Grandma’s Hills in Her Youth – Part 1

5 Sep

After a busy summer I am ashamed looking at how few times I have posted. I am currently trying to get back in the swing of things and found something my great-grandma wrote about her home in the hills while she was a youth. Here you will find part 1, check back soon for part 2.

Remember this depicts her original writing. I have not edited any of it, so some parts may be hard to understand even so she paints such a vivid picture of her hills and home that it is easy to put yourself right in it.

Our home was on a hillside a few feet from the Osage river, on its banks were the twisted old Burr Oak tree, many maples, a wide spreading Butternut, Paw Paw and Willows were close by also the Red Bud and Dogwood.  A road winding it way down a steep hill, you could look around you and there were hill and more hills, and always the river talking as it traveled to the sea.  It was a paradise for us children, than it was just home, but no I knew what it meant to be brought up in those calm and silent hills.  Many people today would give all they had to live in them hills.  A school path up the creek out of our hills was a lovely walk in fall, the winter and again in the spring.  In the fall in our hills the sky was a deep burning blue, a tang of wood smoke, ripe wild grapes, red, yellow and specked apples, the wild asters and golden reds were in bloom, along the path in the woods, the cosma’s and zinnias were in bloom in my mothers old fashion gardin, enclosed with a pailing fence the pailing boards made by my dad with a froe.  Ripe tomatoes and late sweet corn with bushels of corn-field beans.  Whipper will and blackeyed peas, late water-melons and the golden banana muskmelon.  All waited for us as we came home from school smoke curled upward from the chimney of the house, gray wisp on a clear evening as we neared home we knew our mother was stirring bug pans of wild grape jam and jelly, apple butter and peach butter too.  The old smoke house roof would be covered with apples and peaches drying in the sun.  Those were the happy years, but you have to be in your golden years to know how wonderful and happy we were all together and not many heartaches.

Helen – 1973


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