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  Root Jumper

  Stories from the “Hills and Hollers” of West Virginia

  Justine Felix Rutherford

  iUniverse, Inc.

  Bloomington

  Root Jumper

  Stories from the “Hills and Hollers” of West Virginia

  Copyright © 2012 by Justine Felix Rutherford

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  ISBN: 978-1-4759-3778-7 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4759-3779-4 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012912266

  iUniverse rev. date: 7/12/2012

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Preface

  Introduction

  Spring House Cleaning

  The Old Paths

  The Root Jumper Plow

  The Old Barn

  The West Virginia I Knew

  Mountain Music

  Surviving the Hard Times

  The Hill Churches

  Traveling Old Roads

  Building a Log House

  Special People

  Friends and Unusual Pets

  The New Suit

  Happy Moments

  Decoration Day

  The Taffy Lady

  Old “Eddered” Sayings

  The Arrival of the 17 Year Locust

  Snakes

  Ireland

  Conclusion

  Acknowledgements

  I am deeply grateful to my patient and gifted editor, John Patrick Grace, Ph. D.

  I give thanks to my friend, Margaret Hanna Smith. Without Margo’s help and encouragement, this book would not have been possible.

  I thank my dear friend Curt who has been so much help. I thank him for his patience during all the missed meals. I couldn’t have accomplished my goal without his help. Thank you so much, Curt.

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to my sons Kenneth and Gordon, to my grandchildren and great grandchildren, and to my friends

  who lift and sustain me. With the help of God and you, I have had a great journey.

  Preface

  This book is written, as my other books have been, to preserve a way of life I knew as a young girl seventy years ago. I also am including stories and incidents up to the present day and stories people have requested of me. This book blends the old, the more recent, and some of the in-between.

  The word root has various meanings and connotations. My title, Root Jumper, literally refers to a plow that my dad used to clear new ground. But when I reflect upon my roots, my family connections throughout the ages, I think of the source of who I am as a person. Our heredity is vastly important. It has been said that we cannot know the future if we do not know the past. We owe a great debt to those who sacrificed for us in so many ways. We can’t live in the past, or we will lose the future. However, we must remember the past and honor it. Just as the root jumper plow stirred and turned the old roots, it also broke ground for the new crops. We must do the same. We must leave a legacy for those who will come after us. We must jump from the past and break new ground for our children and for their children’s children, never forgetting where we came from and where we hope to go. Therefore, I hope my book, which contains the past, the more recent, and some of the in-between, will remind us of our roots.

  Introduction

  “The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.”

  Song of Solomon 2:12

  A spring snow has come to Union Ridge during the night. I walk from room to room to see the different designs the snow has made. The sun is shining so brightly against the snow. It is blinding as I gaze over the hills into the valley. The sun has begun to melt the snow, and it is cascading from the trees as if someone is gently pushing the snow from the limbs. I can stand this no longer. I lace up my boots and head for the woods.

  I walk down the old haul road casting my eyes about to see what surprises the snow has brought. I stop on the flat below the house to thank my Lord and Savior for letting me live in the beautiful state of West Virginia. This is where I was born and this is where I shall die. For eighty-five years I have been allowed to roam the land and to enjoy all of its beauty. I thank God for the people who have passed before me. They bought this privilege for me at a great price. My soul is so woven into Appalachia that I never could truly leave.

  I walk on out the flat. I smell spring before I see it. There are brown patches of ground where the snow has melted. Hidden below beneath the forest soil are the patches of wild ramps I have crushed underfoot. The green shoots of the wild ramps are beginning to push through the soil releasing their onion-garlic aroma. This smell is like candy to the mountaineer. It makes me hungry for fried potatoes, and for spring.

  I hear the trickle of water from the creek at the bottom of the hill. I hear something else. Oh, my gosh! It is the frogs croaking through the snowy creek. The old bullfrogs sound like drums beating the air.

  Yes, spring is here! Spring is the most gorgeous time of the year. Everything has new life. It makes my spirit sing, and I want to roll in the grass like a kid. When the birds’ chests swell out and they begin to sing, I sing with them. This last winter was mild, and I have never seen the shrubs and flowers blooming as profusely as they are this spring.

  My youngest son, Gordon, lives on my husband’s family farm a short distance from my home. He lives in the house that his father was born in. When I arrived for a recent visit, the great grand-children were running to and fro carrying baby chicks, ducks, and rabbits. Emory, my three-year-old great grandson, was holding a baby chick.

  He said to me, “What’s it saying?”

  I said, “Emory, when I was a kid like you, it was called cheeping, but I don’t know what they call it today.”

  He picked up a piece of chicken poop. His mother told him not to pick up chicken poop.

  He said, “Momma, it’s not chicken poop. It’s duck poop.”

  Oh, yeah! I hate to see them grow up. Their mothers told me they are not having any more babies.

  Spring brings birth and rebirth on the farm. I visited Gordon yesterday. One of his goats, Dora, had triplets the night before and they were fine. Another goat gave birth but was not doing well. Gordon had to take the baby goat because it was so large. We walked down to the barn and found the mother goat just lying there in the straw. Gordon began to talk to her, and I saw her eyes follow him. He gave her an injection, bu
t she didn’t flinch. He gently lifted up her head to give her some water. The baby goat came over and began to nuzzle against her. He was hungry. Gordon tried to talk her into getting up, but she couldn’t get up. He lifted her up so the baby could nurse. Gordon got a little food down her while she was standing up. I asked Gordon if he thought she would be all right. He said to me, “Mom,” he said to me, “she wants to live so badly and she has fought so hard that I will try anything I can for her.” I looked at his kind face and his gentle hands as he cared for her. I’m glad he has chosen the pathway he has.

  Every day the mother goat improved until she was standing on her own and taking a few steps. I saw her and her baby in the pasture field. The baby goat was jumping and running with the other kids. I can see why they call baby goats kids. They act like kids. They are jumping and running and even jumping up in the tree that is in the pasture field.

  Some things change, and some things never do. The chickens still scratch in the dirt, cackle, and lay eggs. If I was barefooted, I would still step in the chicken manure, and it would still get between my toes. The cattle still bawl, the goats say baa, and the pigs still squeal for food.

  Soon I will be gone, but new birth will take my place. My great grandchildren will still run and play and sing on the farm just as I did many years ago. Once again I would like to put my thoughts and memories on paper—those memories of the wonderful people who lived before me and of the wonderful people who live with me today. I am writing about old paths and roadways. There are two roadways, but one road leads to peace and contentment. The other road leads to heartbreak and distress. All of us have to choose which one to take. Most of the people I write about have chosen and moved on. Thank you for taking the journey with me. But before we set off, let’s recall a few lines from Robert Frost’s famous poem “The Road Not Taken.”

  Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.

  And sorry I could not travel both

  And be one traveler, long I stood

  And looked down as far as I could

  To where it bent in the undergrowth….

  Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

  I took the one less traveled by,

  And that has made all the difference.

  I hope you will have a few laughs with me, shed a few tears, but enjoy and share every minute of the trip.

  Justine

  Spring House Cleaning

  “It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home.”

  Edgar Guest

  Every spring and fall was house cleaning time for my mother. It was an ancient ritual of the hills. Mom had finally gotten Dad to fix the roof leak over the kitchen. Our pet crow had pulled strips from the roof. Mom had been threatening us about the crows, but as yet nothing had been done.

  I liked it when it rained. The roof over the kitchen would leak, and the wallpaper inside the kitchen ceiling would balloon with large bubbles of water. When we caught Mom out of the house, my brother Arnold and I would lie in the floor and punch broom handles through the bubbles, letting out gushes of water. The brooms were innocently put back in the corner. When Mom came in, we had to outrun the brooms. When the house had been newly papered with clean-smelling newspaper, we knew cleaning time was near.

  Today has been very quiet and still, but soon the past comes alive in my memory. I hear the voices of my brothers and sister and the sounds of the dogs barking and the chickens clucking. I hear the “Gee” and “Haw” of Dad’s voice as he plows. The cattle are in the low gap bawling to be fed. I see my mother on the porch with her apron full of something. She looks at the sky and says, “It would be a great day to clean house.” As it is spring, she would be cleaning house for summer. This was not cleaning house as we know it today. It was a vigorous ritual that took from daybreak until dead dark.

  This special morning was warm and sunny and was chosen by looking at the sky the evening before. Mom was up long before daylight shaking down the grates on the kitchen stove and putting on eggs and bacon. Then when breakfast was over, we hurried out to milk the cow, strain the milk, slop the hogs, feed the chickens, and start carrying water. The water was hand drawn from the well with two gallon buckets to fill the hot water tank on the “Home Comfort” stove.

  As the sun rose up to dry everything off, Mom began to move everything in the house outside on the dry grass. Everything in our wild world would be transferred to the yard—except our kitchen stove. It was never moved. While doing this, we had to look out for the honey bee stands along the yard. We didn’t dare disturb those little yellow monsters. Why did Dad put honey bee stands along the edge of the yard? I do not know, but that was his way.

  Everything had to be dusted, scrubbed, and sun-dried. The inside of the house was scrubbed and cleaned including the floor. We had no carpeting. Perhaps the labor wasn’t as heavy as it now seems to me. We only had to drag out the wooden and iron beds and the cabinets. These cabinets had to be dragged outside only after everything had been removed from them. Even the feather and straw ticks from the beds were taken outside, dusted, and fluffed. The iron stove from the living room had to be carried outside to a building for the summer. The day was a flurry of activity with hot soapsuds and drying sun.

  The first thing Mom did was to take her hammer and screwdriver and take apart all the slats and springs from the wooden and iron beds, The yard would get covered with feather ticks and straw ticks, and a maze of wood and striped ticking scattered in confused tangles all over the yard. Curtain and washed clothing hung on the line to dry.

  The cleaning would begin inside with buckets of hot water from the water tank and buckets of cold water for rinsing. Mom put in handfuls of her homemade soap made from hog lard and ash lye. This made a yellow stringy substance and was the very center of the cleaning day. The soap had its own distinct smell. It was not the smell of Dreft or Tide. It was a yellow, chemical, slightly rancid smell from the hog lard. Sometimes I get whiffs of it even today.

  There was this ancient routine every fall and spring. Since this was spring, Mom would be cleaning for summer. Every bedstead and spring, every nook and cranny had to be gone over with a turkey feather dipped in turpentine to kill the bedbugs. They were a small, flat, red bug that came out at night and raised havoc. Mom gave that job to me. I carried my can with the turkey feather dipping it into the turpentine, going in and out of every nook and cranny. The job became so boring that I wrote myself a little poem. It went: “Little blood-sucking bug so round and flat—come to the top and I’ll give you a nap.” After this task was done, Mom gave the items a sloshing of hot, soapy water.

  We then had our lunch of cold corn bread and milk and began moving everything back into the house. The curtains that were stretched were dry and ready to hang. The kitchen stove had to have a new stovepipe. After a struggle of banging and knocking, the boys managed to get the stovepipe into the hole.

  The dragging and huffing started all over again. The beds had to be put back together, their side pieces were knocked together with a hammer, and the slats were laid in place. The straw ticks and then the feather ticks in that order were placed on the slats. Then the beds were made-up. We eventually got everything back in place, and the house smelled so clean and fresh. But all of Mom’s house cleanings did not go as well.

  I recall one day in particular. It was about three o’clock on house cleaning day when among all the usual confusion, my sister Julia came in and announced that Preacher Smith was coming for a fried chicken supper. Her words were met with silence. Then everyone started hurrying to get things back into the house. All of us kids ran back and forth with loads of clothes, books, bed chambers, and bed ticks. We finally got everything stowed away.

  By four o’clock, the house was pretty well finished. We kids were out in the yard trying to run down the doomed chickens. Mom came out to help us. She selected two young roosters different from the
ones we had selected. Around and around we ran after the first one. The rooster, with his big red comb pointing to the sky and taking big steps and squawking loudly, ran in and out among the other chickens. We were jumping other chickens to get to the rooster. Then old red rooster decided to come and join the fun. My brother yelled, “Watch old red. He’ll spur you in the face!” As he came sidling up to me, I grabbed a tobacco stick. I decided to give him a little tap on the head. He fell over on the ground. Mom thought he was dead. She said, ”Well, it’s too late for chicken and dumplings. Grab that young rooster!” I felt really bad since I had only meant to give him a little tap. Then old red began to kick around, got to his feet, and staggered off. He was fine. Finally we cornered the roosters. Both were carried to the chopping block where Mom, with the practiced flash of the axe, made short work of them. Mom flopped them into the scalding water, jerked the feathers off in big handfuls, then lighting some pages from The Country Gentleman, she singed them. Then she rushed into the kitchen to gut them, cut them up, roll them in flour, and put the pieces into the frying pan.

  Mom was hurrying around, back and forth, in the kitchen. When she lifted the lid on her green beans, they were frying, and she said, “Oh, I’ve burned my beans.” Trying to make her feel better, I said, “Oh, Mom. Preacher Smith is about half blind. He won’t notice the burned beans.” Shooting me a sharp glance, she said, “Don’t talk like that!” By six o’clock she was putting on the table a great platter of golden fried chicken and adding her dishes of mashed potatoes, green beans, corn, and a warm blackberry cobbler. As she moved about the table in her clean, starched, feed-sack apron, she seemed, except for slightly flushed cheeks, composed.