THIS BLOG NEEDS A NEW DIRECTION

                                         THIS BLOG NEEDS A NEW DIRECTION

                            

My cousin Richard has informed me that the only way to keep a beagle from wandering at will is -- and I quote "cripple him or fence him".  I tried the invisible fence. No go. So I have contracted to have a physical fence built to keep  bad boy at home. 

That being the case I need a direction for my blog. I have a new direction.

                                                       STUFF WRITTEN DOWN

“Write stuff down,” my son said.  “I tried to get Dad to do it. He didn’t. Now he’s gone and it’s gone too.” Oral history has fallen prey to mobilization and fractured families.  How many children live in the town, or even near the town of their parents?  To say nothing of  grandparents ,  aunts and uncles.  So I begin to write stuff down.

Much I do not need to rewrite for it is part of my e-book ALL ROADS LEAD SOMEWHERE  by Jewellee Cardwell, available from Amazon.  All the stories and all the scenes painted there are a part of my heritage. A few (very few) scenes  happened not to me but  to cousins or neighbors.  All however  were a part of the family and community of my childhood. Other stories can be told. Thus I begin.  Some will be of interest; others boring. Read and use as you will.  I begin with my earliest memories—either mine or planted as mine by repetitive accounts by my family.

                                                      SKETCHY EARLY MEMORIES

1. Our house in rural Claiborne County Tennessee was small- -  a kitchen with the wood burning stove, a dining room, a front room where my parents slept, and the small bedroom I shared with my sister Ivy. The cistern was just outside the kitchen door; the outhouse out past the smokehouse. In the dining room was a table with caned bottom chairs and a bench for Ivy and me.  Also in the dining room was Mom’s windup record player.  She kept the wind crank high up on a shelf out our reach.  Every night when she was not too tired from the toils of the farm work she would crank up her record player and play her favorite records.  Most were gospel songs, but not all. She had records out of Nashville.  As it ran down the speed slowed, the words stretched out into undecipherable syllables. She would lift the needle arm and when we said, “play more, Mommie”, she would say ‘nuff fer tonight.”