Known in our part of the world as Decoration Day, it was a day late in May when the flowers were in
bloom—the early roses, the peonies, the irises, the lilacs, the
snowballs. The woven baskets were pulled from the smokehouse where in
other seasons they held vegetables, or the house where on other days they held
clothes and filled with a wide array of clipped blooms and
blossoms. The tall fruity juice cans were opened with a can opener
and filled a half to two thirds with water, carefully place in a spare cardboard
box and securely stashed in whatever vehicle was making the trip to the family
site on top of the hill
The only women in the
house were Granny and I……after all my mother had already joined her ancestors
in the fenced in area on top of the mountain at the end of the Moore
Holler. It was woman’s work to distribute the flowers….in the water
filled cans for the more recently dead or at least for those persons closest to
us or for all others in the fenced area in bunches of flowers or strewn
petals, Each grave site received some flowers or petals . The lone
grave next to the east fence …..was not a family member but Granny always made
sure that it was never forgotten. As a three year old, I followed
wherever Granny led. She watched and nodded in agreement when I carefully
picked my favorite flowers for the can on my mother’s grave. She
knew I didn’t fully understand because I constantly asked her to explain
“death” to me. I’m sure she tried but I couldn’t quite get it.
That grave by the east
fence puzzled me greatly and I kept asking “Who is it? “ I knew everyone was
kinfolk but I couldn’t figure out who this person was. Granny would only
shake her head but she always made sure that one grave was not forgotten,
Finally one year when I was older, she gave me an answer It was not a long
story but it is a story that is important to our once and future family.
The Great Depression
during the decade of the 1930’s signaled a massive upheaval in the economy of
the United States. Manufacturing output had fallen by over 50% and over
30% of the work force was unemployed. In our area of Appalachia life went
on much as it always had except families pulled a little closer together.
Granny and Grampa still lived on the family farm that my great-grandfather had
bought after the Civil War. All the grandchildren had been sent home to
Cassville to insure their safety and survival. Grampa would plant
more vegetables and hoped to buy another pig to fatten. Granny made plans to
can as much food as possible…extra vegetables, some meat..anything the Ball’s
Blue Book talked about. The grandchildren would follow her to the
pasture field hill to gather both walnuts in the burlap bags salvaged from
livestock feed and hickory nuts in whatever small buckets little people
could handle. There would be plenty of food for winter.
During the summer the
parents, the family’s adult children, had scattered to various places where
they could find work, My father was working as an electrician in a steel mill
in Pennsylvania and my mother was teaching summer term, my aunts and uncles
were finding work where they could. The family at home were left with the
responsibility of planting the usual garden spaces with , sweet potatoes, corn,
beans, peas, onions, cabbage, beets, lettuce, tomatoes, pumpkins, squash,
turnips and any other edible plant that could be dried, canned or otherwise
preserved for the coming winter months, The pigs were fattened through the
summer and in the fall slaughtered to be salted, canned or hickory smoked to
get the family through the winter, By late October seasonal jobs had vanished
and those adults who no longer had work wandered home to the farm and the
home community…to help with the both the harvest and preparations for the
winter.
One late day there was a
knock at the back door. A stranger stood there, a black man from
“somewhere else.” Between hacking coughs, he asked if there was some work he
could do on the farm that would pay for his being allowed to sleep in the
hayloft above the barn. The family took him in, gave him a place to sleep
and made every attempt to nurse him back to health, Despite all their efforts,
the stranger died…of pneumonia, they thought. The family and
extended family gathered at the farm to discuss the dilemma…the man’s name was
not known…all that was known is that he had been riding the freight cars from
place to place trying to find work and a place to stay.
The women met in the
house, the men met in the barn with a fifth of whatever liquor was available.
After much discussion in both places the decision was made. The stranger would
be treated as a member of the family. The word was passed, the preacher, a
distant cousin, was sent for, the undertaker was negotiated with and the
funeral services were set. The men went to the cemetery to dig the grave
and the women gathered the food. At the end of the service, the family prayed
together…that if ever one of ours is lost and can’t get home…maybe someone will
treat him like he was family. They gathered up the earthly remains of the
stranger, carried him to the family cemetery on the hill and buried him.
Every Decoration Day after that, those who came with flowers added flowers to
the stranger’s grave.
He lies a space or two
to the left of my great-grandparents and should you happen to visit the family
plot on the mountain, don’t forget this visitor whose name we do not know.
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