Why I Like Talking to My Husband

I am supposed to be the storyteller in this house, but the truth is, my husband is the real storyteller. He can tell more stories about his childhood than I can about my entire life, I swear.

Take this evening as an example. We stopped for a break after a day of working on things for our booths in the antique malls. He's been cleaning up a huge school bell, getting some pieces of picket fence and some old doors ready to go. I've been working on some small items and a dresser my son is buying.

We talk. A lot. It might sound odd since we're retired and spend a lot of time together. Sometimes days go by with no one else's company but each others. I guess we should get on each other's nerves and sometimes we do, but most of the time we're too busy. And we enjoy talking to each other.

Today as we sat talking in the kitchen, Larry mentioned that he was glad we had sold that old pot belly stove that he'd cleaned up a few weeks back. And that reminded him of a story.

Larry at the Holstein family cemetery

"There was this bar down to Olcott (the coal camp where he grew up) that had a big pot belly stove right in the middle of it, and they'd keep that thing red hot. The place had a high ceiling so they needed all that heat. They had two doors at the back. One door said MEN and the other said WOMEN. But if you tried to go through them thinking they were bathrooms, well, look out! Because they open to the outdoors and it was a five-foot drop to the ground."

A few minutes later we were discussing a big pot of beans we'd cooked for me to can. I was tired, and not feeling much like doing it and Larry said, "Well, they'll just have to go sour then." And then he remembered something else.

"That reminds me of when I was working for the City of South Charleston. We picked up the trash you know. And back then people didn't use liners in their trash cans, they just put it all in there and we had to dump it out. Pretty disgusting. There was one old guy you could count on. Every Thursday there would be a big old pile of sour pinto beans in his trash can, and it smelled, oh my God, did it smell! He'd come out and say, "Boys, I thank you for your trouble. And he'd give us a dollar bill tip. Shoot, I'd have given him two dollars not to have to empty his trash!"

Bill Holstein's grave

Larry grew up when times were hard and money was scarce in the coalfields. As our conversation continued this evening, he got to talking about his distant cousin Bill, who lived in a log cabin with his two sons, so far back in the hills most people would never have found that cabin. Talking about Bill reminded Larry of a story.

"There was a baseball field at Olcott where guys got together to play ball. People didn't have a lot of money, and a lot of the guys didn't bother to register or license their vehicles . It didn't really matter, since it wasn't like they were driving on the highways.

"Well, one day someone called the law on the guys at the ball field for some reason. Maybe they were being too rowdy or something.Anyway when they saw the cruisers, well, cars and trucks took off in all directions. One guy pulled up under a bridge and the law drove right over top of him. A Kirk boy took off for Bull Creek and a cruiser went after him. There was this big mudhole in front of Bill's house and the Kirk boy almost didn't make it through. Mud was slingin' everywhere. But he pulled out and took off up the road. The cruiser hit that mudhole and son, that was all she wrote. I never did know how they got that car out of there but it was sunk good, mud slung clear up on the roof."

So, who's the real storyteller here? I bow to the competition!

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

Briar Creek

By the quiet water run young feet, black with dust

and young hands wrapped around bamboo poles, 

towels over thin brown shoulders,

and laughter as thick as the dust raised by passing coal trucks.

Photos taken along  Briar Creek in southern Kanawha County, WV. Words inspired by my husband and his rich store of childhood memories of growing up in the coal camp called Olcott.


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

Old Time: Visiting Junior in Emmons, WV

There are places where bridges, traveled by foot, carry traffic from one county to another,

 where keeping up is not important, but keeping memories is,

Where music is breakfast, lunch and dinner (with sliced tomatoes on the side, and chunks of coal for warmth if need should be),

where the old ways, old places and old times are not the past but the present,

where what once was is still with us, and what is now, is simple, old-time ways,

where days end with sun's glory over the hills,

and the day's goodness in our hearts.

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

Music in the Graveyard: The Holstein Family Cemetery

 Larry never knew exactly where his family's graveyard was. His parents and brother elected not to be buried there, and instead were interred in a commercial cemetery closer to the main highway. But Larry knew there was a cemetery called the Holstein Cemetery, and he also knew that many relatives were buried there.

When we visited his homeplace last weekend, we hunted up his distant cousin, Junior Holstein. Junior is an old-time musician; we have met up with him from time to time over the years, most recently when he was the Master Fiddler Player at Augusta Heritage last August. He was also honored to be onstage at the Vandalia Festival last year. Finding Junior is a quest: he has a homeplace but he is often out and about. He doesn't drive but has many friends and relatives, and he will go about anywhere to play music.

We found Junior with a group of his friends under a spreading shade tree in the little community of Ashford, WV. He was happy to see us, remembering me from last year, and wanted us to go with him to his home where he could play music and maybe we could sing. On the way there, he mentioned the Holstein cemetery. Would he take us there, we asked? Sure, he said. He'd like to go himself.

The cemetery is located on a little knoll about Bull Creek, where Larry's early ancestors settled when this was still part of Virginia. According to what we could find in family history, they came there around 1770. They lost their homes when the mineral rights were naively sold years ago and strip-mines took their farms. Today Bull Creek is off limits; only mine traffic is allowed. How sad is that?

But the cemetery is still accessible. As we entered, Junior said, "My mother and father are buried here. I want to sing something for them." He pulled out his guitar and began to sing That Home Above, a gospel song (you can here Bill Monroe singing it here). Junior's singing, in his aged, quavering yet true voice, was perfect for the time and place.

Junior's singing, in his aged, quavering yet true voice, was perfect for the time and place.

 What struck me in this place was that although all buried here were related, they spelled their last name at least four different ways! There was Holstein, Holsteen, Holstine, and Holstien. Which is correct? All of them, as well as Holsten, Holston, Holestine, and several other variations.

Many graves were marked only with rough stones, with no names discernable.

This old tree with its gaping opening caught my eye and reminded me of Larry's stories of his father going after bee trees and bringing home "bee gums." He'd cut out the section where the bees were, put a board on top and bottom and bring his bees home.

Larry was touched to see the grave of Dempsey Holstine, who loved to play music. Someone had placed a wreath shaped like a guitar on his grave. How fitting and respectful.

We didn't spend a lot of time here; Junior wanted to get home so we could sing. But we will return, and soon. There is so much history here of hard-working people, many of them coal miners and their families, and here is where his roots first grew.

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

Traveling into the Past

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

We spent Labor Day tracking memories. Larry has been thinking about visiting the place he grew up and possibly finding the family cemetery. We decided to go last Wednesday but one thing and another got in the way. Finally, Monday was the day.

It had been 20 years since we last saw Olcott and the area around Brier Creek in Kanawha county, WV. We only live about 60 miles away but life has a way of rushing us along.

Many places he remembered are gone. This was the site of a one-room school his brother and older sister attended. Up this hollow was where his granny's cabin used to be, the one I describe in my story The Headless Woman of Brier Creek. The cabin and all traces of her home--outbuildings, well, foundation stones--have disappeared. Our prints on this earth are fleeting, aren't they?

This was the school Larry attended, Olcott Elementary. It is abandoned and the roof has caved in. Note the tall chimney--in coal country, this school used coal for heat.

Some of the letters of the school's name still remain. Larry attended school here for six years and I could almost hear his boyish shouts as he ran around the playground.

Many of the little side roads were pretty rough (we should have taken the truck).

This small church, Olcott Baptist, I believe it was, or possible Church of God, is still in active use.

The remains of the old powerhouse that provided power to the nearby mine,

and the remains of train tracks that once carried loads of coal out of the mines located up the hollows.As a teen, Larry had a rail buggy that had Chevy wheels. If he let about half the air out of the tires it would ride right on the rails very well. Once, however, when he was riding on this particular stretch of tracks, he got stuck in a place where a branch line connected to the main line. He could hear a train coming and flagged it down, The trains traveled very slowly and the engineer saw him, stopped, and pulled him out. Larry continued on his way in front of the train, honking his horn and waving to the neighbors as he passed by. What memories.

This used to be the home of the mine superintendent. I believe the mine was owned by the Black Band Coal Company, which was the one his father worked for. We have some scrip from that company.

This is Beetree Mountain, heading down. Larry tells several stories about this stretch of road. In one, a friend owned a late 50's convertible (I forget which make). As he headed down the mountain at a fairly good speed, he hit the brakes and found he had none. He thought quickly, and decided to put up the convertible top as a brake to slow the car. As you might guess, it didn't work. With a whoosh! the top was ripped right off the car. Fortunately the friend was able to stop and was unhurt. The same can't be said for the convertible top.

Another story he tells is about sledding on the hill. He and his friends would work for hours, hauling buckets of water up the hill and pouring it down to let it freeze on top of the packed snow, making an incredible sled run. Unfortunately for people in cars, the ice made it impossible to drive down the hill and many a man and woman walked home when the kids were sledding.

I have never, ever seen a stop sign for a train! This one says Stop and Dismount. I have no idea what that could mean. I know dismount means to get down off of something, but what can it refer to here? There is a branch line that comes into this track a little further up, also a road crossing and a trestle so I am sure it has something to do with one or all of these.

Along this lonely stretch of road, Larry recalls rows of company houses; now there is only green and quiet.

There once was a railroad roundhouse here, or nearby, as he recalls. We think

the bricks in this photo might be the only reminder of the roundhouse's existence.

Tomorrow--a visit to the family cemetery and with an elderly but not old cousin.