Authors: Justine Felix Rutherford
My great grandchildren Katie, Levi, and their father Aaron Miller still play the old Appalachian music. I love to hear Levi, who is twelve years old, play the fiddle and sing. Katie plays several instruments and sings as well. We have the greatest time when the family gets together. Our roots run deep!
Sticking Together
My family did a lot of things in order to “make it” after the Crash of 1929. The Depression lasted a long time. I was young, but I still have memories of those years. I remember how sad it was to see so many people having to go without the necessities they desperately needed. People back then were very proud; no one wanted others to know just how desperate they really were.
We were lucky to have lived on a farm. We always had enough food, and we were never hungry. However, we didn’t have too much variety at times. I remember visiting a family who had only biscuits with mustard for their evening meal. One of the girls said that she was glad they were having a cold snack for supper since she didn’t want me to know that was all they had. These were good, hard-working people.
My parents told us not to eat at certain homes because they didn’t want us to take food that those children needed. We really didn’t understand this, but I learned to look around for food. If I didn’t see any food, I would arrange to have a picnic with the kids. This picnic usually consisted of boiled eggs, tomatoes, biscuits and apple butter.
My parents paid for their farm during this period. I don’t know how they did it, but I know we worked from daylight to sundown with every one of us having chores to do. We saved every little thing. Nothing was ever thrown away. If there were any food scraps, they were fed to the animals. We always raised a big garden. We grew potatoes and onions that lasted all winter. We also raised corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, green beans, cabbage, peppers, and beets. We made pickles from cucumbers, kraut from cabbage, and relishes from various mixtures. Everything was pickled, canned, or dried. This food from the garden was supplemented with meat from wild animals such as rabbits, squirrels grouse, quail, fish, and turtles from the creek.
I remember the 410 shotgun that stood in the corner of the kitchen. My brothers loved to hunt, but they got only one shell each. My dad would tell them to be sure to bring back something with that shell. Occasionally they didn’t get anything, but the shell came back to be put in the shell box for the next time. My brothers were excellent hunters with the “gun.”
I remember my mother giving a man a half gallon jar of canned tomatoes to take to his family. He had to cross over our hill to get to his home. Later, when we were out after the cattle, we found the empty jar. My mother said that he must have been very hungry to have eaten a half gallon of tomatoes. I just thought about his family that didn’t get any.
There was a certain amount of stealing that went on during this time. When people stole from us, my dad would say, “I would probably steal too if my family was hungry.” I remember in later years talking to a man who held it against his mother for stealing a can of lard. I told this man, “You’re sick in the head to hold that against your mother. She was probably just trying to keep you alive!”
Those were hard times, but there were good times too. We were very close and took care of each other. I remember the pictures of the bread lines and the soup kitchens. We couldn’t afford a newspaper, but my mother’s sister always saved their newspapers for us. We kids especially loved the “funnies” from the newspapers. I very seldom saw a dollar bill. I always thought the dollar looked so magnificent with its special green color. I still love to look at paper money. If I could, I would take all the money I have, put it in “greenbacks,” and store it behind a glass wall so I could look at it.
One day, coming home from the grocery store, I found a folded up one dollar bill. I ran the rest of the way home, bursting through the kitchen door shouting, “Mom! Mom! Look what I found!” My mother looked it over and said, “Where did you find this?” I explained that I had found it in the road and that I had picked it up. She said that we couldn’t use it until we tried to find out who had dropped it near the grocery store. No one ever did, and I was allowed to keep the money.
I knew exactly where I was going to spend this money. There was a brown and tan pair of shoes in Lillian Gebhardt’s grocery store. I had been dreaming about those shoes. The only problem was that the shoes cost two dollars. Where was I going to get that extra dollar? I had four chickens that my mother had given me as babies which I had raised. I gathered up the chickens and took them to the store. Lillian said she would trade me the pair of shoes for the chickens and the dollar. However, she tried to discourage me from buying those shoes, but I persisted. Nothing would satisfy me but those brown shoes, and I proudly wore them home. A few weeks later, I wore my brown shoes, and they got wet. The brown color began to fade. Underneath the brown color the shoes were really white. I got so mad that I threw them away and walked home barefooted.
My mother made most of our clothes. She had an old Singer treadle sewing machine. I remember that almost every evening she sat at that machine sewing something. That old machine was the “King.” We kids didn’t dare touch it. The “King” had a wooden box that covered and protected it. When Mom lifted the box, it was awesome what she could produce from the “King.” She could take it apart and put it back together again. I remember watching her as she adjusted the bobbin with a hairpin. The bobbin looked like a bullet, and that fascinated me. The machine’s belt had been patched numerous times. Over the years, I can’t remember my mother’s ever getting a new belt. When Mom got finished adjusting everything, she gave it a shot of Singer Machine Oil. I don’t know what was in that oil, but it kept our household humming.
My mother never had a store-bought pattern. I would pick out something I liked from the Sears Catalog, and Mom would cut a pattern from newspapers to make my dress. The dresses were usually made from feed sacks, but sometimes for special occasions I would get a dress made from store-bought material that cost twenty cents a yard. Before I left home, I learned to sew on the “King” and made my own clothes.
A String of Beads
One year at Christmas time I got sick, and Mom wouldn’t let me go to the woods to choose a tree. I described my tree to my brothers. It was a beautiful cedar tree. The boys bought a tree and brought it to me. I was sure it wasn’t the tree I had picked out, but it was a tree. I put my tree up and decorated it. I thought it was beautiful! It didn’t matter that most of the bulbs had been used so much there wasn’t much color left on them. Also, the tinsel was so worn that it wouldn’t stay on the tree. We had made some decoration at school, and I put these on the tree. I sort of looked like a peppermint stick of candy. I thought it was grand!
I waited and counted the days until Christmas. I didn’t see any presents, but I thought my mother was hiding them. The days continued to pass with still no sign of presents. Finally Christmas Eve came. My mother brought out two little sacks. We looked at my brother’s first. He had gotten a car that had headlights on it. He was happy with his present. Then I opened my sack, and there was a little white box. There lay a string of the ugliest brown bead I had ever seen. I threw the box down and started to cry. “Is this all I get for Christmas?” To this day I can still see every little mark on those brown beads. I began to have a real tantrum. My brothers started kicking me under the chair. I didn’t understand why they were kicking me since I didn’t know my behavior was breaking my mother’s heart. My mother said that maybe it would be better next year, and she said to have some candy and fruit. It finally sank into my young mind that she had done the best she could do. Those beads cost ten cents. I was just a child, but I never forgot my hurt—or the hurt I had caused my mother.
Making “Shine”
One year we were having a rough time, and I overheard my dad and our neighbor Zack Nicely talking. They were discussing their plight and what to do about it.
My dad said, “We probably could make a buck by making some moonshine.” Zack said, “Walter, we probably will get caught, but if you’re game, so am I.”
My dad told my mother about his plans, and she said, “Oh, Walter, you don’t want to do this. What will the neighbors say?”
My dad replied, “I don’t plan on them knowing.”
I found out later that many people made shine during this period. I don’t remember how long my dad and the neighbor made shine, but my friends began to tease me about it. I felt very bad and ashamed. I talked to my dad about it, and he said, “Everybody has to live. You tell your friends you haven’t been on the ‘dole’ yet.” I did as he told me. No one ever said anything about making shine after that.
Roosevelt started several different projects to help people. I remember the signs on people’s windows. These signs were WPA, NRA, and CCC. My dad would work for the WPA, but he wouldn’t take any of the food from the government. He called it “dole” or government hand-outs. Dad was hired on the WPA, and he pounded rock on the roads of Spurlock Creek. He was a strong Republican, and so he didn’t last long. He got fired twice. I remember seeing him come up through the yard and my mother watching him. She said, “Walter, did you get fired again?” He and the Democratic foreman had a fight the last time he got fired. I remember his big black eyes. Politics were associated with strong feelings back then. My dad always told me to stand up for what you believe in. I have always tried to do that.
Sorghum Making
Another project that brought in a few bucks for my family was making sorghum molasses. We grew the cane on the farm. In the fall, the cane was cut and the leaves stripped from the cane, leaving a long slender stalk. It was hauled from the fields on sleds and stacked close to the sorghum mill. A fine fellow, Emory Call, owned a sorghum mill, and he brought it around to the different farms and made sorghum molasses from the cane.
The mill was a large, oblong tray with different compartments in it. The trays were filled with the raw juice from the cane crusher. It was run through a metal pipe and then into the trays. Mr. Call would stand for hours and watch the cooking molasses. A green foam formed on the first trays. Mr. Call had a long-handled strainer that would dip this up with and sling it into what was called the ‘skimming hole.” This was a large hole dug in the ground. The skimming hole was a sticky mess.
When it was done, the molasses would turn a deep golden brown. Mr. Call would pull up the plug and out would come the beautiful smelling molasses. I would stand as close as I could to Mr. Call when the molasses was about done for the first run-off. He would whisper to me, “Sis, it is just about ready.” He ran the molasses into a container just for us kids. We grabbed that container and carried it away along with our can stalks which were shredded on the ends. We dipped the stalks into the molasses and licked it off. This was great fun. We spent the rest of the day trying to push each other into the skimming hole.
When the molasses was cooked, it was run into quart and half-gallon metal containers. Mr. Call took a share for his pay. We kept a portion for ourselves, and the rest was sold. There were people waiting get the golden molasses. We would enjoy cookies and taffy made from our molasses. We had what was called a “taffy pull.” We invited our friends to a party where the molasses would be cooked again, and then butter, soda, and flour would be added to the mixture. When it was just right, the mixture was cooled. Sometimes we added walnuts. We then floured our hands and pulled the taffy into great long strips. Everyone would be laughing and joking. It was the greatest time. After it was pulled, the taffy would be placed on buttered plates where it would become hard. Then you could crack it and eat it.
Raising Turkeys
My mother always had her own money-making projects to help out. One of these projects was raising turkeys. Those turkeys were really amazing critters. Mom always saved a gobbler and a few hens from the year before. In the spring when it was time for the turkeys to lay, they always slipped away to lay their eggs. It was my job to follow the turkey hens, find their nests, and get their eggs. Mom didn’t want to take a chance on losing a turkey egg. That would have been like losing money. I remember following those old turkey hens. If they saw you following them, they would not go to their nests. They would lead you off in the opposite direction and then slip back to the nest. It wasn’t often you could out-smart a turkey. Sometime I would get so mad at those hens. It was always a big thrill to find the nest and be able to bring Mom the eggs. But I always had to leave one egg in the nest or the turkey hen wouldn’t lay there anymore.
After the turkey hen had laid so many eggs, she would then start to sit. We brought her in and put about fourteen eggs under her. She only got off the nest to eat and drink until the eggs hatched. A turkey hen turns her eggs every day with her beak.
Baby turkeys are hard to raise on the farm. My mother babied those birds more than she did me. After the babies grew to weigh about four pounds, they began to wander off into the woods. In a short time, they were staying in the woods, and they traveled for miles across the hills eating acorns and insects. Occasionally they would wander back to the farm, and we would feed them. In the fall the turkeys always came home. We had to catch them and put them in turkey crates to send to market. We never knew how many turkeys we would have to sell.
One of my friends asked me the other day, “Did you all eat a lot of turkeys when you were growing up?” I said, “Goodness, no! I can’t remember ever eating a turkey.” They were too valuable.
The Honey Bees
I have to write about the honeybees since they were an integral part of my life. Their fuzzy little bodies and painful stings visited my body in one way or another every week or so as a result of my stepping on them in the clover blossoms, crawling into bed with one of them hiding between the sheets, or finding one of them getting into my hair. The only good thing about a honeybee was that they could only sting once. I hated them terribly when I was a kid. I would catch them by the head and pull out their stingers.