Goodbye, Alice

I remember a fall day much like this one.

I was learning to make apple butter,

stirring and listening to you,

your mother and other women of your family--

how many years ago was it, thirty perhaps, or more?

Stories flew around the steaming kettle,

tales of growing up on that very land, 

and the trouble your brothers got you into.

Memories, memories, 

sweeter than the apples we were cooking.

It was a good day, with quarts of steaming

spicy-sweet spread to reward our labor

although it did not feel like work at all,

all that stirring of the apples and poking of the fire.

It was cold, November and dreary as November often is

but the fire and the fiery wit kept us warm without and within.

Now you've left to travel on, to light the way

the rest of us will surely follow in our time.

Ahead there waits your mother and your father

and a host of angels singing their joy

that you will be one among them.

Here, tears will be shed but there will be laughter too

and stories shared, good times remembered

by all those who were fortunate enough 

to share some time with you.

In memory of Alice Simons Casto

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

I drove home alone yesterday--lately Larry and I have been commuting together. And being alone gave me camera time. This is a photo journal of my drive up Joe's Run.

Green, green grass on the road that used to be called Poverty Fork (but is something unfamiliar now that 911 is renaming everything).




Fungi on a log over the creek caught my eye, a spot of white in the brown and green landscape. As I was photographing the log, a neighbor pulled up in his truck.

"Hey," he said. I told him I was taking pictures of the log. He did not seem surprised. We talked about a few things until another vehicle came into view and he had to leave. It is a one lane road after all, and to keep talking and make someone wait is considered rude--unless the one waiting is in your family, or gets out of their vehicle to join the conversation.










Across the road, a gate leads into Ronnie's fields. Cattle grazed contentedly, probably happy for green grass after last summer's drought and a winter of hay.

At the Dan Murray holler (so called because years and years before I lived here, someone named that lived on this now vacant land) a deer posed for quite a while so I could take his/her picture.

At this time of year, the deer's coloring really blends in. Soon they will get their reddish brown summer coats, which are also surprisingly difficult to spot in the lush green of June and July.









Belvie's chicken house has no chickens anymore. I'm not sure how old this building is, but I believe it may be about 50 because one of her sons mentioned that he remembered building it. Or maybe that's my memory playing tricks. It looks like it could have been a home at one time, but I do not think that is the case with this log cabin. The round logs are nicely notched; often the notching on barns is rough, as if done in a hurry.







On top of the pole-bar hill. This hill overlooks Belvie's farm and is on the back side of it.

If you enlarge the picture by clicking on it, you might be able to see, in the lower left center, a small part of Joe's Run Road--that is where I took the photo of the chicken house. The road is not discernible here.









Looking back down the ridge road from the pole-bar hill. This hill got its name because there used to be a pole-and-bar gate there 'way back. The name stuck.
A pole-bar gate is a fencepost with holes through it--poles can be slid through to create an effective fence and still function as a gate.

What strikes me in these pictures is that there are so few signs of people--buildings, cars, electric poles, signs, etc are few and far between up here, and I like that very much.


I can look out over the hills and tell you exactly where most of the houses are, who lives where, and probably who used to live there before, and something of the history of the land.

Not shown in this photo is the cutoff road, or haul road that goes around the hill. The haul roads were used for wagons in bad weather when the hills were too icy or muddy for horses to pull wagons over.



The camp on Belvie's land on top of the pole-bar hill. I like the road sign: "Highlawn Drive." I won't speculate on how it came to be there, but it lends a certain class to the place.

This camp is full during hunting season when the whole clan gathers for deer season.















Finally home again, just as the sun began to set.

The Drive Home

Yesterday was not a good day to be on the road. I was almost to Ripley when the slowing traffic warned me of trouble ahead. The car that rolled on the icy road looks nothing like a car--if you click the photo to enlarge, you will see its flattened form against the bank on the right. I offered prayers but like last week, it did not look good for the occupants of that vehicle.

I snapped this photo as I sat in traffic waiting for the wreck to be cleared. We were there for almost an hour, so I took a photo or two to kill time. I liked the monotones of the gate, snow and sky.

Finally on Joe's Run and it wasn't in great shape either, although the sand truck had run so it wasn't as bad as it might have been.

Which way to go at the forks? Either way takes me home. I opted for the right fork, avoiding the hill that can be tricky in weather like this.

A horse ambled up to see where I was going as I passed Dan and Belvie's homeplace. Darkness was falling fast, and I wanted to get home, but I couldn't resist taking his picture.

Belvie's wash house--the root cellar is underneath it. She used to make her apple butter out front of it in her big 30-gallon kettle. She is the one who taught me how to make it, as well as how to make green tomato mincemeat, sausage, lard, and lots of other things. Belvie had all nine of her children at home; that lady was a worker, too, taking care of the farm while Dan worked away "on the roads" for the state roads. Now she lives in a mobile home near one of her sons. I have not seen her in a long time, and when I took this photo I knew I needed to get over to visit her. I have missed having her as a neighbor.

And at last I was on the ridge as the last rays of the sun color the sky. I turned into the driveway thankful that the drive had been a safe one for me, still worried about the people in the wrecked car, and knowing that while the drive is long and often treacherous in winter, I am blessed with beauty everywhere I look.