she had some of the prettiest flowers. She was always willing to share them, too. If you admired something she was growing, it would not surprise me at all if Aunt Mamie found a way to send some home with you. She seemed to understand that flowers were meant to be enjoyed and shared.
One of my most treasured memories of Aunt Mamie came after Kenneth and I were married. She called and asked me to come by and see her, so I stopped to visit. When I arrived, she had a quilt waiting for me. She told me that my grandmother, her sister, would have made me a quilt if she had still been living. Since Granny was gone, Aunt Mamie had made the quilt in her sister’s place and gave it to me as a gift. That quilt meant more to me than just the time and work that went into making it. To me, it was a gift from two sisters, one who could make it with her hands and one whose love was still present in the gift. I still think of Granny and Aunt Mamie whenever I see the quilt.
Aunt Mamie also lived long enough to meet my oldest two grandchildren, Mary and David. I am thankful that they got to meet the woman whose life stretched back to a time so different from theirs. When Aunt Mamie was born in 1905, the world she entered had no television, no modern conveniences we take for granted and a very different pace of life. She watched cars become common, saw airplanes take to the skies, lived through two world wars, the Great Depression and countless changes in the way people lived and worked. She saw the world change from the horse and buggy days of her childhood to the modern world of the twenty first century.
But when I remember Aunt Mamie, I don’t think first about the history she lived through. I think about her swing, her stories, her flowers and that quilt. I think about a woman who took the time to make something for me because she believed my grandmother would have wanted me to have it. That is the kind of history that does not appear in textbooks. It lives in families, in quilts folded away in closets, in flowers passed from one garden to another and in the stories we tell about the people we loved.
Aunt Mamie saw nearly a century come and go, but I am one of the fortunate ones who got to know her personally. I got to sit beside her, listen to her stories, admire her flowers and receive a quilt made especially for me. She may have lived ninety six years, but the part of her life that matters most to me is the part she shared with our family. Those memories are a gift, too, and like the quilt she gave me, they are something I will always treasure.
Please Get Off the Line: Remembering the Party Line
If you grew up with a telephone that belonged to your family and your family alone, you may have a hard time imagining that there was once a time when you had to share your telephone line with several other families. But for those of us who grew up in the country, a party line was simply part of everyday life.
I remember when our family had an eight-party line. That meant there were eight different families sharing the same telephone line, my family and seven other families.. Later, we moved to a four-party line, then to what we called a semi-private line. Finally, around 1969, we got something that seemed almost luxurious at the time: our very own private telephone line.
Today, we can hardly imagine having to share a telephone line with the neighbors. We can call anyone, anytime, and nobody else can pick up another phone in the house and listen to our conversation. Back then, the telephone was a very different thing.
With our party line, each family had its own particular ring. You learned your ring and you learned the rings of the other families on the line. When the telephone rang, you listened carefully to know whether it was your call. If it wasn’t your ring, you were supposed to leave the telephone alone. Of course, children being children, curiosity sometimes got the better of us. Many adults also had the habit of listening in on phone calls.
There was another little trick I remember about our telephone. If we picked up the receiver while someone else was talking, we could hear the conversation, but they could not hear us because we had not pulled up what we called the plunger. Once we pulled it up, we were connected to the conversation. That little detail may not mean much to someone who has only known modern telephones, but to those of us who grew up with party lines, it was simply part of knowing how the telephone worked.
And there was one rule everybody understood: you had to get off the line when somebody else needed to use it. That was especially important if someone needed to make an emergency call. Party lines could create real problems when one person stayed on the telephone and another person needed the line. In fact, some telephone regulations specifically required people to give up the line when another subscriber needed it for an emergency. But most of the time, the party line was simply a fact of life.
It also meant that people sometimes knew a lot more about their neighbors than they might have otherwise. If someone picked up the telephone and heard another family talking, there was always the temptation to listen for a minute. And once people discovered that someone was listening, you might hear the familiar warning, “Get off the line!”
Stanley Turnmire reminded me of the time he was dating/calling Judy Hembree Turnmire, and Judy’s family and my family shared a two party line, He said we used three way calling before it became a thing, He would call Judy and when she answered I picked up my phone and joined the conversation.
Party lines became such a recognizable part of American life that they eventually found their way into television and music.
In 1960, Alfred Hitchcock Presents aired an episode simply titled “Party Line.” The story centered around a woman who shared a party line with several other people and was known for listening in on their conversations. I was too lazy to get up and get the remote a few nights ago when this episode came on, so I watched it.
I remember an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies in the mid 1960s called “The Party Line.” Granny returned from the hills with an old-fashioned telephone and wantee to connect it to a party line so she could listen in.
The year 1969 was also the time our family finally left the party line behind. I don’t remember getting that private line as some great technological event, but looking back now, it really was. We had gone from eight families sharing one line to four families, then to a semi-private line, and finally to a telephone line that belonged to us. We had entered a new age. Of course, children today would probably find the whole thing unbelievable. Imagine telling a child that before they could make a call they might have to wait for the neighbor to finish talking, but that you had to know exactly what to do if you wanted to speak. And imagine telling them that you couldn’t just call someone whenever you wanted. But that was our world.
The party line was more than a telephone arrangement. It was one of those little things that connected neighbors in a way we don’t experience quite the same way today. We knew one another’s rings. We knew whose family was likely to be talking. We knew who talked too long. We knew who was always waiting for the line. And we learned patience. We also learned that the telephone was something to be shared.
Looking back, I suppose I am glad I got to experience the party line. It is one more little piece of a world that has nearly disappeared. Just like outhouses, wringer washers, milk cans, coal oil lamps, and gathering on the porch in the evening, the party line belongs to a time when life moved a little slower and neighbors were a little closer.
Today, we carry a telephone in our pocket that can reach almost anywhere in the world. Back then, sometimes we just had to wait for Mrs. Somebody to get off the line. And if she didn’t? Well, somebody was probably saying, Please get off the line. I need to use the telephone!l. Those of us who remember know exactly what that meant.
Things We Thought Were Normal
When I was growing up, there were a lot of things we did not have in our house, but I never thought much about it because it was simply the way we lived. We did not have indoor plumbing, so we had an outhouse. We heated our house with a wood stove, washed our clothes in a wringer washer and carried the water we needed. We had a smokehouse where meat could be hung and food and other things could be stored. None of this seemed unusual to me when I was a child. It was just home, and I knew that the things that needed to be done would get done somehow. Looking back now, I realize that what seemed perfectly ordinary to me could sound pretty remarkable to someone who grew up with every modern convenience.
Let me start with the outhouse, because that comes with its own story. Our outhouse was a two seater, and I never thought twice about that. What I did think about was the fact that green snakes seemed to like that little building almost as much as we did. They would curl up in the corners, and I was never particularly afraid of them. I knew a green snake was not something I needed to worry about, but I had one very definite fear. I was afraid that one might fall from the ceiling and land right on top of my head. Because of that, I developed a routine that I followed every single time I went into the outhouse. First, I looked up at the ceiling and checked every corner to make sure there wasn’t a snake waiting above me. Then I checked the hole in the seat to make sure a snake had not decided to get there. Only after I had inspected the ceiling and the hole did I feel safe enough to sit down. Looking back, I suppose a child today might wonder why anyone would voluntarily walk into such a place, but to me it was simply the outhouse.
We also heated our house with a wood stove, and that wood stove was an important part of our daily life. It kept the house warm during the winter, but keeping it going was work. Wood had to be gathered and brought in, and somebody had to make sure there was a fire when we needed heat. There was something comforting about a wood stove, though. On a cold morning, there was nothing better than getting close to it and warming yourself up. It was also where some of the work of the household happened, because the stove was not just sitting there for decoration. It was part of how we lived, how we cooked and how we stayed warm. We knew what needed to be done and nobody had to think of it as unusual. It was simply another part of taking care of a family.
Laundry was another job that required planning and work. We had a wringer washer, which was certainly easier than doing every bit of washing by hand, but it was nothing like the washing machines we have today. We had to carry water, heat it and fill the washer. After the clothes were washed and rinsed, they had to go through the wringer before they could be hung out to dry. There was no button to push and no machine to do everything from beginning to end while you went about your business. The wringer did the work of squeezing much of the water from the clothes, but you still had to stand there and guide every piece through it. I learned very young that a wringer washer was not something to get your fingers too close to, and I am sure plenty of other people who grew up with one learned the same lesson.
Carrying water was simply part of life, too. We did not turn on a faucet whenever we wanted a drink, wanted to cook something or needed water for washing. Water had to be carried, and when you had to carry something yourself, you became much more aware of how much of it you used. You did not waste water because you knew where it came from and how much work went into getting it to the house. Today, we can stand at a sink and let the water run while we do something else without giving it a second thought. Back then, a bucket of water represented work, and that work made you think before you wasted even a little of it.
The smokehouse was another building that was simply part of our way of life. It was used for hanging meat and for storing food and other things we needed. We did not have today’s conveniences for preserving and storing everything, so the smokehouse was an important part of keeping food available. It was a working building, just like the outhouse and the places where we kept wood. Looking back, I realize how much more connected people were to the work of putting food on the table. You knew where your food came from, and you knew that keeping it for later took planning and work.
The funny thing is that I never thought of any of this as doing without. I did not lie awake at night wishing we had indoor plumbing or wondering why we had to use a wringer washer instead of a modern machine. I didn’t think that somebody else had a better life because they had different conveniences. It was simply the life I knew. Children adapt to what is normal around them, and what was normal for me was checking the ceiling of the outhouse for green snakes, carrying water when water was needed, helping with the laundry and staying warm beside the wood stove.
Sometimes I think we forget how quickly everyday life can change. There was a time when these things were ordinary parts of keeping a household going, and now many people have never even seen a wringer washer or a smokehouse. Some have never used an outhouse and cannot imagine what it was like to have to go outside to use the bathroom in the middle of a cold winter night. They have never had to carry water or worry about whether there was enough wood for the stove. Those things sound like stories from another world, but for people like me, they are simply memories of childhood.
The truth is that we had plenty of work, but we also had plenty of life. We played, we laughed, we ate, we went to school, we visited family and we found ways to entertain ourselves. We were not sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves because we did not have the things people have today. We simply lived the way our families had always lived. We learned to make do, to work together and to take care of what we had. We learned that you did not throw something away just because it was old, and you did not waste something simply because more was available somewhere else.
Those old ways are worth remembering because they tell us something about the people who lived them. They were resourceful, practical and accustomed to doing for themselves. They knew how to preserve food, wash clothes, heat a house and stretch what they had. Most of all, they knew that a home was not made comfortable by how many conveniences it contained. Home was the place where your family was, where there was something to eat and where someone was taking care of things.
And yes, sometimes home was also the place where a little girl had to look carefully at the ceiling before she could use the bathroom because she did not mind sharing the outhouse with a green snake, but she certainly did not want one falling on her head. That may be one of the funniest things about growing up in those days. The things that sound unbelievable now were simply ordinary to us then. We didn’t think we were living a story. We were just living our lives.
Maybe that is why these memories matter so much. The everyday things are often the things we remember best. We remember the feel of the wood stove on a cold morning, the sound of the wringer washer, the weight of a bucket of water and the smell of food stored in the smokehouse. We remember walking outside to the outhouse and looking up before we sat down. Those were ordinary things to us, but they are pieces of a world that is disappearing. If we do not tell the stories, someday people may hear about those things and think we are making them up. I think we owe it to our children and grandchildren to tell them exactly how it was, because sometimes the most ordinary memories are the ones worth saving.
Grandpa Hatcher Never Changed His Clock
I had to laugh the other day when I saw a Facebook post about making Daylight Saving Time permanent. Someone commented that we would have more daylight, and I immediately thought about my Grandpa Hatcher. Grandpa died in 1980 at the age of 86, and he had his own way of looking at time. He never changed his clocks when Daylight Saving Time came around. As far as Grandpa was concerned, moving the hands on a clock didn’t give anybody one extra minute of daylight. He would simply say, “You can only get so many hours in a day.”
Grandpa believed in going by the sun. He had grown up in a time when people didn’t have a clock in every room, a watch on every wrist, or a phone in their pocket telling them exactly what time it was. The sun was the clock, and if you paid attention, it could tell you quite a lot. You could look at where the sun was in the sky, look at the length of the shadows, and have a pretty good idea of what time of day it was. People knew when it was time to get up, when it was time to eat, when it was time to finish a chore, and when evening was coming without constantly checking a clock.
Of course, there were exceptions. Grandpa might not have cared much about changing his clocks, but he certainly knew when something important was coming on television. His favorite was the live wrestling show that came on Saturday nights at 6 o’clock. He never wanted to miss it. Somehow, even a man who preferred the sun to a clock knew when Saturday evening was getting close to wrestling time. I can just imagine that as the afternoon began to fade, Grandpa knew it wouldn’t be long before it was time to settle in and watch his program.
People who grew up that way learned to notice things that many of us hardly think about anymore. The sun coming through a particular window could tell you roughly what part of the day it was. Shadows became longer as afternoon turned toward evening. The animals had their own schedules, too. Chickens settled down, cows knew when feeding time was coming, and people knew that if they still had work to finish, they had better get busy because there were only so many hours of daylight left.
Work was often measured by the sun rather than by the clock. A farmer didn’t necessarily think, “I have to work until 5 o’clock.” He thought about what needed to be done before dark. Dinner might be when the morning work was finished, and supper came after the day’s chores. Children might not have been told that it was 5:30 and time to come home. They knew by the sun, or they heard their mother’s voice calling them from the porch.
That way of telling time wasn’t exact, of course. Nobody was going to tell you it was precisely 4:17 in the afternoon by looking at the sun. But people didn’t need that kind of precision. They needed to know whether it was morning, midday, afternoon, or getting close to dark. They had learned to live with the natural rhythm of the day instead of trying to make the day fit the numbers on a clock.
Grandpa Hatcher belonged to a generation that understood something we sometimes forget. We can change the clock, but we cannot change the amount of daylight the sun gives us. We can move the hands forward or backward, but the sun will rise and set in its own time.
So whenever somebody talks about making Daylight Saving Time permanent or giving us more daylight, I think about Grandpa sitting in his home, refusing to change his clocks. He didn’t need a law, a calendar, or a television news report to tell him how many hours were in a day. He already knew.
“You can only get so many hours in a day.”
Grandpa Hatcher never changed his clock. And somehow, I think he had the right idea.
Vacation Time
As a kid in the 60’s our vacations were maybe a little different than most families. We weren’t going on trips to the beach or to Disney World. My dad was from Indiana and my Papaw still lived there on a one hundred and eighty acre farm. He still farmed along with my uncle who lived just up the road from him.
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It was a farming community where tractors on the roads were more common than cars. Uncle Ralph also had a farm of the same size. Our vacations were spent traveling to Indiana so my dad could help with the planting and harvesting of the crops.
He would work in the fields all day alongside my papaw and uncle. All of the kids, which included some of my cousins, spent our days playing in the barn, roaming around the farm and exploring the creek that ran through the farm. I absolutely loved every minute of it. The time spent playing in the barn was my favorite. Climbing the ladder to the loft was exciting and we had some epic games of hide and seek in and around the barn. My papaw raised pigs along with the crops. Watching baby pigs being born was quite the site for us youngsters.
Exploring the creek or “crick” as my cousins called it was so much fun. Over the years, I gave them a lot of grief over this mis-pronunciation and jokingly told them that a “crick” is something that happens to your neck.
One day we went down to the “crick” with fishing rods. On the way we stopped next to the corn crib and turned over some bricks and boards and found some red worms to fish with. This was my first time ever fishing. I caught some sunfish and a small catfish.
I was hooked! We kept the fish in an old bucket so I could show them to my dad. I was so excited to show him the fish when he got back from a busy day of planting corn and soybeans. We took the bucket back to the creek and released the fish. I now wanted to know all I could about fishing.
My uncle really appreciated my dad’s help when we would come on these trips and always tried to pay him. My dad would not accept any pay and I think he really enjoyed himself and missed being a farmer. Since my dad would not take any pay, my uncle would give me and my sisters a little money. We went to the town of New Castle and went to a department store that I believe was called Whiteway Department Store. I bought my first rod and reel combo. It was a Zebco 77. I fished with it for many years.
My first cousin Dennis was my favorite cousin and I idolized him. Dennis was about 5 years older than me, so as the years went by, he had to go help with the planting. I would go and spend time with him at the field as he drove a pickup truck to take additional seed for planting. He taught me to take the strings that tied the soybean sacks closed and braid them together. It was a lot of fun.
It was always sad to head back to Tennessee after these vacations because we all had such a fun time and we only got to see our relatives from Indiana a couple of times per year. Some of my fondest memories are time spent on my papaw’s farm.
Before Walland Had a Name
Long before there was a place called Walland, this beautiful valley along the Chilhowee Mountains was known by other names. One of the earliest was “Murphy’s Cove”. In 1794, John Rhea received a North Carolina land grant for 940 acres on both sides of Little River in Murphy’s Cove.
The Rhea name caught my attention because my third-great-grandmother was Rebecca Rhea Keeble. I do not know yet if John Rhea was part of the same family, but when I find a Rhea name in an old Blount County record, I naturally stop and take a closer look. Those little connections are what make local history so much fun.
By 1800, the name Miller’s Cove was beginning to appear. Andrew and Alexander Miller were among the early taxpayers, and eventually the cove took their name. Other early families left their names on the landscape too. Hess Creek was named for John Hess, a Swiss immigrant who settled in East Tennessee.
The water of the cove provided power for mills and industry. Around 1845, George Amerine operated a forge on Hess Creek that became the largest ironworks in Blount County. Miller’s Cove also became home to churches and farms, with Miller’s Cove Baptist Church being organized in 1810.
For generations, families lived, worked, worshiped and raised their children in this mountain valley. Then, near the beginning of the twentieth century, a new industry arrived that would change the community forever.
In 1901, the Schlosser Leather Company was chartered, and the company purchased more than 200 acres along Little River. A large tannery was built, and it began operating the following year.
The tannery brought jobs and workers, and a new community began growing around it. In 1902, a post office was established, and the name Walland was given to the community. The name was formed from the names Walton and England, men associated with the leather company.
The tannery became the center of life in the new town. Hundreds of hides were processed, and enormous quantities of tanbark were brought in to keep the operation running. Behind those numbers were the people who worked there and the families whose lives depended upon the tannery.
Then, in January 1931, the tannery was destroyed by fire. The company decided not to rebuild at Walland, and the remaining materials were taken elsewhere.
The tannery was gone, but Walland remained Families stayed. Children grew up there. Churches continued, farms remained, and life went on. Today, the tannery is only a memory, but the community it helped create is still here.
That is one of the things I love about local history. A community is never just a community. Beneath every familiar road, creek and mountain are the stories of the people who came before us. Sometimes an old land grant or a familiar family name is all it takes to remind us that we are standing in the middle of a story that began long before we arrived.
Walland Gap at Little River, photo by Kenneth Baker Jr.
Why Don’t We See Cotton Fields in East Tennessee?
If you have ever traveled through West Tennessee in the summer, you have probably seen cotton fields stretching across the countryside. But drive through Blount County today and you are unlikely to see one. That makes me wonder: Why don’t we see cotton fields in East Tennessee?
The answer begins with the land. Cotton was grown in East Tennessee, but our mountains, hills and narrow valleys were better suited to the small, diversified farms that became common here. Farmers grew corn, wheat, hay and other crops rather than devoting large fields to cotton. Still, cotton was not unknown. In fact, several cotton gins were operating in Blount County by 1802. ([tennesseegenealogy.org](https://tennesseegenealogy.org/blount/history-of-blount-county-tennessee/?utm_source=chatgpt.com))
As settlers moved westward, they found something cotton farmers wanted: rich, fertile soil and broad stretches of farmland. Southwestern Tennessee became the state’s great cotton-growing region. Counties such as Shelby, Fayette, Hardeman, Haywood and Madison became closely associated with the crop, and Memphis grew into one of the nation’s major cotton markets. By 1850, Tennessee ranked fifth among the states in cotton production. ([tennesseeencyclopedia.net] https://tennesseeencyclopedia.net/entries/cotton/?utm_source=chatgpt.com))
Cotton eventually became less familiar in East Tennessee, but it did not disappear from Tennessee. It is still grown today, primarily in West Tennessee. In fact, Tennessee farmers planted about 195,000 acres of cotton in 2026. There is one more interesting piece to the story. Even though East Tennessee did not become cotton country, cotton became part of our industrial history. Cotton grown elsewhere supplied textile mills in East Tennessee, where it was turned into thread, cloth and clothing. Blount County has its own history of textile manufacturing, connecting our communities to a crop that was usually grown hundreds of miles away. ([comptroller.extglb.tn.gov](https://comptroller.extglb.tn.gov/agriculture/farms/pests/boll-weevil-eradication-program.html?utm_source=chatgpt.com)) ([npgallery.nps.gov](https://npgallery.nps.gov/NRHP/GetAsset/NRHP/64500608_text?utm_source=chatgpt.com))
So the next time you see a picture of an old cotton field, remember that cotton’s story is much bigger than the field itself. It helped shape Tennessee’s economy, transportation, industry and communities. We may not see much cotton growing around Blount County today, but cotton has been part of East Tennessee’s story for more than two centuries. Sometimes the crops we don’t see growing around us still have deep roots in our history.
The Old Crock Factories of Blount County
Long before plastic containers filled our kitchen cabinets, families depended on crocks, jars and jugs made by local potters. In Blount County, one of the earliest names connected with this trade was John E. Glass. An 1858 Blount County business directory listed Glass as a potter, and in 1859 he mortgaged property that included what he called “the proceeds of my Crock Factory.” By 1860, he was listed as a 39 year old potter living next door to the Grindstaff family in southern Blount County
Living next door was a young boy named William Grindstaff, whose father, David, had moved from Carter County to southern Blount County in 1851. William was only about 12 years old in 1860, but historians believe John Glass may have taught the young man the pottery trade. By 1870, William Grindstaff was himself listed as a potter. The name Grindstaff can be a little confusing because the pottery itself was usually marked W. Grinstaff. The maker often left the “d” out of the family name. Several surviving pieces bear his distinctive mark, and some are dated, including pieces marked 1871 and 1874. The pottery included the useful things people needed every day, such as crocks, jars, jugs and churns. . In 1884, William Grindstaff moved his pottery operation to another location south of Maryville. There he continued making salt glazed stoneware until about 1888. The operation was later sold to Dr. J. D. Garner, who changed much of the business from household pottery to commercial tile making. William Rasor eventually operated the site as both a tile and pottery business until about 1898.
Today, pieces made by William Grindstaff are treasured reminders of that old Blount County industry. His crocks and jugs have survived in private collections and museums, and some have brought surprising prices at auction. More important than their value, though, is what they tell us. Each old crock was made by hand by somebody who knew how to turn local clay into something useful for a family. When we look at an old crock sitting on a shelf today, it is easy to see only an antique. But in Blount County, one of those crocks may carry the name of **W. Grinstaff**, connecting us to a young boy who may have learned his trade from John E. Glass more than 160 years ago. What began with one potter and a small crock factory became part of the story of generations of Blount County craftsmen. And some of their work is still with us today.
Source; https://www.tn.gov/content/dam/tn/environment/archaeology/documents/researchseries/arch_rs18_tn_potteries_2011.pdf?utm_source=chatgpt.com “TENNESSEE POTTERIES, POTS, AND” ttps://www.tn.gov/content/dam/tn/environment/archaeology/documents/researchseries/arch_RS03_Pottery_making.pdf?utm_source=chatgpt.com “A SURVE’t.OF HISTORIC”
Sorghum Molasses: A Tradition That Survived
One of the old crops that deserves a place in our memories is sorghum. In 1859, Blount County farmers produced more than 38,000 gallons of sorghum syrup. Sorghum was grown, harvested and processed into the sweet molasses that found its way onto biscuits, cornbread and pancakes. For many farm families, it was both a useful sweetener and a source of income.
Sorghum molasses is not quite as forgotten as some other crops. Amish families in our area still make it, and the tradition can also be seen in demonstrations at Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Watching sorghum being turned into molasses gives us a glimpse of an agricultural process that was once a familiar part of rural life. The crop may no longer cover our fields the way it once did, but the taste and the tradition have survived.
That may be one of the nicest things about remembering old crops. Sometimes they don’t disappear completely. They simply become part of our heritage.
Making Sorghum Molasses, family photos provided by Sandy Everett Johnson.
Tipton-Haynes State Historic Site
2620 South Roan Street, Johnson City, TN 37601
27th Annual Sorghum Festival
The 27th Annual Sorghum Festival will allow visitors to have the opportunity to observe sorghum cane being processed into molasses using a mule-powered and hit-and-miss powered mill on Saturday, September 19 at the Tipton-Haynes State Historic Site in Johnson City from 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. During the morning hours, the mule will be out turning the cast iron rollers squeezing out the delectable juices to be boiled down into molasses. Just to watch the mule at work is worth a visit to the site! Come early as the sorghum crew will be crushing the sorghum cane and boiling the sweet juices throughout the morning and into the early afternoon hours.
The sorghum breakfast from 8:00 a.m. to 11:00 a.m. will feature biscuits with gravy or sorghum, sausage, bacon, eggs, oatmeal, grits, and drinks. Here is the chance to try sorghum molasses on a biscuit! Visitors can also enjoy touring the historic structures of the property that will take you back to the 1800s. Local bluegrass and folk music will be played within the nineteenth century barn throughout the day. The historic cave will be open for everybody of all ages to explore and find their inner spelunker. Local food trucks will be on site for visitors to enjoy a picnic lunch. There will also be several local vendors selling homemade crafts. There will also be several hit-and-miss engines from the East Tennessee Antique Engine Association.
Simply relax in the shade and appreciate the historic atmosphere while getting away from the fast pace of the twenty first century. Admission with breakfast is $10 for adults, $5 for children twelve and under, and kids under 3 are free. Without breakfast admission is $8 for adults and $4 for children. As always, members of the Tipton Haynes Historical Association are FREE. Sorghum molasses grown and made at the site will also be available for purchase — $16 per quart, $8 per pint, and $4 per half pint. For additional information, please call (423) 926–3631. Tipton-Haynes is located at 2620 South Roan Street Johnson City. Tipton Haynes State Historic Site is a Tennessee Historical Commission State-Owned Historic Site.
The 27th Annual Sorghum Festival will allow visitors to have the opportunity to observe sorghum cane being processed into molasses using a mule-powered and hit-and-miss powered mill on Saturday, September 19 at the Tipton-Haynes State Historic Site in Johnson City from 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m.
Alsop “Alse” Fagg: A Life of Hard Work and Family
When I look at the photograph of my 2nd great-grandfather, Alsop “Alse” Fagg, and his wife, Margaret Snider, I am reminded that behind every name on a family tree was a real person who lived an ordinary life, worked, raised a family and did the best he could with what he had. Alse was born December 28, 1848, in Tennessee, the son of John Fagg and Jennie White. He spent his entire life in Blount County, and by the time he died on July 19, 1923, in Walland, Tennessee, he had lived through a time when the world around him had changed dramatically. Yet some things in his life remained remarkably constant, especially his family and his work.
On June 2, 1867, Alse married Margaret Snider in Blount County. They were both very young, but they soon began building a family of their own. By the 1870 census, Alse was 21 years old, Margaret was 19, and their daughter Nancy was two years old. Nancy would grow up to become my great-grandmother. At that time, Alse was listed as a farm laborer, which meant his living came from hard physical work on the farm. He would have worked according to the seasons, doing the work necessary to prepare the land, care for crops and livestock, harvest what was grown and keep the farm operating. It was not easy work, but it was honest work, and it was the way he provided for Margaret and their growing family.
By 1880, Alse and Margaret were still living in District 14 of Blount County. Their family had grown, with Nancy Jane now 11, Anderson 7 and Alice 3. Alse was listed as someone who “worked on farm.” Ten years later, the 1900 census showed another change in his life. He was then 51 years old and was listed as a farmer. Margaret was 49, and two of their younger children, William and Mary, were still living at home. The census also tells us that Alse and Margaret had been married for 33 years, confirming their 1867 marriage. Their home was listed as owned, although it was mortgaged. That does not necessarily mean Alse owned the farm where he worked, the house may have been near the farm where he made his living.
Alse’s occupation tells us something important about the kind of man he was. In 1870 he was a farm laborer, in 1880 he worked on a farm, and by 1900 he was listed as a farmer. In 1920, at the age of 71, he was still listed as a farmer working a general farm. Farming was not simply a job he held for a few years while he looked for something else. It was the work of his lifetime. He stayed with it through the raising of his children and into his later years, doing the kind of work that provided food and shelter for his family.
The census records also give us a glimpse into the challenges of his life. In 1870, 1880 and 1900, Alse was recorded as unable to read or write. Yet he continued to work, raise his children and provide for his household. By 1900, he had been married to Margaret for more than three decades, and their children were beginning to grow up and leave home. By 1920, only Alse and Margaret remained in the household. They were living in Civil District 18 of Blount County, and Alse was still identified as a farmer. After more than fifty years of marriage, the young couple we first see in the 1870 census had become an elderly husband and wife who had spent most of their lives together.
Alse and Margaret’s children carried the family into another generation. Their children included Nancy Jane, Anderson James, Alice, William R. and Mary. Nancy Jane became my great-grandmother, connecting Alse’s story directly to my own family. The name Alse also continued in the family. One of Alse’s grandsons, my granny’s brother, was also named Alse.
Alse died in Walland on July 19, 1923, at the age of 74. His Tennessee death record identifies his parents as John Fagg and Jennie White, and later records identify his burial place as a cemetery in Walland. Margaret lived a few more years, dying in 1926. Somewhere along the way, the young farm laborer became the older man remembered in this photograph.
There are many famous people whose names fill history books, but most families are built by people whose names were never written in those books. They were farmers, mill workers, homemakers, storekeepers, teachers and laborers. They got up each morning and went to work because there were families depending on them. Alse Fagg was one of those people. His life may not have been extraordinary in the way history usually defines extraordinary, but he worked, he raised a family, and he remained with the woman he married as a young man for more than fifty years. When I look at his photograph today, I don’t just see a name from five generations ago. I see a man who was part of the beginning of my own family story.
Doctors Making House Calls: Why Did It Take So Long to Come Back?
There was a time when you did not always have to go to the doctor’s office because sometimes the doctor came to you. Even in the 1950s and 1960s, house calls were still part of life in our community.
I remember having a doctor who came to our house to see me after I had spent a couple of months in the hospital. He did not want me to have to make the trip to his office while I was still recovering, so he came to me instead. That was simply what a doctor did when his patient needed him.
I also remember neighbors coming to our house for the doctor to see them. They did not drive, and the road to their home was a dirt road, so getting to the doctor’s office was not easy. Our house became the place where the doctor could see them. Nobody thought it was unusual. The doctor knew his patients, knew where they lived, and sometimes knew their families as well.
Over the years, however, medicine changed. Doctors began working in offices, clinics, and hospitals where they could have equipment and staff close at hand. Medical care became more specialized, and eventually it seemed that one doctor could no longer take care of everything.
If you had one problem, you saw one doctor. A few weeks later, you might be sent to another doctor for something else. Before long, it seemed as though going to the doctor meant spending more time traveling, sitting in waiting rooms, filling out paperwork, and changing doctors than actually sitting in the examination room.
And then there was the traffic. What once might have been a simple trip to the doctor’s office can now mean getting out in the heat or cold, dealing with traffic, finding a parking place, walking into a building, waiting your turn, and finally spending five minutes with the doctor. For some people, especially older people or those who have difficulty getting around, the trip itself can be harder than the doctor’s visit.
This week, we had our first visit with a new service in our area that brings the doctor to your home. I have to admit, I was pretty happy to see that idea make a comeback. There was no getting dressed up to go somewhere, no sitting in traffic, no waiting room, and no wondering how long it would take to get back home. The doctor came through our door, sat down with us, and provided our care right here where we live.
It made me wonder something: “Why did it take so long to bring back something that once made so much sense?”
Of course, medicine today is far more complicated than it was when doctors made regular house calls. A doctor cannot bring an entire hospital into a patient’s living room, and many tests and procedures still require a trip to a medical facility.
But not every visit requires a hospital full of equipment. Sometimes a patient simply needs someone to listen, check vital signs, review medications, examine a problem, and decide what needs to happen next.
There is also something comforting about being seen in your own home. The doctor gets to see the patient in the place where they actually live. There is no need to remember everything that might be important because the medicine bottles, medical equipment, and everyday surroundings are right there.
For an older person who does not drive, a person who has difficulty walking, or anyone who simply finds a trip to the doctor’s office exhausting, that can make a tremendous difference.
Maybe we have spent so many years believing that progress always means moving forward that we sometimes forget that an old idea can still be a good one. House calls may not look exactly as they did when my doctor came to our house all those years ago, but the basic idea is the same.
Sometimes the best place to see a patient is right where the patient lives.
After all these years, I am glad to see the doctor’s bag coming back through the front door.
The Jobs My Dad Worked
Before bowling alleys had machines that could reset the pins, somebody had to do it by hand. Those workers were called pinsetters, or sometimes pin boys. After the ball knocked the pins down, the pinsetter gathered them up and carefully put all ten back in place for the next bowler. My dad was one of those young men who set pins at a bowling alley in Maryville. But that was only one of the jobs he worked to help his family.
Being the oldest son meant that Dad learned early that if there was work to be found, you worked. He delivered both the morning and evening newspapers, which meant getting up early and then going out again later in the day. He also worked at Maryville College, where he milked cows in the morning and again in the evening. If another job came along that would earn a few more dollars for his family, he took that one too.
Maryville College really did have a farm, and it was an important part of the college’s history. In 1918, college treasurer and 1907 graduate Fred Proffitt established the College Farm. The farm was located between the College Cemetery and the Thompson-Brown House along what is now Highway 321. In 1934, the college added the 46-acre Brown Farm to expand its dairy operation. By the middle of the 1930s, the farm had a dairy barn, a modern milking barn and a large concrete silo. The farm and its buildings remained part of the college until they were sold in 1975. ([Maryville College][1])
So when Dad went to Maryville College morning and evening to milk cows, he was working on a farm that had already been part of Maryville’s history for years. The college had operated farms long before his time, using them to provide food for students and staff and selling some of the surplus. Cows and other livestock had even been part of the landscape around the College Cemetery in earlier years. ([The Highland Echo][2])
When I think about all those jobs now, I realize they tell me something about my dad that I might not have understood when I was younger. He wasn’t working because he needed something to fill his time. He was working because he was the oldest son, and his family needed the money. Setting pins, delivering newspapers and milking cows may sound like small jobs today, but when you put them all together, they tell the story of a young man who was willing to work wherever he could find work.
The bowling alley eventually got machines that could set the pins, newspapers changed, and Maryville College eventually sold its farm. But those jobs remain an important part of my dad’s story. He did all of this before he was even 16 years old. When he turned 16, he lied about his age so he could get a job with ALCOA. He worked wherever there was work to be done, taking whatever job he could find because he wanted to help his family.
To me, that is more than a story about old jobs that no longer exist. It is a story about the kind of young man my dad was. He learned early that if his family needed something, he would do whatever he could to help provide it. Long before he was old enough to have a regular job, he was already learning the value of hard work, responsibility, and doing his part.
https://www.maryvillecollege.edu/wp-content/uploads/News/publications/MC.Focus_Spring-2016_web.pdf?utm_source=chatgpt.com “SPRING 2016” https://highlandecho.com/college-cemetery-reveals-an-interesting-history/?utm_source=chatgpt.com “College Cemetery reveals an interesting history — The Highland Echo”
When the Preacher Came on Horseback
There was a time in East Tennessee when you could hear a preacher coming long before you saw him. He would be riding a horse down a mountain road, carrying his Bible and heading toward the next little community on his circuit. He was called a circuit rider because he did not have just one church to serve. Instead, he traveled from community to community, preaching wherever people gathered. In the days before good roads and automobiles, that could mean a long ride over rough roads, through creeks and across the mountains. Blount County had its share of these traveling preachers. In the old history of Louisville, several men are remembered as preachers on the Louisville circuit before the Civil War, including Rev. George Eakin, Rev. Axley, Rufus M. Stevins, R. N. Price and William Rodgers. The writer remembered them as grand old preachers.
One of those old-time preachers was Rev. Rodgers, who was remembered not only as a Methodist circuit rider but also as a missionary to the Cherokee people. He was serving in that work when the Cherokee were sent west to what was then called Indian Territory. Perhaps the most known circuit rider to pass through our part of Tennessee was William G. “Parson” Brownlow. In 1827 he was assigned to the Maryville area, where he served as a Methodist circuit rider. Brownlow would later become known as a newspaper editor, governor of Tennessee and United States senator, but before all of that he was a young preacher traveling the roads of East Tennessee on horseback.
It is easy for us to imagine a church as a building with a steeple, a parking lot full of cars and a preacher waiting inside every Sunday morning. It was different in those days. The preacher came to the people, and the people waited for him. A family might open its home, a small church might fill with neighbors, or a gathering place might become a church for the day. The horse carried the preacher from one appointment to another, and the people along the way provided a meal, a bed and perhaps a little conversation before he started down the road again.
Those circuit riders helped bring the church into the scattered communities of early East Tennessee. They traveled roads that we would consider difficult even in a four-wheel-drive vehicle, carrying their Bibles instead of briefcases and depending upon the people along the way for food and shelter. When we think about the early history of Blount County, we often remember the farmers, millers, merchants and mountain families who settled here. We should remember the men who rode into those communities, too. Before there was a preacher waiting in every church, sometimes the church came riding down the road on horseback.
Source-History Louisville, Blount Co, TN — Chapter Six | Blount County TNGenWeb”
A Church in the Mentor Community
On March 11, 1957, a group of local residents gathered in the home of Mr. and Mrs. E. W. Hammontree on Lenoir City Route 3 to organize a new Baptist church. Several families believed a Baptist church was needed in the Mentor community and surrounding area. The charter members included Kathleen Hammontree; Mr. and Mrs. McGinley Hutsell; Mr. and Mrs. Roy Hicks; Mr. and Mrs. Stuart Houser; Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Love and Robert Love; Mr. and Mrs. Henry McKeehan, Jack, Frank and Mary McKeehan; Reverend George Rollins; Reverend and Mrs. Theodore Tyler; and Mr. and Mrs. Orion Welch.
Before a church building could be constructed, services were held in the homes of Robert Love and E. W. Hammontree. The Sunday school was organized on November 11, 1957, and the Women’s Missionary Union was organized on July 11, 1958. The church’s first pastor was Reverend Audley Cummings, who served from May 18, 1958, until March 8, 1959. Training Union was also established before 1960.
The congregation eventually built its own church, and the building was dedicated in 1965. A new organ was installed in 1966, and additional improvements, including a steeple and complete air conditioning, were added in 1969. When my husband and I moved to Mentor in 1973, we began attending Hillview Baptist Church. The Mentor church remains a lovely community church in a beautiful country setting. Over the years, its members have added a detached fellowship hall and made many improvements to the original building. Even after all these years, the church and the surrounding countryside remain among the most beautiful small church settings in the area, carrying on a tradition that began with a handful of families who believed their community needed a church of its own. Information from John O. Hood’s book the History of the Chilhowee Baptist Association.
Photo 1 from facebook and photo 2 provided by Susan Gibbs Porter.
When Tires Were Gum-Dipped: A Glimpse at Driving in 1926
If you had been driving the roads around Maryville and Alcoa in 1926 and needed a new set of tires, you might have foundexactly what you were looking for at G. W. Greer Motor Company. An advertisement in the 1926 Maryville-Alcoa City Directory tells us that Firestone Gum-Dipped Tires were among the automobile products being offered by the local business. Today, we can look at an advertisement like this and see nothing more than a tire for sale, but to the people of Blount County in the 1920s, an automobile and a dependable set of tires represented something much bigger. The automobile was changing the way people traveled, worked and lived.
Firestone’s Gum-Dipped Tires were not simply ordinary tires with a catchy name. The term referred to a manufacturing process Firestone had developed in which the tire cords were treated with rubber, helping the rubber bond with the fabric. Firestone promoted the process as a way of producing stronger, more durable tires. At a time when roads could be rough, muddy, dusty and sometimes little more than improved paths, anything that promised a longer-lasting tire was important to an automobile owner.
By 1926, automobiles were becoming an increasingly familiar sight in Blount County. The days when owning a car was something unusual were beginning to disappear. Families were using automobiles for trips into town, farmers were using them for business, and workers could travel greater distances to their jobs. Maryville and Alcoa were growing communities, and the automobile was becoming an important part of that growth. But owning an automobile meant more than simply buying the car. It required gasoline, oil, repairs, replacement parts and, sooner or later, tires. A tire business was therefore an important part of the local automobile trade. When a directory advertisement listed a local dealer selling a nationally known brand such as Firestone, it tells us that Blount County consumers had access to some of the same automobile products being advertised throughout the country.
G. W. Greer Motor Company was part of this new automobile world. Its name appearing in the city directory reminds us that the automobile revolution was not happening somewhere far away in a large city. It was happening right here in Maryville and Alcoa. Local businesses were adapting to the changing times and providing the products and services that automobile owners needed.
There is something particularly interesting about the words “Gum-Dipped” appearing in an advertisement from 1926. Today, we are accustomed to tires being described by complicated tread patterns, mileage ratings and performance specifications. In 1926, however, the technology itself was part of the sales pitch. Firestone’s gum-dipping process was something new enough and important enough to advertise by name. A customer might not have known everything about the science behind the process, but the name suggested modern technology and a better tire.
The directory advertisement also gives us a small glimpse into how quickly the automobile had become part of everyday American life. Only a few decades earlier, most local transportation had depended on horses, wagons and railroads. By the 1920s, businesses were being built around the automobile. Roads were improving, automobile ownership was increasing, and people were becoming accustomed to traveling farther from home.
For Blount County residents, that change would eventually have an enormous effect. Communities that had once seemed a long way from Maryville became more accessible. People could visit relatives, conduct business and travel for pleasure with a freedom their grandparents had never known. The automobile helped connect rural communities with the towns that served them.
That little advertisement in the 1926 city directory is therefore more than an advertisement for tires. It is a piece of local history. It tells us that a Maryville business was selling Firestone Gum-Dipped Tires, but it also tells us that automobiles had become important enough in the community to support a growing local trade in tires and automobile supplies.
Sometimes history is found in the places we least expect it. A family photograph, an old receipt, a city directory or a small advertisement can tell us something about how our ancestors lived. In this case, a few words about Firestone tires give us a glimpse of Blount County at a time when the automobile was changing the landscape and opening roads to a new generation of travelers.
In 1926, a person looking at that advertisement was probably thinking about a tire that would get them where they needed to go. Nearly a century later, we can look at the same advertisement and see something else: a small snapshot of a community stepping into the modern age, one automobile, one road and one tire at a time.
Fred Ballard’s Taxi and U-Drive-It
Old city directories can reveal interesting pieces of history. In one Maryville and Alcoa directory listening, “Fred Ballard’s Taxi and U-Drive-It” is listed as located across from the Palace Theatre, a familiar landmark at the time instead of a street address.The business listed two phone numbers: 544 for regular calls and 500 for late calls. Short numbers like these were common then. Fred Ballard’s company offered both taxi service and U-Drive-It rentals, giving people the choice to hire a driver or rent a car and drive themselves.The Palace Theatre’s landmark was likely more useful than a street address, as locals knew it well.
Taxi service provided rides for those in need, while the U-Drive-It option allowed customers to rent a car and travel independently. The directory doesn’t tell us how many cars Fred Ballard had, how long the business operated, or how many people used it, those details may be lost unless other records are found.
These directory details help preserve local history, capturing businesses that might otherwise fade from memory. Even small entries like Fred Ballard’s give a glimpse of Maryville’s past, when familiar names, short phone numbers, and landmarks connected the community.
From Taxi Cabs to Uber
In 1926, the Taxi and You Drive It Company was part of a new way of getting around. Taxi cabs provided transportation for people who needed a ride, while rental cars gave customers the freedom to drive themselves. A hundred years later, the names and methods have changed, but the idea has not. Today we have taxi companies, rental cars, ride sharing services such as Uber and Lyft, and even car sharing programs. Instead of walking to a telephone or calling a local taxi office, we can pull out a phone, tap a screen, and have a ride come to us.
The biggest difference may not be the automobile at all, but the way we connect the passenger with the car. In 1926, a person might have walked into an office or telephoned for a taxi. Today, a few taps on a smartphone can summon anything from a taxi to a ubler, tell us what the ride will cost, show us where the car is, how long it will take them to reach our location, and even give us the driver’s name. The technology has certainly changed in one hundred years, but the need has remained remarkably the same: sometimes we need a car, but we don’t necessarily need to own the car that gets us there.
The Rope Bed
When I think about some of the things from my childhood that I wish I still had, my mother and dad’s rope bed is near the top of the list. It was not an expensive piece of furniture, and it probably would not have impressed anyone who was looking for fine furniture, but to me it was special because my great-uncle Bill Ogle made it with his own hands. Uncle Bill made the bed for my mother and father. The frame was made to fit a full size mattress and had four tall corner posts with four side pieces connecting them. Along the side pieces, he bored rows of holes about eight or nine inches apart. Rope was then woven back and forth through those holes until it formed the foundation of the bed. That was how the old rope beds were made. Traditionally, they had feather mattresses laid over the woven ropes, but my mother did not like sleeping on a feather mattress. She preferred a regular mattress, so that is what she put on their rope bed.
As a child, I thought that bed was wonderful. It was much higher off the floor than an ordinary bed, and I loved climbing up on it and jumping off. Uncle Bill had built it high enough that a trundle bed could be placed underneath it, although my mother and dad never had a bed under theirs. It was so high that my mother needed a little step stool to get into bed and back out again. I, on the other hand, had no trouble climbing up there. To me, it was less of a bed and more of an invitation to climb, jump, and play. Uncle Bill must have known that someday someone might look at the bed and assume it was much older than it really was. He solved that problem in the simplest way possible. He engraved his name and the date he made it into the wood. He wanted anyone who found the bed years later to know exactly who made it and when. That little detail makes me smile now. Uncle Bill was making sure that no one would mistake his handiwork for an antique.
When my mother and dad moved in December of 1968, the rope bed went into the basement. I was still young, and at the time I never imagined that one day I would wish I had kept it. I do not know what eventually became of the bed. Somewhere along the way, it disappeared from our family, and with it went another little piece of my childhood. I wish I still had that bed today. I would love to run my hand over the wooden frame and find Uncle Bill’s name and the date he carved into it. I would love to see those ropes woven through the holes in the sideboards and remember how high that bed seemed when I was a little girl. It is funny how ordinary things can become treasures as the years pass. When we are young, we rarely understand that the things surrounding us will someday become memories. We think they will always be there. The rope bed was just a bed when I was growing up. Today, it is a memory of my mother and dad, my great-uncle Bill, and a little girl who thought climbing onto a very high bed and jumping off was great fun.
The Little Cabinet That Did It All
There was a time when a kitchen did not come with rows of built in cabinets, long countertops, and drawers for every little thing. A woman working in the kitchen might have had a table, a cupboard or two, and perhaps a pantry, but she still needed a place to store her flour, sugar, spices, bowls, utensils and all the other things needed to prepare a meal. Then came a piece of furniture that seemed to do a little bit of everything. We know them today as Hoosier cabinets, and for many families, they were one of the most useful pieces of furniture in the kitchen.
A Hoosier cabinet was much more than a cupboard. It was a kitchen workstation. The upper portion provided shelves and small compartments for supplies, while the lower section offered drawers and storage. Many had a pull out work surface that gave the cook an extra place to prepare food. Some had a flour bin with a built in sifter, sugar bins, spice racks and special places for jars and utensils. Everything was arranged so that the cook could reach what she needed without constantly walking back and forth to a pantry or cupboard.
Think about what that meant in an old kitchen. A woman making biscuits could reach for the flour, sift it, pull out the work surface and prepare the dough without having to find another table. Someone making a cake had a place for the flour, sugar and spices, along with a work area for mixing and preparing the batter. The cabinet brought many of the things needed for cooking together in one place. At a time when preparing every meal from scratch was simply part of everyday life, that could save a great many steps.
These cabinets became popular in American homes during the early twentieth century. The name Hoosier came from Indiana, where several companies manufactured this style of kitchen cabinet. The Hoosier Manufacturing Company began producing its cabinets in the late 1890s, and other manufacturers soon made their own versions. By the 1920s, Hoosier style cabinets had become a familiar sight in American kitchens.
Eventually, built in kitchen cabinets and modern countertops changed the way kitchens were designed, and the Hoosier cabinet slowly disappeared from everyday kitchens. What had once been considered modern kitchen equipment became an old fashioned piece of furniture. Yet those cabinets were built to work, and many of them have survived long after the kitchens they once served have disappeared.
The Little Tool That Helped With Buttons
There was a time when getting dressed could require a few tools that most of us would never think about today. One of those little tools was the button hook. It was a simple object, usually with a small metal hook at one end and a handle at the other, but it could make fastening small buttons much easier.
Button hooks were especially useful for shoes and clothing with tiny buttons. Shoes, boots, gloves, and some dresses and undergarments could have rows of small buttons that were difficult to fasten with your fingers. The hook was slipped through the buttonhole, caught around the button, and pulled back through the hole. What might have been a frustrating job became a quick and easy one.
Button hooks came in many styles. Some were plain and practical, while others had beautifully decorated handles made from wood, bone, celluloid, silver, or other materials. They were small enough to keep in a sewing basket, dresser drawer, handbag, or beside the place where someone dressed each morning.
Today, most of us simply pull a zipper, snap a fastener, or step into a pair of shoes and never give a thought to the little tools that once helped people get dressed. But button hooks were useful enough that they remained around for generations.
I still have button hooks upstairs and downstairs in my house. I have vintage ones, and I even have newer ones, because they are not just something from the past. They still work. And every time I use one, I am reminded that sometimes the simplest little tools were made very well and did exactly what they were supposed to do.
A Dime to Use the Bathroom
There are some things from the past that you never expect to forget. For me, one of those things is a restroom door with a little metal box on it that required a dime before it would open. Today, it seems almost unbelievable that there was a time when you could be standing in a public place, needing to use the bathroom, and the door would basically say, “Put your money in first.” But I remember it very well. When the local bus line moved to the new shopping center, there was a large public restroom area for people to use. You would think that having a restroom in a shopping center would be a pretty simple thing. If you needed to go, you went. But there was one little problem. It cost a dime to open the door.
Now, a dime may not sound like much today, but when I was young, a dime was not something I always had to spare. If I had a dime in my pocket, there was probably something else I had planned to spend it on. I certainly didn’t think I should have to pay ten cents just because nature had called. So I came up with my own solution. I would crawl under the door. Yes, you read that right. If I didn’t have a dime, I would simply get down on the floor and crawl underneath the door. Once I was inside, I sometimes held the door open for the next person so they wouldn’t have to pay either. I suppose that made me a little criminal in the eyes of the people who owned those locks, but at the time I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. I simply couldn’t understand why I should have to pay to use a bathroom.
And there was another reason I didn’t think that dime was worth paying. The restroom wasn’t always clean, and there never seemed to be enough toilet paper. I remember thinking, Why should I spend a dime for this? If I was going to pay for the privilege, I thought the place ought to at least be clean and have toilet paper. As it turns out, that little metal box on the door was part of something much bigger than I realized. They were called pay toilets, and they were once common throughout the United States. They could be found in bus stations, department stores, restaurants, airports, highway rest stops and other public places. By the early 1970s, there were estimated to be about 50,000 pay toilets in America
The idea was supposed to make sense. Someone had to clean the restroom, provide toilet paper, make repairs and take care of the facility. Charging a small fee helped pay for those expenses. Some businesses also believed the charge would keep people from coming in just to use the restroom when they weren’t customers. There was even a whole industry built around those little locks. One company, Nik-O-Lok, became the largest manufacturer and leasing company for coin-operated toilet locks in the country. By the 1960s, its locks could be found in places such as Greyhound bus stations, hotels, department stores and airports. The company had tens of thousands of locks in use. The dime became the usual price during the 1950s and remained the standard charge in many places for years. And people didn’t always appreciate it. Some people found ways around the locks, just as I did. One method became known as the “American Crawl,” which meant slipping underneath the door. Another was to pay once and hold the door open for someone else. There were even organized campaigns encouraging people to find ways around the locks.
By the late 1960s and early 1970s, people were beginning to argue that paying to use the bathroom was simply wrong. One of the complaints was particularly important to women. In many places, men could use a urinal without paying, while women had to put a dime in the lock to use a stall. California Assemblywoman March Fong Eu became one of the best-known opponents. In 1969, she made her protest very dramatic by smashing a porcelain toilet with a sledgehammer on the steps of the California State Capitol.
Then, in 1970, a group of young people in Dayton, Ohio, formed the Committee to End Pay Toilets in America. They believed that a person shouldn’t need exact change in order to use a bathroom. Their campaign spread, and cities and states began banning pay toilets. Chicago became the first major American city to ban them in 1973. By about 1980, pay toilets had become very uncommon in the United States. I didn’t know any of that when I was crawling under that restroom door. I didn’t know there were thousands of those little locks all over the country. I didn’t know people were protesting them. I didn’t know there were organizations working to get rid of them. And I certainly didn’t know that someday people would look back on the pay toilet as a strange little piece of American history. All I knew was that I didn’t usually have an extra dime. And if the bathroom wasn’t clean and didn’t even have toilet paper, I wasn’t about to spend the dime I did have. Looking back now, I suppose I was doing my own little part in the pay-toilet rebellion. I just didn’t know there was a name for it. I called it “crawling under the door.”
Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pay_toilet?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Pay toilet” https:// Nik-O-Lok_Company?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Nik-O-LokCompany”https://www.northcountrypublicradio.org/news/npr/1248664709/plus.npr.org/throughline?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Why it’s so hard to find a public toilet | NCPR Newss https://www.thenation.com/article/archive/toilet-urination-disability-access/?utm_source=chatgpt.com “The Politics of Going to the Bathroom | The Nation” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Committee_to_End_Pay_Toilets_in_America?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Committee to End Pay Toilets in America”
We Loved Opera Before We Knew We Did
I was watching The Lone Ranger the other day when it occurred to me that some of the music we loved as children may have been opera music all along. When those first stirring notes of the William Tell Overture began, we knew exactly what was coming. We could almost see Silver running across the screen before the Lone Ranger ever appeared. What we probably did not know was that the music came from an opera by Italian composer Gioachino Rossini, written in 1829. The famous galloping finale became so closely associated with the Lone Ranger that many people can hear it today and think of a masked cowboy before they think of an opera house.
And the Lone Ranger was certainly not alone in introducing us to this music. Our Saturday morning cartoons were filled with it. Tom and Jerry used everything from Rossini’s The Barber of Seville to Strauss’s Die Fledermaus, while one of the most famous cartoons ever made, What’s Opera, Doc?, built its entire story around the music of Richard Wagner. Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd may have been hunting rabbits, but they were doing it to the music of Die Walküre,, Tannhäuser, The Flying Dutchman, and Rienzi. When Elmer Fudd sang his famous Kill da wabbit, children were hearing Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries without having the slightest idea who Wagner was.
That may be one of the wonderful things about growing up with old television and cartoons. Nobody had to explain classical music to us. We simply heard it. We heard grand orchestras accompanying a cartoon chase, dramatic music when the hero rode to the rescue, and beautiful melodies while Tom and Jerry carried on their never-ending battle. We might not have known the name of the composer or the name of the opera, but we knew the music. In a funny way, television gave a whole generation a musical education without ever calling it one.
So perhaps we did love opera after all. We just didn’t know it was opera. We knew it as the music of the Lone Ranger, Bugs Bunny, Tom and Jerry, and all those wonderful characters who filled our television screens. And somewhere along the way, those old melodies became part of our own memories. Maybe we didn’t discover opera when we grew older. Maybe opera had already found us when we were children.
Source: https://www.classic-tv.com/shows/the-lone-ranger?utm_source=chatgpt.com “The Lone Ranger — Classic TV Database” https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0051189/soundtrack/?utm_source=chatgpt.com “What’s Opera, Doc? (Short 1957) — Soundtracks — IMDb”
Why Is There a Walhalla in South Carolina?
Sometimes a place catches your attention simply because of its name. Walhalla, South Carolina, is one of those places. The name seems almost out of place on a road sign in the South Carolina mountains. It sounds like something from an old legend or a story from a faraway country, and it makes you wonder why anyone would choose such a name for a little Southern town. The answer takes us back to the middle of the nineteenth century, when German immigrants came to the South Carolina mountains hoping to build a new community.
In 1848, German immigrants in Charleston formed the German Colonization Society because they wanted to find land where German families could establish homes and farms. The following year, they purchased nearly 18,000 acres at the foot of Stumphouse Mountain in what was then Pickens District. They laid out a town, divided the surrounding land into farms and began bringing families into the new settlement.
By 1854, about 400 Germans were living there, and the town was incorporated the following year. They named their new home Walhalla, a name drawn from Norse mythology and associated with the mythical hall of the gods. For a time, Walhalla was distinctly German. German was spoken in the community, churches were organized, and families built lives that reminded them of the homeland they had left behind. But the young town was growing during a difficult period in American history. The Civil War brought changes to Walhalla, including an influx of people from the Lowcountry who were trying to escape the fighting. After the war, federal troops occupied the town for a time, and in 1868 Walhalla became the county seat when Oconee County was created. As more people moved into the community, its German character slowly blended into the larger Southern culture.
There is another part of Walhalla’s story that makes me want to see it. The same mountains that attracted the German settlers also presented a challenge to railroad builders. In the 1850s, plans were made to push the Blue Ridge Railroad through the mountains and connect South Carolina with points farther west, including Knoxville and Tennessee. Workers began cutting a tunnel through Stumphouse Mountain, but after years of difficult work and enormous expense, the money ran out. The tunnel was never completed, and the Civil War brought the ambitious railroad project to an end. Today, that unfinished tunnel remains as a reminder of Walhalla’s early history. I think it would make a wonderful day trip because the town offers more than an unusual name. You can imagine the German families arriving in the mountains with hopes of making a new home, walk through the community they built, and then visit Stumphouse Mountain where men once tried to carve a railroad through solid rock. Two very different dreams came together in the same place: families looking for a new beginning and railroad builders trying to connect the mountains with the outside world.
So why is there a Walhalla in South Carolina? More than 175 years ago, German immigrants came to these mountains looking for a place to begin again. They built homes, churches and a community, and gave it a name that has survived long after the first settlers were gone. Today, that unusual name is still there, waiting for someone passing through to stop and wonder about it. And that, to me, is where a good story begins.
Oliver Springs: From Healing Waters to October Sky
There are some little Tennessee towns that seem to have lived several different lives, and Oliver Springs is one of them. Long before people knew it as a coal town or as the place where part of the movie October Sky was filmed, people came to the area because of its springs. The Cherokee knew the waters for their supposed healing qualities, and by the nineteenth century the springs had begun attracting settlers and visitors. The town itself was first known as Winter’s Gap, but Richard Oliver, who became the community’s first postmaster and developed the springs commercially, eventually gave the town the name we know today.
By the late 1800s, Oliver Springs had become a fashionable health resort. Richard Oliver had operated an inn, and in 1894 a magnificent 150-room hotel opened to serve visitors who came to drink and bathe in the mineral waters. The railroad arrived in 1888, making the springs much easier to reach and bringing visitors from across the country and even from Europe. For a while, Oliver Springs was a place where people came to rest, drink the waters and enjoy the mountain scenery. It is hard to picture that elegant resort town when we see Oliver Springs today, but the railroad, the springs and the hotel once made it a destination.
That chapter came to an end when the great hotel burned in 1905. Instead of rebuilding, the community covered the springs, and the town gradually turned toward another resource that was much more important to the changing economy of the region: coal. By the early twentieth century, coal mining had become a major part of life around Oliver Springs, and the railroad that had once brought visitors to the springs now had another job. It helped carry coal and other products out of the mountains. The town had changed from a resort community into a working mountain town.
Then came another chapter that many people probably would never expect to find in the story of a small town. During World War II, the federal government took over surrounding communities to create Oak Ridge for the Manhattan Project. Oliver Springs was close enough to become part of that enormous change. Dr. Fred Stone Sr. built a hospital in town and worked as a physician and examiner for Manhattan Project employees. Suddenly this little mountain community was living beside one of the most secret projects in American history.
And then, decades later, Hollywood came calling. October Sky, the story of Homer Hickam and the Coalwood boys who dreamed of building rockets, was filmed in Oliver Springs and the surrounding coal country in the late 1990s. The movie brought a new generation of attention to a town that had already reinvented itself several times. Today, visitors can still find pieces of that movie history around town, while the Oliver Springs Historical Society works to preserve the community’s much older story.
The Oliver Springs Historical Society has done a wonderful job preserving that local history. Its museum occupies the old Abston/Daugherty building, which has had many lives of its own. Built in 1915 as a garage, it later served as a car dealership, theater, bowling alley, church meeting place, snack shop and garage before becoming a museum. It is the sort of building that tells you something about a small town before you even walk through the door.
When I think about Oliver Springs now, I think about all those different lives. People once came there hoping the mineral waters would make them feel better. Later, miners came to work in the coalfields, and trains carried the coal away. During World War II, the town lived in the shadow of the secret work going on at Oak Ridge. Years later, movie cameras arrived and turned familiar streets into part of a story known around the country.
Oliver Springs has been a resort town, a railroad town, a coal town, a neighbor to the Manhattan Project and a movie town. Yet underneath all those changes is the same little community in the Tennessee mountains. Perhaps that is what makes Oliver Springs worth another visit. You don’t have to look very far to find another chapter of its story.
When Hollywood came to Oliver Springs, the town changed for a while. Local resident Mimi Brock, who was one of the extras, remembered it simply: “It was so much fun. The town came alive.” Brock worked on the movie site for 20 days at five different locations.
Oliver Springs resident, Robbie Underwood, remembered being excited when the film crew came to town and said: “All this downtown served as a backdrop for the movie.”
Spring City: The Town Beneath the Water
Spring City, Tennessee, looks like a quiet little town beside Watts Bar Lake, but there is a surprising story underneath that peaceful setting. In fact, part of the town’s earlier history is literally underneath the water. If you visit Spring City today, you can walk into the old railroad depot, see photographs and artifacts from the community’s past, and then look out toward the lake and know that another part of the story disappeared when the Tennessee Valley Authority built Watts Bar Dam.
The community began as Sulphur Springs because of the sulfur in the local water. As the settlement grew, its name changed, and the community became connected with Rhea Springs, a nearby health resort.
The springs attracted visitors who believed the waters had healing properties, and a hotel and homes grew around the resort. For a time, this was a place where people came hoping the water might improve their health, much like the better-known mineral spring resorts found throughout the mountains of the South.
Then the railroad came. Spring City began as a stop along the Cincinnati Southern Railroad in the 1870s, and the railroad changed the little community. The first depot was built in 1879, and Spring City became an important shipping center. Strawberries and other local products could be loaded onto trains and sent to distant markets.
The railroad brought people, goods and opportunity, and eventually the depot itself became one of the most important buildings in town. The present historic depot was completed in 1909 and still stands today as the Spring City Historical Museum and Depot.
But while the railroad was helping Spring City grow, another change was coming that would permanently alter the landscape. During the 1930s, the Tennessee Valley Authority began planning Watts Bar Dam. TVA acquired the land that would be flooded by the new reservoir, including the old community of Rhea Springs.
When the dam was completed in 1942, the water covered the lower Piney Valley, and the old Rhea Springs community disappeared beneath Watts Bar Lake. A place that had once had a hotel, houses, businesses and families was suddenly part of the lake.
That is one of the things I find hardest to imagine about Spring City. We can look at the lake today and see beautiful water surrounded by the Tennessee hills, but beneath that water is a piece of the community’s history. Former residents moved away, buildings disappeared, and a familiar landscape was changed forever. At Veterans Park, however, a memorial to Rhea Springs gives visitors a tangible reminder of the community that was lost. Parts of the old spring house and grist mill were incorporated into the memorial, giving today’s visitors a physical connection to the place that no longer exists.
The railroad story continued as well, and the old depot remains one of the best places to begin learning about Spring City’s past. The museum contains exhibits about the railroad, the community and TVA’s arrival in the area. There is even a model of Spring City from the 1940s and 1950s that offers a glimpse of what everyday life once looked like.
Spring City also carries a much more painful railroad memory. On August 22, 1955, a school bus carrying children was struck by a southbound freight train at a railroad crossing. Eleven children were killed, and many others were injured. The tragedy led local women to campaign for stronger railroad crossing safety rules for school buses, and Tennessee adopted a “stop, look and listen” requirement. Other states followed. That sad event became part of a larger effort to make school bus travel safer for children.
So Spring City is much more than a small town beside a beautiful lake. It is a place where springs brought the first visitors, railroads brought growth, TVA brought enormous change, and the water eventually covered part of the community’s past. Today, the old depot still stands, and the lake hides what can no longer be seen.
Sometimes history is preserved in an old building or a museum. Sometimes it is found in a photograph. And sometimes, as in Spring City, you have to look across the water and remember that beneath it is a town that was once home to people who probably never imagined that one day their streets, houses and memories would be under a lake.
Source: https://oshistorical.com/history-of-oliver-springs?utm_source=chatgpt.com “History of Oliver Springs”https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oliver_Springs%2C_Tennessee?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Oliver Springs, Tennessee”https://octoberskyfestivaltn.org/about-us?utm_source=chatgpt.com “ABOUT US”https://oshistorical.com/museum-construction-i?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Museum Construction I”https://visitspringcitytn.com/about/?utm_source=chatgpt.com “About — Spring City, TN Tourism”https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spring_City%2C_Tennessee?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Spring City, Tennessee” https://visitrhea.com/natural-resources/?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Natural Resources — Rhea County Tourism” https://visitspringcitytn.com/listing/spring-city-history-museum-and-depot/?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Spring City History Museum and Depot — Spring City, TN Tourism” https://www.cis.tennessee.edu/sites/default/files/Tourism%20Makes%20a%20Splash%20in%20Rural%20East%20Tennessee%20-%20Jody%20Bauer.pdf?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Jody Bauer”
I usually can do a panel quilt in a day or two. The large elephant is the panel. I decided to pass a kidney stone…very painful . I have passed over 24 and spent 3 days in 1995 in the hospital on Christmas Day. I could not stop there. I got 15 inches cut off my hair this time. Four years ago was 29 inches.i thought the girl burnt my head. I had shingles. This was my 3rd time and worse time having shingles. My eye swelled up 3 times it’s size. Dr gave me nerve blocker and 7 days of shingle medicine. Had to give me another 7 days because still red a swollen. My Dr said stress of stones made me get shingles. this made me not want to work on my quilt.the top and bottom strips with the blue squares has not been sewn on yet. I hope to have it done by next month.
This is close up of elephants like big one in panel.
I love flannel fabric for every day quilts. I was so surprised when i found a blue elephant fabric. I can not wait to get it done to help keep me warm this winter.
I hope you enjoy some pictures of places my son went on vacation. Places my son saw while traveling this year….Mt Rushmore in North Dakota.
This is in North Dakota too.
Saw a bear while driving through the Grand Teton National Park in Shridan, Wyoming.
Went back into Grand Teton in the early evening. Hiked along Leigh Lake and saw a few critters toward the end of the day.
My son liked talking to the friendly chipmunk at Cascade Canyon.
After a late start due to a flat tire, we finally got to spend some time at Grand Teton National Park. Hiked to hidden falls (100 foot waterfall), Inspiration Point (which was breathtaking).
Made some stops in Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming. Saw Old Faithful,
Saw wild horses at Teddy Roosevelt National Park
The Lord’s Plans for You
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” (Jeremiah 29:11 NIV)
Instead of “meditating” on things you did or didn’t do in the past, or on what someone else did or didn’t do to you, meditate on His Word. Focusing on the past is like driving down the road at seventy staring at what’s in your rearview mirror. You won’t stay in your lane or see what’s coming at you.
Learn from your past, but don’t stay there. You aren’t that person any more. You’ve matured, been trained and equipped in His Word for much greater things.
Be open to the opportunities He has for you today. There will never be another day exactly like this one. Some opportunities only come once in a lifetime; don’t miss the ones He’s planned for you today.
You can “meditate” on the past or on the possibility of your worst nightmare happening in the future. Stop it! It’s dangerous, unhealthy, unwise, and unnecessary.
The Lord will use the rough places to prepare you for the future He has planned. He promises it will be wonderfully good. Remember, He is all-powerful, and He loves you. He will be with you today and in every tomorrow. Meditate on that, mighty warrior, and keep going!
Love,
Les
A Note From Linda Kay
The October edition is coming September 27, 2026 with submissions due on Thursday September 24, 2026.
See you next month!!!
