Groundhog

Shoulder up your gun and whistle up your dog
Shoulder up your gun and whistle up your dog
We're off to the woods for to catch a ground hog
Ground hog, ground hog.

This fat ground hog was taking the air in one of our pastures. When he saw me, he made for his hole under some rocks, but once he was right on top of it, he stopped and waited for me to take another picture.

We are at peace with ground hogs, as long as they stay out of the garden.

Too many rocks and too many logs,
Too many rocks and too many logs,
Too much trouble to hunt ground hogs,
Ground hog, ground hog.

(You can go here for the complete lyrics and a link to hear the old timey song played.)

Running with the Big Dogs

At the book fair last Saturday, I was delighted to find myself on a panel with three writers whose work I deeply admire:

Pam Duncan is the author of Moon Women, Plant Life, and The Big Beautiful, beautifully and sensitively realized stories of women. Fred Chappell is a former NC Poet Laureate, recipient of many prestigious awards including the Bollingen Prize in Poetry, and the author of numerous novels and collections of poetry. And there was Ron Rash, poet and novelist, whose Serena I've already said a lot about here and his The World Made Straight here.

The panel was moderated by Newt Smith, professor of English at Western Carolina and the topic was the sense of place in our work -- we all write about the western North Carolina mountains.

I admit to a feeling of being the odd man out, the thorn amidst the roses. These writers are all natives with family ties to the area stretching back for generations -- me, I'm the transplant. And they're all "literary writers" whereas I'm a writer of genre fiction -- just a "paperback writer."

Now, neither the moderator nor any of the panel members made me feel anything less than a colleague and an equal. But I know that the perception exists that genre fiction is somehow lesser than literary fiction -- indeed, that's one reason I chose to write mysteries -- it seemed less daunting.

Genre fiction (and that would include, mystery, romance, science fiction, horror, fantasy, romance, western and all their sub-categories) briefly, is written and read mainly for entertainment. Literary fiction, on the other hand, has loftier goals -- education and inspiration.

Genre fiction is plot driven -- and the plot can tend to the predictable -- whereas literary fiction is character driven. And, in general, the writing is of a higher standard -- more "literary," in fact.

I loved being on a panel with these folks --and I really didn't feel a need to apologize for what I write. In the end, we're all story tellers, all telling our stories the best we can.



Here's an excellent article on genre fiction vs. literary fiction

Weekend Update

The past weekend has been all about Asher Andrew Walton, the newest member of our family. His parents and grandmother (John's sister), all of whom used to live, here made the trip down from Charlottesville, Virginia and yesterday there was a party at a friend's house so that the community could meet the new little guy. And so we could present Asher with our latest group quilt.

A lot of pictures were taken, a lot of food was consumed, a lot of stories were shared.

And when it seemed like time for the party to end -- much of the family migrated back to our place where we continued to admire the baby.

I'll post more about the quilt later. I'm off to Wadesboro for a library event tomorrow and am playing catch up on all fronts.

Some Sylva Shots

The sun was about to rise when I pulled out of our driveway yesterday morning at about a quarter of seven and, through mountain magic, it was about to rise as, an hour and a half later, I parked my car to walk to the site of the book fair. (During my drive I saw at least four more sunrises that, what with highway traffic and a plethora of power lines, I was unable to photograph. They were all beautiful -- trust me.)

Here's a web album of random shots from yesterday -- today's another busy one with a lunch party for the new grandnephew and his parents. I'll talk about the book fair and the panel I was on another day.

On the Road

Blogger is not being cooperative and I'm heading out to the Great Smoky Mountain Book Fair in Sylva -- More later . . .

The Party's Almost Over . . .

Along the wind-swept ridges, the trees have shed their fall finery to settle into winter garb . . . drab browns and grays . . . no-nonsense evergreens . . . fashion sparse and spare.

But in some sheltered coves, the revels continue undaunted, though diminished . . .
a maple flaunts its autumn coral . . . a golden sycamore dances with the clear blue sky . . .

. . . a leafless branch wears crimson jewels. . . the belle of the November ball . . .

. . . while the Kousa dogwood slowly sheds her lovely hues . . . . and the autumn wind whistles "Good Night, Ladies" through the bare-twigged trees.

Bad Moon on the Rise

I took this picture a few nights ago and just loved it. So ominous and looming. But I couldn't think of anything to say about it because of the song playing in my head.

So here it is.

Veterans Day

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

By Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) -- a WWI soldier-poet's thoughts on the lines from Horace:

Dulce et decorem est pro patria mori -- It is sweet and fitting to die for your country.

Sheep Dog Trials

On Sunday, for a little pre-anniversary treat, we went to the sheep dog trials at Rural Hill in Huntersville, NC.

It's a joy to see these intense, intelligent dogs do what they've been bred to do -- move sheep in accordance to their master's signals. . . (There's a good description HERE.)

And when the sheep are penned and the master has said,'That'll do,' there's the reward of a handy tub of water.

Below is a slide show of the day and I'll try to explain just what amazing things these dogs do. Click on the picture to biggify.

Reflections on an Anniversary

Forty six years -- where does the time go?

Are we even still the same people who made those ambitious vows back in 1963?

We've been together far longer than we were apart . . . it's hard to remember a time when we weren't a couple. After so many years, we finish each other's sentences . . . answer unasked questions . . . and very often seem to read each other's thoughts. Almost as if we were mirror images of one another.

But it's just possible that we're still together, against the odds ("I give this marriage five years," said my mother back in '64) because we've learned to give each other space to follow our own particular dreams -- freedom to fly.

And the sure and certain knowledge of a familiar place to land.

Sunset Marching Practice

The most glorious sunset was spread across the western sky last Wednesday night.

Unfortunately, I was in Asheville, hurrying to meet my writing class, and there was no way I could get an unobstructed shot. Frustrating!

I got to the school where my class meets early, hoping to catch the drummers at it again, especially since (ahem) I've figured out how to do movies with my wonderful new camera.

Alas, no terrific drum riffs this time. But I did record the little kids learning the basics --

And then I found out how to get my video on to You Tube. (Oh, I'm proud of myself!)

I haven't figured out how to edit out some of the repetitious bits but in time I'll figure this stuff out . . .

You can check it out below. . . and isn't that guy in charge a fine teacher?

Tater Digging Time Again

Time to roust out all those fine Kennebecs and Yukon Golds.

John and Justin and Claui and I spent part of a chilly afternoon picking the potatoes from the dark clinging soil after the plow had 'busted' them out. It was a bountiful crop -- far more than we'll use. And we still have this many again left to dig.

Alas, potatoes bring about 23 cents a pound!

We talked about ways of marketing to make the crop more desirable -- "Organically grown Appalachian pommes de terre - 'apples of the earth' -- sustainably raised in a heritage mountain cove and artisanally tended and harvested. No animals were harmed in the production of this traditional crop. By appointment to royalty."

Okay, so the last bit's not true. And maybe we need to use lovely tradional burlap bags for the harvest instead of our recycled petfood bags. Although the recycled bit could be a selling point . . .

Benjamin Franklin Freeman

Oh, the stories that fall into my lap! Just like all the wonderful stuff about Inez and Odessa that Nancy Meadows shared with me, now I'm getting to know someone even closer to home -- Benjamin Franklin Freeman.

Ben Freeman with his daughter and grandchildren

Terry Roberts, the great-great grandson of Benjamin Franklin Freeman, sent me these old pictures, along with the bare details of Freeman's life.

Terry wrote:

". . . Benjamin Franklin Freeman (1834-1907), who is buried in the Freeman Cemetery (or sometimes called the "Gid Payne" Cemetery) up on the right just at the head of Anderson Branch. He is my great-great grandfather, and in so many ways is the most ambiguous character in the long drama of the family.

My guess is you've taken a walk or two through that cemetery (sign on the gate reads "KEEP CLOSED OR: CATTLE WILL DESTROY YOUR GRAVES").

Just to give you a tease, he fought in both armies during the civil war. He and his brother killed a member of the confederate home guard (who has stolen the family horse) after the war. He "studied medicine" under a doctor in Mars Hill and "wrote prescriptions" through much of his later life. He tried to kill his wife's lover round about 1870, but since he only had his pocket knife, he managed just to "cut him."

And this is just the beginning. And he was (or is; Faulkner says there is no "was") your neighbor on Anderson Branch. "

In a later email, Terry said:

"My understanding from the Freemans is that they lived (when they lived together)
just up at the head of Anderson Branch. And when they separated, he loaded up a sled (pulled by oxen of course) and "moved to the other side of the mountain," where he built the cabin you see in first picture I sent you.

That first picture (with the cabin) is dated ~1880. Kneeling in front of him is his daughter
Margaret Graham, holding two of her children: Millard and Flora. Standing beside him is his granddaughter,
Belva Anderson, who later married Julius Roberts (and who is my grandmother).

The dog is unidentified..."


An old photo of Freeman and his estranged wife, Harriet, from late in their lives, when most of their personal war was over.... ca 1900-1905.I asked for more about Harriet,(how could I not?) and Terry responded:"Apparently they were both hot-tempered, passionate, "robust" people, and if
anything, she was meaner than he. When they sued each other for divorce, he had thrown her out of the house and the children stayed with him for several years (fairly young children, girls as well as boys) until she tried to get them back as part of a divorce settlement.

It apparently started with the war and the fact that he left her to join the union army. Then after he returned, he went to jail at one point for making liquor. She may or may not have had a lover at any of these junctures while he was gone. He caught her by virtue of the fact that she gave him a venereal disease.

It's a perfectly sordid story in many ways, and yet when you read the long, rambling stories he told the federal pension agents, you can't help but like him. And apparently the children and grandchildren all sided with him (which should tell us something about her...). He was a bit of a con man, story teller, whiskey maker, sometime farmer who practiced a sort of rustic medicine (two people have told me he "wrote prescriptions": what does
that mean?). And his children loved him even though he apparently was involved in killing one man and tried to kill another....

I'm still trying to piece together the story--slowly working through a time line. As a child, I was told she refused to live with him after the war. But the more I learn, the more complex it becomes....

And oh yes, he wrote a beautiful hand, and she could not sign her name: put an "X" to mark her depositions.

And like I say: all in your backyard . . ."

l

In my backyard, indeed! The Gid Payne cemetery borders our farm. Those are our bad cows the sign warns against. And Benjamin was the grandfather of Clifford, from whom we bought our farm. I had to pay a visit to this neighbor so I went up the road . . .

Up on the little hogback ridge, I looked for Ben amongst all his many descendants.

There he is -- no wife at his side.



















I get the feeling it suits him just fine.