In 1974, my mother Oma Bragg O’Bryan wrote a book of poems, WHERE I LONG TO GO. This essay is from her book, my memories, and her stories.
My parents, Oma Bragg and Travis O’Bryan, grew up in Summers County, Mom on Chestnut Mountain, and Dad in the valley of Hix. Mom’s parents were Lanie and John Bragg. After they were married, they bought several acres, maybe 100 plus, on top of a mountain. The gently rolling terrain was favorable to farming. Pastures provided grass for the cows and hogs. Pigs and calves were born during the spring. Then, they grew up. Grandma had her chickens closer to the house where eggs were collected daily. A grapevine wove a canvas over the wooden trellis. Underneath was a swing that would seat a couple who were sparking or Oma hiding from her siblings.
On the front porch was a large swing that would hold four of the nine siblings. From there, one could see across a meadow to the road. I remember each time we drove over that road, the oil pan of the car dragged over the rocks. Once on the Bragg property, the road was covered with shale. We passed the road on the right that led up through the woods and to the Bragg Cemetery. In one corner was a tall pine tree. Today, my Aunt Mogene Dobbins and her son Greg Bragg take care of the cemetery. Very few people have been recently buried there.
The house was perfect for the Bragg Family. Just inside the front door were the stairs to the attic. That is where the children slept. I remember sleeping on the corn shucks mattress covered with one of Grandma’s many quilts. Mom would sit with us and tell the stories of the patches: This was the dress I wore on my first day of school. This tan patch came from Grandad’s church-going khaki shirt and pants. A long, black tie finished his outfit. Pearl’s dress had been navy blue with pink polka dots. The blue and white stripes patch was Irene’s. Pauline wore the dress with the soft white square. That quilt with the squares stitched together represented lives of the mountain. Also, upstairs were the vegetables and flowers drying through the fall: pumpkins, onions, goldenrods, acorn squash.
One of the two bedrooms off the living room were for my grandparents. A feather mattress covered the bed, and the “thunder bucket” was nearby. The other bedroom was for guests. It was used for the casket when the wake for my Great Uncle Fred was held at the house.
In the living room under the window was a table with the radio where my grandparents listened to Billy Graham. The pot-bellied stove in the middle kept the house warm during the winter. The pipe went up to the roof through the attic and warmed that attic bedroom. On one wall was a sofa with a picture, “The Lone Wolf” on the wall above it.
Walking to the kitchen, we passed through the dining room with a cot on the left. The big table with ten chairs was to the right. All meals were eaten there. When we were little and crying, Grandad would cup his hand under our eyes and say, “Cry me a handful.” After breakfast, the bacon and biscuits would stay on the table. At lunch, ham and fresh vegetables would have been added. Supper would come from any food on the table. The food on the table was never called “left-overs.” All just contributed to the meals of the day. Because the food was fresh, there was no concern about its going bad. It would be eaten before that ever happened.
The kitchen was on the back. My first memories included watching Grandaddy carrying buckets of water from the spring below the house. Later, a well was dug near the house. The large wood cookstove in the corner heated the room. Grandma made biscuits every morning. She had a dishpan filled with flour. For each biscuit, she put in a little milk and a little lard and patted it out. The leftover biscuits were as good as the fresh ones.
A long sunroom was on the side of the house. Plants filled the room during the winter. Did you notice that there was no mention of a bathroom? Several feet from the house was the outhouse. The 2-holer was down from the house near the chicken coops. Inside was an old Sears catalogue with its soft newsprint pages that served as toilet paper. One time, I asked my granddaughter Kate what it was. She looked at me with her “Don’t you know, Grandma? expression,” and said, “It’s a PortaPotty!” Later, Pearl, one of the daughters, paid for a bathroom to be built at the end of the sunroom. The free-standing shower made a great place to hang clothes. I don’t remember that room ever being used as a bathroom. Baths were in a large, round tin tub.
To you who are reading this, please write your memories down. I taught and was a counselor in middle and high schools. In later years, I found that many children did not know where they were from (your memories). Consequently, they didn’t have a solid foundation for living in the present. They were having a hard time planning their future. I was fortunate that Mom and her family shared their past through stories, both written and spoken.
Here is Mom’s poem Chestnut Mountain from her book WHERE I LONG TO GO.
Way out on the Mountain
To a place called home
Many days were spent all alone.
How memory still lingers
And stores in a room
All that took place
As childhood slipped too soon.
Now, I can return
Anytime, you see
And pick where I earned
Great treasures that God held for me.
Yes, we all know
Changes will come
To us all someday
Yet, quicker to some.
And how I remember
The hours I spent
As twilight came nigh
And fast the time went.
It really isn’t sad
As I stop and really see
What memory holds
And brings back to me.
