Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Restaurant Review... "The Varsity", Atlanta, GA

Established in 1928, by Frank Gordy, The Varsity is most definately an Atlanta landmark that you MUST take visitors to when you visit this particular city.

It is touted as the world's largest drive thru on more than two acres and can accommodate 600 cars and over 800 people inside. On days when the Georgia Tech Yellowjackets are playing a home game, over 30,000 people visit The Varsity.

I have been to The Varsity quite a few times in my life, mainly when I was a teenager. At the time I loved it! Huge onion rings, chili dogs with slaw, cheese and onions all over it. Shakes, fries, and of course... Fried Pies!

You go up the counter where the men and women taking your order practically yell at you asking your order. Then they turn around and yell at the cooks, with lots of cute "code names" like when you go to a little diner. The conveyer belt bringing out the food was fun to watch too, I never figured out how the servers knew when to turn around and grab that particular item off the conveyer belt. I'm assuming it's part of that secret code chatter they're always throwing around.

Of course, part of the fun of the Varsity was that I was actually going into Atlanta, which was a rare treat in itself.

I have been back just once as an adult. The reason? Age has caught up with my gastrointestinal system!

And I discovered maybe I don't like the pressure of being yelled at (even in a nice way) to give my order right quick.

I happened to have an opportunity to venture to Atlanta a while back with my entire married-into family. Family that had never had the fine cuisine at The Varsity. I went on and on about what a landmark it was and how great the food is and what an experience it would be, etc. etc.

We pulled up, and yes, for downtown Atlanta, there was plenty of parking. We walk into this huge room, filled with tables, a huge counter to order at, at least 20 lines, fully staffed, to take orders, and a souvenier shop.

I take them up to the counter where every one of them appear startled that they're suddenly being yelled at by the man behind the counter. But we persevere and place our orders. We ordered chili dogs, chili burgers, fries, onion rings, orange shakes, and the final work of art, hand made fried pies.

The tray with the order comes and we grab it and find one of the many, many tables to sit at. They have different rooms with different channels on each one... CNN being a main room of course. But then I realize my possible error. Remembering the Golden Days of Youth, without realizing that perhaps you see things in a different way when young.

I am looking at food that you need an iron stomach for. The chili appears to give me heartburn just looking at it. The onion rings drip with oil. Everything looks limp and greasy and fattening.

I will honestly admit here that I did not enjoy the meal at all, but mainly because I was on a health kick and had recently lost a lot of weight. I was looking at 5 pounds and clogged arteries on a plate. No one else seemed to enjoy it either.

So I think the thought here is that The Varsity is a lot of fun to go to, a fine landmark, with a nice, loud atmosphere, but you need to go there with the thought in your head that you are going to enjoy the food, not count the calories.

Oh, and pack the Tums.

Sunday, August 27, 2006

Kudzu Kweens

I cannot say enough about the totally uplifting experience of drinking beer with one's posse, AKA "the girlfriends." Some wise old Southern lady at some time or another uttered this great truth: "It's good for the soul to cluck like a hen." Back when we were all young and homebound through kids and tradition, my session was a regular Friday after work meeting of great minds in somebody's carport to gripe about who'd done who wrong at work that week. It was a date that most didn't miss except for funeral home duty or sick children. That period of decompression was what helped us keep our sanity during the sobering reality of the rest of our crazy dang lives. Women who were born in the fifties and grew up in the eighties had it mighty hard, if I do so say myself. June Cleaver and Gloria Steinem make strange bedfellows for the men who love us. Our own mamas had grown up playing bridge together and fussin' over how hard it was to do it all, bless their hearts.

As the kids grew and got more busy, our schedules rarely included time to bask in the sisterly glow of that circle of friends who knows the deepest, darkest most disgusting secret tucked within that little heart. Next thing I knew my girlfriends were the mommas of my daughter's friends, and eventually they became my own southern sisters for years. Most still are. We split off and kept in touch when our teenagers started roaming from house to home and pillar to porch. One of us always knew what was up with the litter, thanks be to Jesus, Bill Gates and cellphones.

The threads that bind friendship are often very easily tangled during the younger years. Someone has a baby or dies or moves to Outer Mongolia with her serviceman hubby, leaving her buddies behind with a lingering feeling that someday....someday, they'll cackle together again, on the other side of that next big life event that looks so frightful. Mama said there'd be times like this, and she was right as rain.

My girlfriends and I have a regular meeting place, but the date varies according to the price of the brew and our respective life dramas at that point in time. Our rustic clubhouse is surrounded by Forked Deere River fed kudzu that creeps and crawls over the edge of the parking lot and up to the dumpster. Beverly and Terry own the place, bought and paid for with her retirement money. That bar has seen some history, I'm tellin' you. I suspect there's lots more coming up as long as the cast continues to gather there. One ladies night, there was a group there that had such an extensive collection of shared history that we decided to form a society of women-who-like-each-other and know how to have fun in a smartass genteel sort of way. Remind me to tell you about those gals...they're a hoot!

bev and terry

Survival – Southern Style

By Redoubt@ Sin City

Right off the bat, I am a dedicated, lifelong advocate of most all things southern. In my life, I’ve been fortunate enough to eat some of the best food, experience the best culture and learn the rich history of the US southeast. So when I hear anyone speak ill of my beloved homeland, I naturally attribute it to simple ignorance.

But now that I’ve secured my place in heaven by speaking those words, I have to tell you that as close as it really does come, even the south ain’t entirely perfect. There are some terribly dangerous things that can and will snatch a knot in your butt if you are not careful.

In a previous submission, we spoke to sandspurs and other painful life forms that grudgingly coexist alongside of us. Today, we’re going to have a gander at some strictly southern, but wholly man-made hazards. Please attend…

#1 - The Whole-Bird Chicken Sammich.

I have no idea who thought this one up but there are some eateries that will attempt to bust your choppers with chicken sammiches that come not only with the obligatory chicken but… with the bones still sprouting from it too.
When I was younger, we used to make cheese and bologna sammiches for our friends by leaving the plastic wrapper and red ring still attached. One bite and they got a whole slice of meat and cheese dangling from their mouths. It was a hoot!

But with these chicken offerings, if you are not careful, you can do some mighty serious damage to yourself. Now don’t get me wrong, the bird between the buns is usually pretty good eating but doggonit, that bone can be a killer on your teeth!

# 2 – Football Season in Alabama

Once a year when the University of Alabama and Auburn get together to duke it out in the Iron Bowl, you might just as well hang up your coat, take off your shoes and sit a spell. You ain’t going nowhere because the state officially closes up shop for about 3 hours that day.

Forget getting gasoline because the attendant is watching the game and you will not be able to dislodge him from it with a tire iron. Wait a minute, you might not even want to bring that tire iron in case the wrong team should score…

Forget getting an airplane ticket too, because all the security scanners are tuned in to the contest.

Really, just forget about doing anything except maybe drinking some beer and yelling really loud, using words and phrases that cause entire species of native wildlife to go extinct.

NOTE: Smart tourists just plan around this time to begin with or take appropriate action to survive by securing enough food and water for the duration.

# 3 – Fireworks

We here in the south take our gunpowder very seriously. Not only do we arm ourselves to the eyeballs with every sort of gun you could imagine, we like to put flame to firecrackers and bottle rockets as well.

Now, it should go without saying that our cemeteries are packed with generations of folks whose last words were typically, ‘Hey y’all, watch this!” So, knowing when to just walk away and then, knowing when to run is a definite plus.

For our yankee cousins, anytime you see a sign that advertises fireworks and then things like food or movies or fishing bait in the same breath, you should immediately get into your car and drive back as far north as you can.

Bubba – “I’ll have the Cold Cut Combo, a hundred Black Cat Mega Blasters and one of them things what looks like an artillery shell… oh, and an iced tea, please.”

Yes, southerners love their iced tea and are usually very polite. This means you do have enough time to get the hell out of there before this fellah demonstrates the proper way to both eat a sub sammich and collect on his life insurance policy.

Well, that’s enough for now. All that talk about chicken, cold cuts and gunpowder done made me hungry as a March bear. So, whilst you peruse the rest of this fine website, I’ll just mosey off to the kitchen to see if there are any of them fried pies left in the ice box.

Til next time, y’all!

Saturday, August 26, 2006

"Being Southern"


I was asked a question a while back, by a Northern friend, when it came out that I had not been born in a Southern hospital. I was asked the definition of "Being Southern" as so many people had told this particular person that Southern can also be a state of mind as much as geography.

So I thought about it quite a bit…. WHY am I Southern? What makes me Southern?

-----------------------------------------------

If you knew my early history, you wouldn't think I have a Southern bone in my body. But at times you can adopt a way of life fully and whole-heartedly and it becomes you. It did help that I moved to the South when I was young.

I was born in a Northern hospital to a couple from New York. Right there you'd be thinking, "That there gal ain't got so much as a Southern toe on her."

Wrong.

When I was 3, for some reason that I'll never understand my parents left The North and moved to Mississippi. I looked around me and, at a very young age, I thought to myself, "I'm home." I sucked up the Southern atmosphere, language, ideals and social rules. I managed to blend in so well that people couldn't believe it when they met my parents who were both distinctly Northern. They always thought I must be pointing to people behind those two.

I adored the South and the gentleness, politeness, caring for your neighbors, familiarity with everything around you. Even though I wanted to be thought of as having a brain and being "independent", I will admit to this day I adore Southern gentlemanly behavior. I love having the doors opened, the cuts in line you're given, the tip of the hat with an admiring look that comes your way. I love the respect that most Southern children are taught toward the adults. I will always be Miss Idgie in my neighborhood to the kids and they know it.

As I grew older I did realize that everything is not nirvana and that there were thoughts that could use some changing in this neck of the country, much like there are thoughts that could use changing everywhere. Racism was prevalent when I was younger. Polite racism, but there nonetheless. My parents didn't think along those lines though and I was raised knowing everyone was equal even if we looked different. I thank God that I was raised like that. They also raised me to believe that I, a female, could do anything I wanted in life. At the time, girls were still raised to be gentle, useless, pretty "Flowers of Womenhood" in large sections of the South.

When I was 18 I ran away from the South. I moved to the West Coast, where I worked very hard on hiding my accent (I never lost it, I hid it for years… but get me mad or a little too much to drink and Bam - there it was!). I can now pretty much speak two different ways, depending on who I'm talking to. I became "A Californian". When you're 18 you have strong ideals and thoughts, whether they make sense or not. Television and movies made mockeries of the South and I got sucked into that. I did not want to be from here.

But I soon realized the good things I was missing too. I now laughingly remember standing in front of a closed door out on the West Coast surrounded by people. I didn't realize it at the time but subconsciously I was waiting for a man to open the door, and the rest of the people were waiting for me to get the heck out of the way! The first time someone cut me off in line I was stunned. I felt very lonely in my nice, new, non-Southern city. I didn't feel that I would be dealt kindly with if I turned to a stranger and asked for assistance. I smiled at people and they turned their heads away, pretending that there was not a person trying to interact with them. I started to turn into that kind of person, a person too busy to meet others and share a minute of niceties and I didn't like it at all. Now, I'm not saying that everyone away from the South is rude, not at all, but I found people to be "busier" and more involved in what they were doing than in the South, where even an outing to the mailbox can become a social gathering.

On a positive note, I do feel that back then I was far too cloistered by my "whiteness". It was very instructional to learn and deal with so many other cultures, religions, etc. Made me even more tolerant than just listening to my parent's lessons and thoughts. Plus the discovery of all this other food in the world that's not fried and still tastes great!

Finally, a few years ago I talked my East Coast husband into moving to the South. Moving "home". I started whining and sighing and looking at books from the South and finally he said "Let's Go" and I had a realtor at the house that afternoon! We moved back to one of my old stomping grounds. I was in love, over the moon to be home.

I will admit that the South is a lot different today then when I moved away from it. It's definitely a melting pot these days and there is much more tolerance down here – or at least on the surface. It's faster paced too, not as much stopping to chat with everyone you meet, but if you dig down, you still find the old time Southern sensibilities and kindness here. There is still the sense of community and caring.

And if I ever move out of the South, I will never again deny my Southern-ness. My accent will stay, my happy stories will come out, I will talk about my life here. I won't ever be ashamed of it again.

Friday, August 25, 2006

The Amazing Story of Kudzu - on Video


"...an informative, whimsical look at a Southern icon."The Birmingham Post-Herald

In The Amazing Story of Kudzu you'll learn about kudzu's colorful past, present and future.

Travel from Chipley, Florida -- where Glen Arden Nursery sold kudzu plants through the mail in the 1920s -- to Covington, Georgia -- where Channing Cope crowned kudzu "king" in the 1940s.

Meet a 93 year old man who supervised Civilian Conservation Corps workers as they planted thousands of acres of kudzu during the Great Depression. See farmers who feed their livestock kudzu, cooks who create kudzu dishes, and artists who weave baskets and make paper from this hardy vine. You'll meet others who see kudzu as a nuisance and join one man's ten year long losing battle against one huge kudzu plant.

Ask any Southerner about this vine and they'll have something to say about it. They may love it or hate it, but they can't escape it!

The Amazing Story of Kudzu was originally broadcast on Alabama Public Television, as a part of the weekly series, The Alabama Experience. It was distributed to other Public TV stations nationwide in 1996.

The documentary was recorded at various locations in the states of Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Mississippi, North Carolina, and South Carolina where kudzu has had its greatest impact. The program was produced by Max Shores of the University of Alabama Center for Public Television & Radio. Videotapes may be purchased for $21.00 each using Visa, MasterCard, or Discover by calling:

1-800-463-8825 (Monday - Friday, 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., Central)

Mail orders send $21.00 check or money order to:
University of Alabama Center for Public Television & RadioP. O. Box 870150Tuscaloosa, AL 35487-0150

Monday, August 21, 2006

I Love Dixie Cartoon Strip

The "I Love Dixie" cartoon strip started out a while back, but has undergone revisions and it ready to bust out the door to a new start!

Go HERE to read the bio and send a blank email to: cartoon4u@getresponse.com to sign up to receive the weekly strip via email.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Home Remedies

My recent battle with some kind of nasty upper respiratory crud had me receiving all kinds of advice from some of the folks I work with, which reminded me of all the different home remedies I've learned of since moving here. Before I tell you about them, please note, I'm in NO way condoning trying any of this stuff, but people here in the North Carolina mountains swear by these remedies.



Sore Throat:
Take just a little bit of Vick's Salve (don't dare call it "vapor rub", they'll laugh you out of the county) and put it on the back of your tongue. Just let it melt real slow and run down your throat, it'll cure ya.

If you feel a cold coming on:
Rub some Vick's on your feet and put socks on over it before you go to bed. In the morning, you'll feel like a new person.

Cough:
For that nagging cough that just won't go away, there's a recipe for some special homemade cough syrup that's real popular around here. There's this plant that grows on hill sides and sometimes pops up as a weed in people's gardens, I don't recall the name. Seems like it's called wild tobacco or something. Anyway, you cut some leaves off and put them in the bottom of a jar. To this you add a couple cups of good Kentucky bourbon, a peppermint stick, and a couple tablespoons of honey. Not the store bought kind, it has to be "home grown" honey. Put the lid on the jar real tight and let it sit overnight. They say that if you sip on that, it'll cure your cough. At the very least, by the time you get to the bottom of the jar, you won't care if you're coughing or not. Sometimes you see old folks on the hillsides digging that wild weed up so they can take it home and plant it in their gardens so that they'll be sure to have it on hand.

Earache:
Putting a few drops of "sweet oil" in your ear will supposedly clear up just about anything that's going on in there. Everyone suggests I use it, but no one can tell me where to find it. It must be one of those hillbilly secrets. To remove fluid which has become trapped behind your eardrum, I've been told to roll up a piece of newspaper really tight, making a funnel. Stick the small end in your ear then light the other end on fire. They say this will draw the fluid out, in the same way that a chimney causes suction to pull the smoke out of the fireplace. Sometimes I think they just tell me this stuff to see if I'll do it. I can visualize me at the emergency room, all the hair burned off one side of my head, my face covered with ashes. The most common earache cure I've heard is the most disgusting. Apparently pouring urine in your ear will get rid of an earache. I guess, unless you happen to be a contortionist, you use a disposable cup. I'm not trying it. I don't care how bad it hurts.

Poison Ivy or Poison Oak:
One local newscaster swore by eating a leaf of either of these plants to build up a resistance to it. Sorry, not trying that either. Most folks around here keep lye soap on hand for those nasty rashes, the local stores can't keep it on the shelves in the spring. I've heard of other people pouring bleach on the outbreak, but that doesn't seem like a good idea. My advice, just don't go near the stuff.

A nifty product called "Soltice" is real popular around here. I'd never heard of it before, but it's good for just about anything that's wrong with you. People use it for headaches, muscle and joint pain, feeling lethargic, everything. It comes in either liquid or cream form, it's handy stuff. I'll admit I even broke down and bought some myself. I haven't tried it on the earache yet, there's a much better chance of that happening than the urine thing. Gross.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Ode to Kudzu

Kudzu.

You mainly only hear bad things about it.

People make mean faces and spit their chaw when they mention it.

The government has spent a billion dollars trying to get rid of it, only to discover that to kill Kudzu, you have to kill the entire national forest along with it.



I personally love Kudzu. It's only in the South, so it makes it "ours". Well, apparently it's in Japan too, but that's their problem.

People state that they hate it. That it's a menace to society and rural land. You see, for all ya'll unfamiliar with Kudzu, it is a vine. An extremely hardy, impossible to kill vine. It doesn't just grow up a side of a house.... it grows up the side of the house, over the roof and onto the other house without dipping down. Basically, it smothers whatever it grows on and over.

It does kill any tree it travels over as it smothers the light and air away from them. It does cover huge holes in the ground so that if you thought there was land underneath you and walked into a big Kudzu patch, you might fall 1,000 feet or so. Ya never know what's under it. And of course, no one would know you were under it either.

They found one thing that kills it - basically Agent Orange. Seriously, that's it. So we won't be seeing Kudzu go away anytime soon.

It was brought to the South by some Yahoo for erosion issues on hillsides. He is now on the same list as the guy that brought bunnies to Australia.

Yah, THAT list.

If anything stands still long enough - the Kudzu grows over it. Kudzu can grown at the rate of one foot a day, in prime condition. Heck, pour acid over it and it will only slow it down to 3/4 foot a day.

But I personally consider Kudzu a beautification device used only for us in the South. You see, we in the South tend to get a lot of junk. Wrecked cars, deserted mobile homes, dead barns that refuse to fall down, abandoned houses, etc. Well, no one ever deals with this stuff and it just....sits there. But not if the Kudzu gets to it!

Leave it alone for a couple of years and you'll never know it's there! Kudzu is the great, "back to nature" weed. Soon, there is no sign of the dilapidated mobile home that caught fire after Uncle Buckeye built a BBQ too close to the vinyl siding. Yes'm, soon it's a patch of.......ivy stuff. So natural and untarnished. A fine piece of nature.

Now I never, ever, ever step into Kudzu. God knows what's under there. If there's anything under there at all. Some child hid in the Kudzu for 2 days last year and I can't believe anyone ever found him. He obviously never read the story I did about the tiny rat-faced people with spears that live in there. Creepy. I will admit I could probably hear screams in there and would think that person was in for a tough road.... tut tut and then I'd run like hell.

But I think it's really quite pretty as you're driving along not looking at a bunch on junk on the side of the road. You're looking at a natural hedge of beauty... no burnt trailers, no barns falling down, no 1953 Ford that's been there since Aunt Bea forgot that it needed gas to actually run.

I read an article about Kudzu, and this gentleman was complaining that it grew over his car and he had to hack the Kudzu away so that it didn't completely hide the car. Well, all I can say to that is, "Darlin, if the dang car ran and wasn't a giant paperweight for your comic book collection, you wouldn't have this problem."

So leave me my Kudzu. I love it as only a South'ner could. I only see the good.

(I think the North is jealous!)


Go here for a Kudzu education.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

New Book Review!

Go to Book Reviews and check out Belle Cantrell!

By Virtue of a Vidalia



Written By: Cappy Hall Rearick

Tears, sweet and tender, are rolling down Babe’s cheeks. Why? Because it is the merry month of May and, for any Georgian worth his salted peanuts, that can mean only one thing: a new crop of Vidalia onions.

No more parceling out of last year’s leftovers that have been hanging under the house in a knotted-up pair of pantyhose. No more settling for Texas imports with their bulbous yellow skins. The coming of May means that the great state of Georgia, too often overlooked by the rest of the country, moves front and center to become Old Glory’s Star of the Month.

On the day the truck from Vidalia pulls up to the back door at Winn Dixie, Babe is there, a proud picture of a Pennsylvania Yankee turned Georgian, resolute in his quest to purchase the first onion that puts Georgia on everybody’s mind. Standing at attention in front of the truck, he couldn’t look more Southern if he was wearing one of Robert E. Lee’s hand-me-down uniforms. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him salute the driver and holler out, “Forget, Hell!”

When Babe crunches into his first Vidalia onion of the year, it is as close to a religious experience as he can get while chewing. Eating is his passion. He makes sounds. “Ummm! Ummm!” His eyes roll heavenward. “Aaaahhhh! Ummmmm!”

Cooking for Babe is truly a joy. That’s saying a mouthful coming from someone whose kitchen claim to fame is the ability to cook a pot of grits seventy-five percent of the time with no lumps.

I can see him now munching a sandwich made with half-inch thick slices of his first Vidalia on white bread, smeared with what looks like a quart of Dukes Mayonnaise. The sounds he makes might be more at home in the X-rated section at Blockbusters.

“Describe it for me, Babe,” I say. “Your sounds are making me blush.”

He shakes his head, too overcome with epicurean delight to risk blaspheming the sacred moment.

“Would you like a bowl of soup to go with your sandwich?” I am playing Martha Stewart in hopes of shocking him out of his self-imposed stupor.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head ever so slightly. Had I not been watching for some sign of consciousness, I would have missed the only bodily movement he has made since he crunched down on his first bite.

“Ice tea?” I venture. “Babe, I can’t cook worth a diddly squat, but you know yourself when it comes to retrieving ice, I rank right up there with the Eskimos.”

I suspect he has drifted into Yen City since I can see no other discernible movement save the slow, deliberate up and down maneuvering of his jaw. If he would only open his eyes, I could check out his pupils.

Looking over his shoulder, I notice the open pantry door and I sigh audibly. “Babe, you’ve bought Vidalia Onion mustard, green and yellow Vidalia Onion pickles, three kinds of Vidalia Onion barbecue sauce and that awful tasting Vidalia Onion salad dressing. Enough is enough! Don’t you agree?”

He appears to be slowly emerging from his spell as his eyes turn to meet my gaze. The hand holding the obscenely thick sandwich slowly moves away from his face. He tilts forward. I lean into him, straining for a good look at those pupils. That’s when he opens his mouth to speak and the reek of onion comes close to blowing me away.

I have no problem now understanding why he makes those obscene sounds. “That particular onion,” I tell Babe as I back out of the room gasping and fanning the air around me, “has been holed up in somebody’s root cellar since Sherman lit up Atlanta.”

Grinning slyly, he gives me a mock salute, takes another bite and goes,

“Ummmmmm! Ummmmmm!”

Tuesday, August 1, 2006

The Barn


Will Rogers said “I never met a man I didn’t like”.

I have never met a barn I didn’t like.

The old barns that we see today were one the most wonderful places on earth. They were here, not only for their practical purpose, but for children to form memories of times past and to form character that led you into adulthood. Barns, like people, are all quite different; they each have their own distinct look and personality. There are no two alike. Barns weather all four seasons, looking forward with anticipation to the next season for each one brings its own bounty to be stored within. They are built on strong foundations, which have carried them through years of keeping families together. Families of people and families of animals.

Granny’s barn was the one place I so looked forward to spending time in. Time all by myself to get in touch with my own mind, or to get away from my mind, to figure things out, to cry, to rest or to laugh. The big double doors in front hung a little askew on hinges that had been forged on an anvil long years ago by someone unknown to me. They would swing wide, like open arms to welcome you in for whatever reason you were there for. Never refusing you, never failing to give you comfort and never failing to leave an indelible memory that would follow you throughout the rest of your life.

Affluence back then was measured in how many barns you had. If you had a stock barn, an equipment barn, a tobacco barn, a hay barn, or combinations of all the above, you were considered wealthy. Our one barn incorporated all of the above. The foundation timbers had been leveled long ago on huge boulder like rocks for the cornerstones. Most of the timbers were oak that were 2-3 feet thick, worn slick over years of wear, barkless and hard as the rocks they were sitting upon. There were notches cut out for the cross braces. Some of the nails were also hand forged, especially the older parts of the barn. The sides of the barn were weathered and gray sawmill lumber that had hung there and aged through the years. Some of the wood had become so hard it was near impossible to drive in a nail, the nail would just bend double the first time you hit it with a hammer. There had been additions hammered onto the existing barn as funds and needs permitted. There were stalls with half doors for the horses and a stall for the cow. The pig pen was attached part inside and part outside. Most of the time the other animals were allowed to come and go as they pleased. Sometimes they could be found in their stall resting when the sun was unbearably hot or when the ground was frozen and a foot of snow on the roof. We kept fresh hay for them to lie on, cleaning it out each day or every other day with a pitchfork and putting the muck in a manure pile out back to be used on the crops next spring. The cow had a calf each year and there was a stall for the calf when we separated it from its mother. Granny had a galvanized bucket with a rubber “udder” near the bottom that would be filled with fresh milk from its mother. That way, there was a bucket full for him and a bucket full for us. The calf would butt and pull on that false udder to try and get more milk out. I loved to watch them do that. When the calf got big enough to be weaned from the “udder” bucket, it would be taken to the stockyard and sold, then we would have fresh milk until the next year when the old cow went “dry” and we had to take her and get her another calf so we could begin getting milk again. The cow stall was where we milked and went through all the trials and tribulations of that event. The smell of the stalls was never distasteful to me; it seemed a comfort to be in there with the animals.

Beside the big front doors was a section to store tobacco sticks. These were 6’ long oak 2x2 inch sticks that had been used year after year until they were smooth as a baby’s behind, no splinters or anything to be rough on your hands come tobacco cutting time. They had been used for many years to spike the ripe burley which would be hung between the tier poles to dry. There was a tack room where all the bridles and harness were kept, mended and oiled. This was the one room that had a wooden floor with 4 inch wide oak boards that were also worn slick by many years of use. The horse shoes and horse shoeing tools were kept in there. One of the work horses feet were so big, the hooves had to be trimmed with an axe, a regular hoof knife wouldn’t budge them. The smell of neets foot oil, saddle soap and leather polish penetrated the age old boards in the tack room. The floor of the barn was dirt, packed from years of use. It was swept occasionally when the barn was empty of hay or tobacco. Above the stalls was a loft where the hay was stored, timothy, fescue, oats and combinations of all three. The absolute best place in the world was lying up there after a fresh cutting of hay had been baled and brought up there. One of our horses, old John, would wait in the barn when we were putting up hay and sneak a bite as the bale went by him on its way to the loft. The smell of new mown hay was a happy smell. When all the hay had been ricked, I would make a little tunnel between the bales. The tunnel would wind its way back behind rows of bales. I then moved the bales around to make a little hidden room. I could pull the bales in behind me and just hide and think. It was a great place to pretend, to dream, to escape or to just lie and look through the cracks at the world around me. There were holes above the animal stalls leading to feed troughs in the stalls below, so all you had to do was go up to the loft, cut the bale and put the slices down for the animals.

The other side of the barn was row upon row of tier poles. These were poles of young trees that had been cut and stripped. They were all about the same diameter and the same length. They were spaced an equal distance apart and they went all the way to the top of the barn. Come tobacco cutting time, the stakes of tobacco would be brought into the barn and handed up to a person stationed on each tier, filling up the top of the barn first. There the tobacco would hang, turning from yellow to brown and curing as the autumn winds swirled through the barn. Further on into the fall, we waited until the right time for the tobacco to come in “case”, at which time, the hanging process was reversed, only starting at the bottom of the tier and then taking the load of burley to the casing house. Being in “case” meant the leaves had cured and contained just the right amount of moisture so it could be handled easily without being brittle and breaking apart. The casing house was a small separate structure that was used to hand grade the tobacco and get it ready for market. The bottom part was made of rock (remember we grew an abundance of rock each year on the farm) and was set into the side of a hill. The back side of the casing house was dirt, as was the floor. The upper story was built of chestnut lumber. This was where the tobacco was packed on packing crates and kept until all was ready to take to market. The lower story was damp and the tobacco would stay in case so it could be handled easier. The leaves were stripped from the stalk and the tobacco was “graded”, according to the size and quality of the leaves. The leaves would be gathered in your hand, ends together, for as long as you could hold them in one hand without dropping any, then the ends were bound with another leaf and they were placed in the tobacco crate and readied for market. Thus comes the reason I never smoked but one cigarette in my whole life. I decided one fine day I would make me a cigarette and start smoking. It was really cool to smoke. I had seen mama and papa and all my uncles with cigarettes and granny with snuff, so it seemed like a good time for me to start. Uncle Ed had his tobacco in a flat, red Prince Albert can. He would take a real thin piece of white paper, sprinkle some Prince Albert on it, roll it until it was about as big around as a pencil, then lick the paper to hold it together. My mind absorbed most all the details, so I figured I could do it without any problem (I knew everything back then, don’t you know). I took a good looking brown leaf off a stalk of tobacco hanging in the barn, crushed it up and wrapped it in a brown paper bag. I even licked the ends of the paper to hold it together (but the thing turned out to be much bigger than a pencil so I knew I had to practice more). This being done, I hid in one of the stalls and “fired up” my rolled cigarette. It wasn’t long before I was green as a gourd and the absolute sickest I have ever been in my entire life. When I finally made it back to the house, after fearing I was going to die before I got there, I feigned the flu or the plague or some other such disastrous illness. It took me about three days to get over that error in judgment. I told myself “self”,” “Anything that makes you that sick is bound not to be good for you”. Granny gave me a cure all dose of castor oil anyway. I don’t think I had her fooled for a minute. I have been smokeless ever since.

We never painted our barn, it was just the plain gray boards, weathered and warped and some replaced. The roof was tin. Rainy days were wonderful lying on the hay and listening to the rain on the roof, maybe brushing the horses while they nibbled. The barn was used for storage for seasonal items that weren’t used year round, like the molasses mill, the cider press, the tobacco canvas and the yoke that fit around the cow’s neck to keep her from jumping the fence. It was sometimes used as a home for the barn owl and the barn swallow. Sometimes you would see a barn with “See Rock City” painted on the side. I think the Rock City owners paid the farmer a pittance to paint this advertisement on their barns.

Are barns built from a set of blueprints? I don’t think so. I never heard of them if there were. No matter what part of the country you travel to, each demographic has its own unique style to their barns.

Now the farms are slowly dying, not being able to sustain themselves any longer. They are giving way to developers who build mirrored McMansions that have no personality. As we travel the roadsides, we can see that usually the barns are the last to go. Maybe they think if they cut all the trees down and leave the barn; it will seem to be more “rural”. It breaks my heart to see that. The barns are standing there, all alone and abandoned. It is like destroying a piece of history, a piece of the framework that built us into what we are today. The barns are sad, they have lost their families. Their families of horses, cows and people. The stray chickens are gone. Gone is the day an old hen would break away from the chicken house to nest in the barn or to roost on one of the tier poles.

Folks love to photograph old barns and to paint old barns on canvas; but unless you were there in the time when the barn was an essential part of life, you cannot add the personality that the barn emits. The photo or painted canvas lacks the soul and heart and memories that the barn has stored for all these years. Those of us who have been blessed to have spent part of their lives with a connection to a barn have grown closer to the land, to the environment and have learned that the biggest and newest is not always best.

Written by : Judy Ricker