Ella (Ellie) Bundy Ott

Blufe Ott, Ella Bundy Ott, and Lessie Ott

I feel that it's important to know one's lineage.  How many times have we heard someone say; "I wish I had asked them more questions and now it's too late."   I am fortunate to be a part of a family that values family history.  I grew up listening to the stories about my ancestors. 

I think that for a generation or so  people lost the desire to learn about their lineage.  The focus was on building a future and not being too concerned with the past.  With the recent influx of television shows such as "Who Do You Think You Are?" there has been a resurgence of interest in ancestry. 

A few months ago I decided to write about my ancestry.   This is my second blog in this series. This is the story of my paternal grandmother, Ella (Ellie) Bundy Ott.

My Granny Ott was born February 9, 1888, either the second or third child of 14 children born to John Henry and Mary Docia Baker Bundy.  There was a baby girl named Belle who I am unsure of her birth date.  Based on the birthdates of all the children I believe Belle was the second child.  Also, I am unsure of how long Belle lived. Granny Ott was born at Concord, Arkansas; a little community along Crooked Creek.   The Bundy family was poor and had a hard time getting by but by all accounts they were good people. 

My granny, being the oldest girl, helped to raise her younger siblings.  She worked hard, learned to cook, sew and do farm chores.  When she was little she and her older brother Charlie were splitting firewood.  Charlie accidentally cut off the end of the middle finger of her right hand. She went on to become one of the best seamstresses in the area and used the thimble on the stub of her finger.

When she was 18 she married my grandpa, William Blufford "Blufe" Ott.  As a little girl I asked her how she had met my grandpa.  She replied, "He wrote me a letter."  I asked why he would write a letter to someone that he didn't know.  She explained that he was getting older (age 27) and was looking for a wife and (in her words),"He just heered tell o' me."  I thought that was quite funny.  They lived a good distance apart so they corresponded by letter and eventually married on March 25, 1906.  I don't know how many times they had actually seen one another before their marriage.  She did tell me once that he rode his horse a long distance to see her.  As an aside - there were 14 Bundy kids and 14 Ott kids and my Granny, two of her sisters, and her aunt all married 4 Ott brothers.  This made for a lot of double cousins and many of us grandkids look very much alike.

Granny and Grandpa began their married life at a little community called Cattail Springs, Arkansas which was very near the Ott homestead where Grandpa was raised and his parents still lived.  On January 29, 1908 their first child, a daughter named Lessie, was born.  On August 24, 1909 a second daughter, Joyce was born.  The story goes that Granny went in to labor and Grandpa got on his mule to go get his mother.  Granny said that she could still hear the hoof beats when she had a hard pain. She had two more pains and the baby was born.  My Aunt Lessie was 19 months old and my granny held on to Aunt Lessie's gown tail to keep her from wandering off.  The umbilical cord was wrapped around my Aunt Joyce's neck and Granny reached down and unwrapped it, all the while, holding on to Aunt Lessie's gown tail.  They stayed like that until Grandpa and my great-grandma, Barbara Catherine Ott arrived.  Aunt Joyce weighed 12 pounds!  My Aunt Opal was born March 25, 1913 and while an uneventful birth she weighed in at 11 1/2 pounds. 

At the time of Aunt Opal's birth the family was living along the White River on land that is in the area of the White River bridge near Cotter.  Grandpa, his brothers Marv and Charlie were farming there.

Sometime between 1913 and 1915 Grandpa and Granny bought his parents' homestead which is in rural Marion County, Arkansas in a community called Blue John.  They paid $1000 for the farm.
Aunt Ethel was born May 17, 1915 after they had moved to the Ott homestead.

My dad was born May 2, 1926.  He was born premature, only weighing about 4 pounds.  Being the youngest and only boy he was a bit spoiled by his older sisters.

Lessie Ott Bryant, Sherman B. Ott, Ethel Ott Pace, Joyce Ott Briggs Keeter, Opal Ott Marchant

Somewhere along 1933 and 1934 Grandpa had broken his arm and later fell from a wagon and broke his leg.  His bones were not healing well and he had been confined to the house. On February 24, 1934 Grandpa said that he was going up to the barn (he could hobble at this point) to shuck corn for the hogs and shell some for the chickens.  While he was gone a couple of neighbors came to ask if they could borrow Grandpa's saddle.  Granny said that she would never loan his saddle or his gun without asking his consent.  She went to the barn and looked in the feed room but he wasn't there. She sent my Aunt Ethel to walk down to the bottom field to look for him but she didn't find him.  Granny and my dad, who was 8 years old, went around to the back of the barn. Granny tried to open the door to one of the stalls and it was wired shut from the inside.  She peeked through the boards and saw my grandpa hanging from the rafters.  She cried out; "Oh he's hung himself!"  My daddy, being a little boy looked up into the trees.  He later said that he thought his dad was in the trees.  My mother once asked my granny what she did when she saw him and she said, "I knelt down and prayed."  She sent my Aunt Ethel for help and then the coroner was sent for.  The coroner had to come from Yellville, which is about 14 miles away and at that time it took a long time to get there.   There was nothing that my granny could do but wait.  The following was taken from the Mountain Echo:

Mountain Echo, Yellville, AR Wednesday, 28 Feb 1934, pg 1 Good Citizen Takes Own Life The many friends of Mr. Blufford OTT were horrified Saturday morning when they learned he had committed suicide that morning by hanging himself in his barn at his home on Blue John, near Ware's Chapel. Coroner Wm. LAY was notified and requested to come and hold an inquest over the body, which he did, about 3 o'clock that afternoon. The following parties were impaneled as a jury: J. H. MEARS, Quince OTT, Irly BURRIS, E. L. KIRKWOOD, Lester OTT, Andrew JONES, Fred MEARS, Bill LINCK, Lee MEDLEY, Dr. J. I. THOMPSON and Alfred HALL. After viewing the body and taking what testimony was available, they returned a verdict as follows: "That he came to his death by hanging with suicidal intent." Mr. OTT had always been considered as one of the county's best citizens -- had always engaged in farming and stock raising, and was honorable and upright in every way, and his family and his friends are at a loss to know as to what caused him to commit this rash act, except that he had been in poor health for some time, and also brooding over financial conditions. Funeral services were conducted at 2 o'clock Sunday evening by Rev. G. B. KEETER, and interment was in the Ott cemetery near his home, in the presence of many sorrowing relatives and friends. Of his immediate family he leaves a wife and four daughters and one son, aside from several brothers and sisters. The Echo joins the many friends of the family in extending condolence to them in their sorrow.

There was an ice storm and the funeral was held in Granny's house.  There was so much ice on the ground that the men had trouble carrying the casket to the cemetery which is only a short distance away.

This was during the depression and times were hard.  Granny, Aunt Ethel (the older girls were married by this time), and my daddy continued to farm, grow a garden, and hunt for food.  She hired her nephew that first summer to help her farm and the next summer she hired a neighbor to help her.  She would work outside all day and sew for people at night.  The neighbor girls would hold a kerosene lamp so that she could see to sew dresses for them.  Daddy, having been born prematurely was a small boy.  He would try to plow and the plow would get him down.  He would cry and get back up and do it again.  That old turning plow now resides in a flower bed in my front  yard.

Aunt Lessie married Guy Bryant March 30, 1928.  They eventually moved to Black Oak, Arkansas where they farmed and raised their twin sons, Billy and Bobby.

Aunt  Joyce married Cecil Briggs on June 4, 1932.  They were both teachers, she elementary and Cecil, a math teacher at Yellville-Summit School.  Cecil passed away on October 11, 1939.  The following is the obituary from the Mountain Echo:

Mountain Echo, Yellville, AR 11 Oct 1939 Local School Teacher A Victim Of Apoplexy A heavy pall of sorrow enveloped this entire community Wednesday morning of last week as news was spread of the death of Cecil BRIGGS, popular instructor in mathematics in the Y-S High School, which occurred at his home in Summit at 4:15 that morning. Mr. BRIGGS had been in his usual good health until about 2:45 Tuesday afternoon, when he was stricken with apoplexy while he was hearing a class at the school. He was taken to his home by Mr. J Q. ADAMS, superintendent of the school, and from the beginning it was known that his condition was serious. He became unconscious shortly after he reached his home, and notwithstanding all that medical aid could do, he passed away at 4:15 o'clock Wednesday morning. The body was prepared for burial and lay in state at the home until 2 o'clock Thursday afternoon, when it was removed to the High School Auditorium, where in the presence of one of the largest crowds of sorrowing friends and relatives ever in attendance at a funeral in this community, services were conducted by Rev G B KEETER, county superintendent of schools, assisted by Rev. Otha McCRACKEN, member of the school board of the Midway District, and John Q. ADAMS, superintendent of the Yellville-Summit School. Burial was in the Georges Creek cemetery, in charge of the Holt Undertaking Company. Active pall bearers were Messrs. John Q. ADAMS, Cecil MATHIS, Cleo MARTIN, Harry MORROW and Audie SLAGLE, all teachers in the Y-S School, and Thurman WOOD, teacher in the Georges Creek School. Mr. BRIGS was 30 years of age and was born and reared in this county. At an early age he began preparing himself for the teaching profession, and for the past several years was recognized as one of the best and most progressive young teachers in this section. For the past three years, prior to the present school term, he was principal of the Midway School, and under his direction it was built into one of the outstanding rural schools in North Arkansas. Evidence of his popularity in that community was shown by the great number of people - patrons and pupils - of that school who were in attendance at his funeral. It is hard to understand why one just entering into the prime of manhood, with a course of great usefulness charted before him, should be called away as was Cecil BRIGGS. But we realize that it is not for us, even in our sorrow, to question the decision of the Divine Father, who in his wisdom, doeth all things for the best, and we must believe that somewhere in his realm had been selected a place for even greater service, and Cecil was called to fill the place in that great home beyond this earthly life. Mr. BRIGGS is survived by his wife, the former Miss Joyce OTT, his father and step-mother, Mr. and Mrs. Jewell BRIGGS, Sr., two step-brothers, Jewell, Jr., and Leon BRIGGS, and two step-sisters, Misses Neva and Virginia May BRIGGS. His grandfathers, Mr. J J BRIGGS and Mr. Alfred WATTS, also survive, as well as a number of other near relatives throughout this county. To all of them the heartfelt sympathies of a host of friends go out in their great sorrow.

On January 22, 1944 Aunt Joyce married Carl Keeter.  They had no children together but Uncle Carl had a son, Aubrey, by a previous marriage.

Aunt Opal and Earl Marchant were married April 19, 1929 and had a daughter, Earlene.

Aunt Ethel and Jack Pace were married on November 26, 1937. They had no children.

My granny wanted Daddy to continue his education so they moved for a time to Summit, Arkansas so that he could go to school.  He graduated from Yellville-Summit School in 1943.

Following his graduation he went to Kansas to work the wheat harvest.  It was there that he received his draft notice.  He was mustered into the army on December 21, 1944 at Camp Joseph T. Robinson, Little Rock, Arkansas.

Daddy served in the Pacific Theater in the Philippines and later in the Japanese Occupation.  Granny was left alone on the farm.  There were times that she wouldn't hear from Daddy for months then she would receive several letters at once. Daddy was discharged from the US Army 24th Division, Company M, 19th Infantry on Nov. 20, 1946 at Ft. Sam Houston, TX.  Granny tells the story of how she was outside and she saw the top of a hat as someone was coming up the road.  As the person got closer she recognized that is was Daddy. I can only imagine the joy that she felt when he got home.

On September 9, 1950 Daddy married my mom, Lou Ann Clough Ott.  They moved into the house with Granny and farmed the land and milked dairy cows.   My sister, Judith was born in 1951, I came along in 1955, and my brother, Bruce, was born in 1956.  Granny helped with us so that Mom could work on the farm with my dad and later outside the home.  We spent countless hours with her.  She taught us to read, do math, and she told us a lot of stories. 

Granny dipped snuff and chewed Kentucky Twist tobacco so there were always spit cans around and if you ever got bee or wasp stung she had the tobacco juice to doctor you right up.

My granny was the most Godly woman I have ever known.  I jokingly say that I was raised in the Church of Ellie Ott.  Every morning at breakfast we had church and every night we read the Bible.  She had a scripture quote for all occasions and not only could she quote them she could tell you where you would find the verse(s) in the Bible.  One of her favorites (or maybe we just needed to hear it often) was Matthew 5:39 "but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right. cheek, turn to him the other also".  My mom recently said to me that not many women could say that their mother-in-law was one of the finest women who ever lived.  And she was.

When I got married I wanted Granny to make my wedding dress.  She had been one of the best seamstresses in the area when she was younger and she made many of our clothes as we were growing up.  She was 85 by this time and she had to sit in a chair by the bed to cut the dress out.  She sewed that heavy bridal satin to make me the dress.  That touches my heart as I think back on it.  Her hands were rough and scratchy from years of hard work and I would try not to flinch as she pinned and basted the dress to fit me.

Granny lived to be 93.  She passed away on March 3, 1981.  She lived from the times of horse and buggy to seeing a man walk on the moon.  So much changed during the span of her life but she never lost her faith or her sense of humor.  I am thankful that I got to be her granddaughter.

** Side note:  One of Granny's favorite sayings (if we ever got a spot of something on our clothes) was, "It will never be noticed on a galloping horse."

If This Old Dough Board Could Talk

My Granny Ott's dough board and my Aunt Ethel's rolling pin.

It's holiday time and for me that includes a lot of baking.  This morning I grabbed cookie dough out of the fridge, my dough board, and rolling pin and got down to business.  As as I rolled out the dough I began to think of the stories that this old dough board could tell.  You see, this is my Granny Ott's dough board.   She was born in 1888 and married in 1906 so this dough board is more than likely over 100 years old.  I thought about all the pie crusts, dumplings, bread, and cookies that have been rolled out on this board.  I remember a story that Granny used to tell about a boy that lived near them.  He was always dirty and his hands were especially filthy.  One day my aunts had made a batch of cookies and the neighbor boy came to visit. He would pick up a cookie and rub his hands all over it and say, "These cookies sure do look good.  He would lay that cookie down and then pick up another."  My aunts stood by horrified and finally one of them said, "Why don't you just take those cookies home with you." 

I recently took a DNA test and when I got my results back I was contacted by a young woman who said that I showed up as her closest DNA relative.  We have been messaging back and forth.  It turns out that her grandpa was my Granny Ott's brother.  Sadly, she didn't even know her grandparents' names until I told her.  She has no knowledge of her dad's paternal side of the family.  My mom and I are putting together a packet of information for her. It made me so sad to think that she didn't realize that she had this huge extended family that she has never gotten to know.  Here I have the old dough board that her grandpa and dad probably enjoyed foods rolled out on and she doesn't even have a picture or copy of a marriage license.  I am making it my Christmas act of kindness to give her the family history.

I didn't need to take a DNA test.  Our family history is well documented but I just wanted to see if there was ancestry that I hadn't known...and there was.  I had no idea that I had descended from Iberians, Balkans, and Ashenazi Jews.  That is exciting and interesting but I didn't need to know that to feel that I know who I am. I grew up in an area what there are a lot of large families and most families passed their stories and heirlooms down to successive generations (like the dough board). 

I hope that if you don't know your family history you will take a DNA test and see who pops up on your connections.  It can be a wonderful experience and you make get acquainted, as I did, with a relative that you can share information and stories with.

This Country Needs More Picnics

Mom standing in front of her beloved Buffalo River

   My sister and I have October birthdays and a few years ago we started going on what we refer to as a "big birthday adventure."  We pick a place that we haven't been to or visit a place that holds significance to us and spend the day just having fun.  Last year we added my husband, our mom, our brother and sister-in-law to the adventure.  Last year we drove to a neighboring county, located a cemetery and the grave of our paternal great-great grandfather.  We packed a picnic lunch and had dinner "on the ground." We decided that we would continue this tradition and we came to the conclusion that this country needs to slow down, spend more time with family and have more picnics.
   This year we chose to go to a place that is special to our mom and it also holds a lot of childhood

Mom, my brother, Bruce, my sister, Judith, and me

memories for us kids.  My mom grew up on the lower end of Buffalo River, now the National Buffalo River.  Like many of the families from this area during that time they lived in different houses up and down a stretch of the river from Rush to Cedar Creek.  Mom said that sometimes the river would get in the houses and people would have to move or sometimes the houses were just not inhabitable and the family would have to move.  She told of a family that lived in the area whose house had a dirt floor.  Mom lived with her grandparents, Jim and Molly Brantley.  When she was very young they lived at what is called Cedar Creek.  That is where she went to her first year of school.  The old one room school house is no longer there but a portion of the rock fence still stands.  They lived for a time across the river and to get to school she rode in a boat.  Her teacher, who was boarding with a family who lived across the river, would bring Mom and another child across in a boat.  Mom didn't go the entire term because of the difficulty of getting to school. 
   Years later after Mom and Dad married, they only lived a few miles from Cedar Creek. When we were kids they would take us to the river on Sunday afternoons to swim, play, and have a picnic dinner.  See my blog "Back in the Hills" for more about that
   Today was a very emotional trip for Mom.  The landscape has changed due to flooding and time and she couldn't recognize some of the places.  She gets emotional just talking about life on the river.  I think anyone who grew up on the Buffalo has a deep sentiment for the river and the river way of life.

We used to camp on the gravel bar on the far side of the river.

   We looked around for what was familiar, shared our memories, and took a lot of pictures.  We had our picnic of typical southern fare; fried chicken, pimento cheese sandwiches, potato salad, baked beans and apple spice cake.  Mom was busy filling her plate when a bird flew over and pooped on her head and her plate!  My sister and I got hysterical laughing about it.  There's never a dull moment when we get together.
   I hope we can keep this tradition going in the years to come. During the entire time that we were on our "big birthday adventure" there were no worries and no talk of problems.  We were just a family spending a Sunday afternoon together.
   I think we can all agree that this country needs more picnics.

Victimized By A Stalker

   This is a story that I have never shared.  There are only a handful of people that know it.  I don't know why but I have been embarrassed about it - I felt that I had caused it to happen.  That's a typical victim statement and I know better.  I have been the victim of a stalker.   The reason that I am talking about this now, 30 years later, is because I was recently stalked again - this time on social media.

   I had never set my Instagram to private.  I only share food and knitting pics so it never occurred to me to do so.   A lot of people follow me and most have shared interests. Earlier this week I noticed an excessive amount of likes and that a man had begun following me that seemingly had no shared interests.  He went back years hitting like on my pics.  That sent up a red flag THEN I got a private message from him.  Nothing threatening but it said "Good evening."  Why would he do that?  I panicked and texted my daughter, who advised me on how to set my profile to private and block this person.  I did this but it brought back memories of a stalker from back in the 80's that I had tried to put out of my thoughts.

   It all began with a phone call at my work.  This breathy male voice told me that he had never done anything like this before but he couldn't help himself.  He told me that he had seen me at the ball park and was attracted to me.  He said that he hadn't known my name or anything about me but he said that he had asked around and gotten my name and information about where I worked.  Back then we all had landlines and unless you had an unlisted phone number anyone could call you.  This was also before the days of caller ID. 

   This began a two year harrowing ordeal.  He would call my work and my home.  He never threatened but would tell me that he was obsessed with me and eventually told me that he loved me.  I know that he watched me because he would tell me where he had seen me, what I was wearing, describe who I was with.  It was terrifying.  One of the scariest moments was when he told me about seeing my kids and me in a grocery store in a town 15 miles away.  This prompted me to go to our local sheriff's office to see what could be done.  Since he hadn't made threats of any sort they just deemed it as harassment and basically told me he would eventually quit.  They said it was probably someone I knew playing pranks.  It continued for months.  I missed work one day due to illness.  My phone rang and it was him.  He said, "Why are you not at work today?"  I asked him how he knew that, thinking he had called my work.  He said, "I just drove by your house and your car is under the carport."  As sick as I was that day I called the sheriff's office and ask them to send an officer to my house.  At this point they took me seriously.  They ordered the phone company to put a "tracer" on my line.  They told me that I would have to keep him on the line for several minutes.  It took a few more phone calls but they finally were able to trace the number.  It went to an auto mechanic garage in a neighboring town.  A deputy made a visit to the garage but there were several employees and none admitted to the phone call.  But...this ended the calls.  I still lived in fear that something would happen and shortly afterwards I sold my house and moved away. 

I got these stats from Safe Horizon:  

 Nationally, 7.5 million people are stalked every year.

Approximately 1 in 6 women and 1 in 19 men have experienced stalking at some point in their lifetime.

   Stalking can happen to anyone.  I encourage anyone who is a victim of stalking to reach out for help.  Don't allow anyone to tell you that it's just a prank or it's not serious.  There is no "typical" victim and you did nothing to provoke it.  If I could go back to that time I would have pressed harder and told more people.  Maybe it would not have gone on for two years.  
 

I got his information from End Stalking In America, Inc.

The following list of the most common mistakes that stalking victims make has been taken from Understanding and Surviving America's Stalking Epidemic, a ground breaking special report by Linden Gross that teaches you how to avoid those life-threatening errors that too many other victims have made.

Not listening to your intuition.

You need to keep your internal radar tuned to pick up signals that something might be wrong.

Letting someone down easy, instead of saying a defintive NO if you're not interested in the relationship.

Trying to be nice can lead a potentially obsessive suitor to hear what he or she wants instead of the message that you're not interested.

Ignoring the early warning signs

that annoying attention might escalate into dangerous harassment and pursuit.

Responding to a stalker in any way, shape, or form.

This means not acceding to your stalkers demands even once he or she has introduced threats.

Trying to reason or bargain with a stalker.

Stalking is like a long rape.  Your natural reactions almost automatically put you at a disadvantage.

Seeking a restraining or protective order.

All too often, this one act propels stalkers to act violently.   Still tempted to get that piece of paper?

Expecting police to solve your problem and make it go away.

Even the Los Angeles Police Department's Threat Management Unit says that victims have to take 100% responsibility for their dealing with the situation.

Taking inadequate privacy and safety precautions.

Neglecting to enlist the support of family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, therapists and other victims.

It may be tough to admit that you're being stalked, but it's not your fault.

Ignoring emotional needs during and after a stalking.

Please take it seriously.  Your life could depend on it.

"Write it down in a notebook and we will talk about it in the car"

 

One of Ryan's notebooks that he kept in college.

  I grew up in a family of writers - not professional writers - just a family that valued putting pen to paper.  My mom kept a journal of every vacation that she and my dad took.  In later years she has written and co-written four books about growing up in Rush, AR and has a fifth book in the works.  My paternal grandmother, Granny Ott, wrote down everything and I mean everything.  We kids were encouraged to write.  We were given diaries and journals as gifts and while many of my first diaries were childish,  I loved to write down my thoughts.

   One thing I have learned from journaling is this; it will keep you from shooting your mouth off when you should keep it closed.  I have written about my anger, my fears, and worries or even just small misunderstandings.  I get it out of my system.  Later I go back and reread it. Sometimes it seems that whatever has upset me is so silly and I am glad that I never talked to anyone about it.  Other times the feelings are still there and I might feel compelled to talk to the person about it.  I haven't always adhered to my own advice to write things down before acting but lately I am trying to do so.

   When my kids were growing up I kept two small spiral notebooks in my purse.  If we were in a public  setting and they wanted to talk about something or someone I would hand them their notebook and a pen and say, "Write it in your notebook and we will talk about it in the car."  It seems like this most often happened at church.  They would scribble away in their notebooks and on the drive home and during our lunch I would listen to what was on their minds.  It has always been a running joke with us if we are out in public and see something "strange."  We will laugh and say, "Write it down in your notebook and we will talk about it in the car."

   My kids grew up to journal. I don't know if it was due to the spiral notebooks or just genetic.  Misty writes beautiful, poignant, and also humorous blogs.  Ryan journaled on his laptop.  After he passed away it was both comforting and troubling to read his thoughts. While it seemed like an invasion of his privacy it was heartwarming to find his thoughts on his love for his family.  Ryan was a songwriter and he kept notes about ideas and thoughts.  I still have a few of the kids spiral notebooks and they are important to me.  I encourage everyone to journal.  You never know when those journals will become something invaluable to you.

   Several years ago I felt compelled to blog.  I enjoyed sharing random thoughts with others.  It didn't become personal until we lost Ryan.  For a year or more I poured my grief out publicly.  I had to have an outlet.  Many grieving families found me through my blogs and we shared our grief and gave support to each other.  I lost "friends" over my grief blogs; "too depressing,"  "go to counseling."  But this I know - it's easy to be critical behind the safety of the internet.  In a face to face situation it's not so easy and there are some who should have "written their thoughts down in a notebook." 

   I am trying to return to more light hearted blogs. I have had a sudden interest in some of my older blogs about rural life and growing up country.  I think we are living in a time of fear and uncertainty.  Reading blogs about the "good ol' days" takes us back to a time when life wasn't so worrisome.

   A few of my friends have begun their own blogs.  I encourage them to write and I am anxious to read their stories.  I think it would be fun to pick a neighborhood - any neighborhood - and go door to door and ask them to tell you their favorite story.  What wonderful blogs or even a small book that would make.

   I leave you with this.  Don't be afraid to write.  Once the words start they will flow easily.

  

Back in the Hills

   I grew up in the country - really far out in the country.  It was a running joke among our school friends that our address was 40th and Pumb meaning 40 miles from nowhere and plumb out in the sticks.  Another joke was being asked if we had to have sunshine piped in to our house.  We took it all in good fun.  We loved our home and were secure in who we were - country kids.  My sister, brother, and I are the children of good, decent, hardworking people who wanted us to grow up to be good, decent, hardworking people.
   While growing up I didn't appreciate nature's beauty that surrounded me daily.  It was simply "home."  Our farm was surrounded by other farms and those farm families were friends of our parents and their kids were our friends and playmates.  Our families socialized often.  Most Saturday nights there was a card game at someone's house.  We kids would play outside until darkness drove us in.  There was always popcorn, koolaid, and chocolate cake.  Sometimes we had homemade ice cream or watermelon.
   We were never wanting for playmates and we had an entire country side in which to explore and play.  Rough dirt roads were our bike paths, stands of hickory and oak were our jungle gyms, and lazy flowing creeks were our swimming pools.  After a long day of playing it was time to head to someone's house for a snack.  It might be our house or someone else's house and the snacks were usually peanut butter, crackers and a glass of water but it tasted good to us.  Sometimes we found our own snacks - pears from our pear tree, blackberries, plums and huckleberries.
   As much fun as we had playing on our farms we had an even bigger playground at our disposal.  I grew up very near the Buffalo River.  It was not yet a national river so we had free rein to the joys of playing in the river.  This is where we learned to swim.  Our dads would hold us up as we learned to float and keep a close eye on us as we advanced from dog-paddling to swimming.  We laid on our bellies and drank cold water from an artesian well which we referred to as "the boiling spring."  We climbed on the bluffs and rocks and played king of the mountain and we watched for snakes - cottonmouths and water moccasins could be lurking about.
   My home was also in close proximity to the White River.  Its cold, fast flowing water wasn't meant for swimming but we could fish for the trout that were plentiful there.  Our dads would put corn on our hooks and help us land the fish.
   On many Sunday afternoons we would meet up with a couple of other neighbor families and head for what we called "back in the hills."  What this refers to is the rough, rugged, picturesque area that lies between the mouth of the Buffalo River and where it flows into the White River.  This is the land of my ancestors.  The road that led to the river was nothing more than an old wagon road.  We would load up a truck or two with all the kids in the bed of the truck - and yes we all survived to adulthood.  The trip took quite awhile because the road was so rough and we would be bounced and thrown around in the truck bed - but we loved it.  We would spot big lizards sunning on flat rocks. We might see snakes, ground hogs, squirrels and all sorts of animals.
   Once we got to our designated area - it could be Cedar Creek, Cabin Creek, or some other spot - we would spend the afternoon swimming, fishing and playing.  Our moms would unpack the picnic lunch they had brought and we would eat what we thought was the best tasting food ever.  As evening approached we would head back home.  Many times we were sunburned (who knew what sunscreen was), loaded down with ticks, chiggers, and poison ivy.  All this would be dealt with at home by being put in the tub with a little Purex thrown in.  Riding home we would point out constellations and the milky white spiral arm of the Milky Way.  We didn't know how fortunate we were.
   The time of our youth went by quickly and most of us left home to pursue our dreams. While I visited my parents' farm often I never returned to "back in the hills" until recently.  Forty three years had passed and I began to feel a pull to return.  The Buffalo River is now a national river and the National Park Service owns much of our old playground.  I wasn't even sure where it was allowable to drive or even walk but I was feeling a strong pull to return to the place of my ancestors.  My husband, who had never been there, and I set out one Sunday afternoon.  We began on the familiar road near my parents' farm but soon it all changed.  When had this road been smoothed and covered with crushed rock?  Who do all these homes belong to?  It was all changed and I found myself using Google Maps rather than my memory to navigate.  The vistas are still breathtaking, some of the big flat rocks are still visible but not much else looked the same.  I had wanted to point out landmarks to my husband but where was the Bonnie Blue Gap?  Where was Hathaway?  The old rock fence?  I felt robbed!  I went home so deflated.
   I felt sorry for myself for a while and then I had an idea. Why not make this trip again with my Mom. Her memory is sharp and she will be able to point out all the landmarks.  My brother has stayed in the area and been a part of the transformation of this area.  He will know where all the old childhood places are.  So now we have made plans and in a few weeks we will be making the trip back "in the hills."  I am eagerly planning my contribution to the picnic.  I will video my mom as we travel so that we will always have a record of the trip.  I hope someday to be able to bring my grand-kids and show them the places of my childhood - "back in the hills."