The Country Store and Christmas

Before I begin today’s topic of the former Country Store and its part in helping people to celebrate Christmas, I have another correction to make. Setting the record straight is important to me. I appreciate so much Mrs. Shirley Summerour Brackett writing and calling me to tell me that she was a member of the Class of 1951, the last one from Union County High School to graduate from the eleventh grade (as was my brother, the late Bluford Marion Dyer). Shirley reminded me that there was not a graduating class in 1952, but in 1953 the first class graduated from the twelfth grade. I’m sorry for my “arithmetic” being off by a year, and my not allowing for the time needed to get that Class of 1953 through the added grade. Thanks, Shirley, sister of my classmate, Kathryn Summerour Bachelor (Kathryn and I were in the Class of 1947, four years before the twelfth grade was instituted).

Now to some thoughts on how the country store of long ago helped neighborhood people have a happy Christmas.

My best remembrance of a country store was one operated by my maternal grandfather, Francis Jasper Collins, better known as “Bud.” My first recollection of his country store was of a large, rambling building right on the road, now named Liberty Church Road. The outside of the store building was gray and weathered.

A set of scales sat on the porch. On these scales, my Grandfather and my maiden aunts, Avery and Ethel, who worked as clerks in the store, weighed the live chickens that country people brought to barter for goods. After weighing the chickens (in coops), and subtracting the weight of the coop, the clerks calculated how much “money” was available for trade. They turned the chickens loose in a pen lined and ceiled with chicken wire at the side of the store. There the chickens would be fed and watered until Grandfather went to Gainesville to trade them for a load of goods for the store.

I’m not sure when this old gray building was torn down and a new smaller store building built closer to the house. Seeing the old storehouse go seemed to me, even as a young child, to be the passing of an era. I loved that old store building with its long counters and all the merchandise that sat on the shelves to be purchased by people who brought chickens and eggs, tanned skins of animals, chestnuts, chinquapins, and sorghum syrup to be traded for “store-bought” goods. The barter helped them to get coffee, sugar, salt, baking powder, spices, shoes, and yard goods from which dresses and shirts were made by industrious housewives of the community. Men’s overalls, work shirts and socks were part of the inventory. And the glassed-in candy counter boasted chocolate drops, sugared orange slices, and peppermint and licorice stick candy in boxes or to be purchased for a penny by the stick! What an enticement this array of candy was to my young eyes! I can remember Grandfather reaching into the counter and getting a chocolate drop to give me, even if I didn’t have the penny to pay for it.

The “new” store had a front porch as well, with the usual scales to the left of the entrance door. The chicken pen was attached to the right side of the store, outside. In my young eyes, the procedures at the “new” store had not changed much. But the building itself was smaller, perhaps handier to the house so my aunts would not have such a hill to climb as they did getting to the old store when the cowbell, hanging outside the door, rang to announce the presence of customers (for the store was not open all the time, but just when someone needed its services).

I remember with fondness the time I was allowed to go to Gainesville in my Grandfather’s truck. Garnie Fortenberry was the driver for Grandfather Bud’s trips. My father, J. Marion Dyer, was going on this trip, and wonder of wonders, at age about six, I was allowed to go along, sitting on my father’s lap all the way across Neal Gap, by Cleveland, and on to Gainesville. The trip could be accomplished in a long day, before sunup until sundown, in the truck. Before the opening of this highway (129) in 1925, the trip by wagon over the Logan Turnpike and Tesnatee Gap had consumed a week’s time. But we were now “modern,” with a narrow paved road and in Grandpa’s faithful truck.

I had never ridden over Neal Gap before, nor had I ever been to the city of Gainesville. I was not prepared for how “car sick” I became that morning as the truck rumbled along the mountainous road. Dad told me to close my eyes and not watch the scenery that seemed to be moving as the truck chugged along, loaded with coops of chickens, cases of eggs and other items to trade in Gainesville as Grandfather bought merchandise to replenish his store. We stopped a couple of times along the way at homes of people my Grandfather knew. At Ravan’s on the south side of Neal Gap, and at another house south of Cleveland.

I shall never forget that day in Gainesville. While Grandfather and Garnie went to Parks Wholesale and other dealerships around Gainesville, my dad “showed” me the town. He took me to see my first-ever moving picture show. It was a western, the title of which I can’t recall. I thought the horses on the screen were going to come right out and run over us as we sat in the theater. Then we went to Woolworth’s “Five and Dime” store on the square. There we ate at the lunch counter, where I got my first taste of Coca Cola (I didn’t like it then!) and a toasted ham and cheese sandwich. Dad let me shop, limiting my purchases to $1, from the laden counters of Woolworth’s treasures. From the small amount of my allowance, quite a bit in 1936, I purchased a locked diary and pen for myself and a small toy car for my little brother, Bluford. When he got a little bigger, we could also both play with the set of pick-up-sticks that finished out my purchases.

This trip was near Christmas, and Grandfather had remembered to buy some simple toys like China dolls and Chinese checker sets which the country folk could buy for holiday gifts. He also found a variety of hard candies for his glassed-in candy counter in the new store. There were also bags of oranges and mixed nuts which he would sell for Christmas treats.

It did not seem to matter at all to the children of Choestoe community when they awoke on Christmas morning to find their stockings containing an orange from the Collins country store and nuts like pecans and English walnuts not grown in the woods near their homes. Somehow, Santa had been helped along with his magical bag by stopping at the country store to replenish his gifts.

Overabundance was not a concept we knew in those days. But the necessities of life were somehow available, thanks to the efforts of persons like Grandpa “Bud” Collins who ran a country store. With the gifts received, we felt a deep appreciation and a sense of wonder and surprise. Little was much when love was in it.

May your Christmas be filled with joy transcendent and may 2007 bring you renewed hope.

c 2006 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Dec. 21, 2006 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The poor man's friend (A story of Christmas past)

The wind whipped around the side of the boxcar as Cyril Townsend jumped from the open doorway. He hoped none of the railroad workers at the Blue Ridge, Georgia depot would see him as he alighted. He had boarded the northbound train in Atlanta under cover of early morning darkness without benefit of ticket.

In fact, if he had been caught as a stowaway, he might have been immediately returned to state prison where he had spent the last three years of his life. He did not want another prison sentence, especially one not deserved. Because he would not turn state's evidence, he had been blamed for a crime he did not commit. Three years of convict labor was enough to do him for a lifetime. But then again, loyalty to friends was a long suit he wore with pride, even during the burning days of summer and the frigid days of winter as he worked on the chain gang.

The year was 1910. The time was December 24, Christmas Eve. Cyril Townsend had lost track of time, but he learned the date as he read the headline of the paper in the Atlanta depot. He was eager to get back to the mountains of North Georgia. Maybe there he could find refuge and some work that would help him to get readjusted to his freedom.

As he moved nonchalantly through the regular passengers that alighted from the train in Blue Ridge, he could not help but note their apparel, warm and appropriate for the winter weather that even now threatened snow. Most of them had trunks that were unloaded from the baggage cars. Black porters from the local hotels and some servants from the more notable residences in Blue Ridge were there with carriages to meet the travelers.

Others waited to board the train for its journey on to Murphy, NC and into burgeoning towns in Tennessee. "Coming home for Christmas or going away for Christmas," Cyril Townsend said to no one in particular. His main aim was to keep away from public notice and gain a little perspective about his next move.

He was hungry. And cold. What would he do for food? Steal again? He did not relish the recollection of stealing from a clothesline down in Georgia the overalls and shirt he wore or the coat he had found hanging across a seat in the Atlanta depot. He was too near home to risk arrest from stealing, a practice his upbringing had always taught him was wrong. Even the dire circumstances he had been in did not calm his conscience from the thefts he had committed.

He decided to go to the back door of the Blue Ridge Hotel. Maybe there they would have a handout of leftover food for a starved traveler. As he approached the rear of the hotel, he was met by a large black man. Dared he ask him for food? He hoped he would not get the porter into trouble by doing so. Cyril devided he wouldn't lose anything by asking.

"I've come a long way and I don't have any money to buy food," Cyril Townsend said. "Do you have any leftovers in the hotel kitchen that you could give to a poor, starving traveler?"

"We've just had a big banquet," the hotel worker said. "Wait a minute. Sit here on the porch and I'll bring you a plate."

Within minutes the porter returned with a steaming plate of ham and yams, cranberry sauce and beans, bread and hot coffee. Cyril Townsend bowed his head in gratitude and thanked the Lord for such provision. This act o fkindness was restoring his faith in mankind. Maybe life on the outside of prison wouldn't be such a hard road, after all. He thanked the porter for his kindness. After eating, Cyril decided to wander back to the railroad depot.

No sooner had he walked to the rail yard than he saw a farmer with a covered wagon. The farmer was unloading gallons of sorghum syrup onto a boxcar and still had sacks of grain in his wagon to unload. A clerk on the boxcar was keeping a record of the produce.

"Hello," Cyril said to the farmer. "Could you use some help transporting your goods to the boxcar?"

"As a matter of fact, I could," the farmer replied. "Grab these and begin to tote," he said, pointing to the produce remaining on the covered wagon.

The two men worked, soon warming to the job in the cold December wind. When the task was finished and the farmer had settled with the clerk on satisfactory bill of lading, the farmer turned to Cyril Townsend.

"You leavin' on the train?" he asked.

"No. As a matter of fact, I came in on it." The farmer didn't need to know that he, Cyril, was a free-loading passenger, fearing all the way from Atlanta that he might be discovered in his hiding place in a boxcar.

"Where ya headin', then, on Christmas Eve?" the farmer asked.

"I was hoping to go to Blairsville, Georgia," Cyril Townsend said. "I used to live in a community near there several years ago."

"Well, climb on board," the farmer said. "I'm going there as fast as these mules can take us."

Again feeling gratitude well up in himself at his good fortune, Cyril Townsend climbed into the wagon.

"My name's Thomp Collins," the wagoneer said. "And who might you be?"

"I go by the name of Cyril Townsend," the hitchhiker said.

"Pleased to meetcha," Collins said. The two men did not talk much as the mules drew the wagon along the narrow road that ran from Blue Ridge to Morganton, through Hemp Town, and on toward Blairsville. All the while Thomp Collins was trying in vain to remember where he'd heard the name Cyril Townsend. And likewise, Cyril Townsend was trying to recall if he had previously known Thomp Collins.

The rhythm of the wagon over the bumpy road did not deter Cyril Townsend, tired as he was, from falling asleep as they traveled. He awakened after a long nap when he heard Thomp Collins saying "Whoa," to his mules. Cyril took in the form of a substantial barn in the dusk, and a short distance away on a rise a farmhouse with lights at the windows.

"Welcome to my place," Thompson Collins said, his hand extended for a shake.

"But I did not intend to come all the way to your house and make a nuisance of myself to your wife and children," Cyril Townsend protested.

"It's Christmas Eve," Thomp Collins said. "Come and share our Christmas Eve meal with us. Susie, my wife, always has plenty to spare. And besides, I think you and I have something to talk about."

Cyril helped Thomp stable and feed the mules. All the while Cyril felt a bit uneasy. Would this man know about his trial and sentencing? After all, the trial did take place over three years ago in Union County. As he pondered these questions, his tired body seemed somehow to be drawn to the warmth and welcome of the nearby farmhouse. What did he have to lose from sharing a Christmas Eve meal?

At the house, Thompson Collins introduced his wife Susan and his children to the stranger. The children, polite and quiet, were named Roe, Virge, Joe and Bob. "And at Christmastime, we always remember our little ones we lost at an early age, and we've placed a holly wreath on their graves at Old Choestoe Cemetery," said Susan Thompson. "Their names were Avery Cordelia, Charles Luther and Mary Rebecca."

The Thomp Collins family did not seem at all surprised that a wayfarer would share their Christmas Eve meal. Thomp showed Cyril to a side room with a small bed, and asked the older children to bring him a basin of warm water and fresh towels. Thomp himself laid out clean clothes of his own for Cyril to put on after his bath.

Refreshed and clean, Cyril rejoined the Collins family. Soon they were seated at a table laden with good food from the garm. All bowed heads while Thomp asked the blessing. While they ate, the question Cyril feared came.

"Are you returning from prison?" Thomp asked Cyril.

"Yes. Is it that obvious? How did you know?"

"All the way from Blue Ridge to Blairsville, as you slept, I kept thinking that I knew the name, Cyril Townsend. Then I remembered that you had taken the rap for some of your friends and were imprisoned even though you were not guilty of the crime for which you were charged. Your case is similar to mine," Thomp Collins continued.

"Back in 1875 I would not turn state's evidence. I was sent to Federal Prison in New York. Upon my release and return two years later, after a long, hard journey, I told Susie that as long as we had a house and food and clothing to share, we would never again turn anyone in need away from our door. That is why you are welcome tonight in this house and at our table."

"Neighbors call my husband 'The Poor Man's Friend,'" wife Susie Collins said. No matter the need, whether at Christmas or all year long, he is quick to respond when he meets someone whose pain and suffering he can relieve."

That night on the clean bed in Thomp Collins' house, Cyril Townsend resolved that as soon as he was on his feet again, he would adopt the same motto as that of Thomp Collins: "The poor man's friend," and seek to make it his life principle.

c 2007 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Dec. 20, 2007 in The Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Miracle of Brasstown Valley: a Book Review

Governor/Senator Zell Miller has done it again. He has written his seventh book, and has managed within its pages to turn history into a page-turner.

I gratefully received a copy early as a Christmas gift from a very dear friend. I want to recommend that you go out to a nearby bookstore in these days remaining before Christmas and either purchase a copy for yourself or get a copy as a gift for someone special. You will be glad you did.

The Miracle of Brasstown Valley is the story of the founding of Young Harris College in 1886 by an itinerant Methodist preacher, the Rev. Artemas Lester. But it is more than history, more than a realized dream of Lester whose life was touched in a unique way, both by his calling and his mission. Through his keen imagination, the Honorable Zell Miller has brought to life people, places and events in the mountains of North Georgia. He gives us a front-row seat to happenings as if we are there. Sharing Miller's love for history, and being mutually tied, as he is, to some of the same places and people who make up the colorful pages of this book, I find it a privilege to recommend his book to your reading.

In his foreword, Mr. Miller states:

While all the people, places and most events are real, in some instances I have filtered their undocumented words spoken long ago through my imagination. So be forewarned: this history is not pure and perfect; it's padded. But, as we say in the mountains, this is 'pert near' how it all happened." (page 4).

Getting it 'pert near' right is good enough for me. Not only does the book give the history of the founding of the college in the mountains, which has stood as a shining light for students educated there since 1886, but within these pages we get lessons on geology and theology, politics and religion. The people of yesteryear, whose names are well documented in family histories, in county records of land holdings, in church and cemetery records, in stories of their deeds passed on from generation to generation are mentioned in the book as Artemas Lester makes his way from Yatesville, Georgia, where he was born, to Brasstown Valley in Towns County, Georgia, learning what he can from residents he meets along the way. He wants to know about the land and the people, the sturdy stock who have taken up residence in the mountains. The literary technique is a travelogue. The impact is that of having been there, experienced that.

In the pages of Miracle we meet people who have a role to play in the background of Young Harris College's founding. The itinerant Union County preacher, the Rev. Milford G. Hamby, was responsible in part for the conversion of Artemis Lester in a revival at far-away Yatesville, Georgia. He heard the young man's dream and set him on his way toward the north Georgia mountains.

We meet William Jasper Miller, better known as "Bud," teacher at Hood's Chapel School in Upper Choestoe. Artemas Lester observed this country school teacher's methods in action and thought them good. He also heard that Bud Miller planned to take unto himself a second wife, Jane Malinda Collins, following the death of his first wife, Florence Edmundson Miller. Jane Malinda's ancestors were the first Choestoe settlers, Thompson and Celia Self Collins, her grandparents. She was a daughter of Francis and Rutha Nix Collins. With this background, Jane would be a good step-mother for Bud Miller's six children, left motherless by his first wife's death.

We see Artemas Lester's first view of Track Rock Gap as he travels from Dahlonega to Brasstown Valley.

We meet Widow Nancy Louise Haynes Stephens Sanderson, whose help in establishing the school in Brasstown Valley ranged from knowing the right people for the Rev. Artemas Lester to see to loaning him her horse and buggy in which to travel, and making available the abandoned store building where the first classes opened in January, 1886.

This book is full of mountain lore and culture. It is a book about a dream and the price one man paid to see it fulfilled. It is about moving on, even before the school Lester worked so hard to establish, was fully functional.

The book expresses appreciation for a solid way of life and for the faith that seeds planted will eventually sprout and bear fruit. Credit is given to many people who figured prominently in the founding of Young Harris College. You will meet them in the pages of this book, and rejoice that they were faithful to fill in the gap in their years of service. To name them all would take away some of the mystery of your meeting them for yourself in the book's pages. Prominent among them, however, besides the Rev. Artemas Lester, were the Rev. Marcus Hale Edwards, the Rev. Joseph Astor Sharp, Young Loften Gerdine Harris for whom the school eventually was named, and many others, presidents, professors, supporters.

Governor/Senator Zell Miller and I trace our roots back to Thompson Collins and other people who, although not well educated themselves because of limited academic offerings in those pioneer days, wanted a better way of life and accelerated opportunities for their children and succeeding generations. It was on this principle that the Rev. Artemas Lester set about to found the school in the mountains that became Young Harris College. Mr. Miller's chronicle will make you proud to be of sturdy mountain stock.

He has Artemas Lester asking Teacher Bud Miller this question:

"Where do they (the students) go when you've taught them all you know?"
Bud stared straight into his friend's eyes. "Ah, that's the question. You tell me."

At Christmas, this book will be rich reading as you discover and rejoice in the answer.

c 2007 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Dec. 13, 2007 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Country School and Christmas

My first seven years of school were spent at Choestoe School, the two-room "new" building that replaced the old two-story faded gray structure that had stood for many years on the same spot.

My primer-first grade class was the very first to occupy the new school building in 1936-1937. We were proud of the smell of newly placed pine lumber that ceiled the inside of the building. We were fascinated by the removable partitions between the "lower grades" room and the "upper grades" room. And on special occasions, that partition was removed, a moveable stage was put in place, and all we young scholars who studied in grades primer through seventh grade were ready to perform on that stage before our parents and others in the community. Christmas was one of those times.

In my growing-up years, Christmas was a very special time. Compared to the glitter and commercialization of our present age, what we enjoyed and considered special treats would be meager, indeed. But we celebrated in our own way, and within the walls of that two-room, two-teacher country school much joy emanated to the whole community.

Remembering, the first item on the Christmas preparation agenda was "assigning of parts." Our teachers- in this case, Mrs. Mert Shuler Collins who had the lower grades, and Mrs. Florence Jackson Hunter, principal and upper grades instructor, were the teachers in charge.

They drew from their magic cache of Christmas program materials- whether written by themselves or from some "Christmas Celebrations" book- "parts" were assigned to every child in their care. No one could be left out of the glorious Christmas program.

The upper grades had "the play." This was a mini-drama, much rehearsed and prepared with necessary make-do costumes and props. Each child memorized lines until they became a part of his/her repertoire. The play was a little slice of life, teaching character traits of hospitality and generosity and decrying selfishness. It was an honor to be chosen for a part in the school drama and each actor/actress took seriously the part assigned.

The lower grades had the usual acrostic in which each child held letters spelling out messages like C-H-R-I-S-T-MA S C-H-E-E-R or H-A-P-P-Y H-O-L-I-D-A-Y-S.

The two lines of the poem forming the acrostic were all the little ones had to memorize. They were taught how to hold their letter straight, so that the visitors could readily read the message they spoke about. Those who could handle more than a two-line recitation were given longer poems, or a story about Christmas to recite.

All the grades together practiced singing Christmas carols. We didn't have a piano at the school, so the "tune" was formed by listening to a tuning fork held gingerly by one of the teachers and blown upon to give the proper pitch for each carol. We sang with gusto and joy, albeit it not always in tune. It wasn't perfection of performance but melody and message for which we strived.

Then came the drawing of names. This was when each class exchanged names, and the responsibility lay with the student to bring a present to the person whose name was drawn. What about some of the very poor children who might not be able to afford to buy a present?

Looking back, I see now that we all were "poor," monetarily speaking, but we didn't know it for we had food, clothing and shelter. Somehow, my parents, and those of other students, managed to get a meager gift for the "name drawn." I wasn't aware of what went on behind the scenes then, but I've learned since that the teachers always provided "emergency" gifts for any who were not able to get a gift for their "name drawn" person. That way, everyone in the school was assured a gift.

The week before school was out for Christmas, and the day of the big Christmas program, we spent much time and effort making decorations. The older boys went to the nearby woods and cut a well-shaped pine tree for a Christmas tree. In our "art" classes, we had been making colored paper chains to decorate the tree. We also strung popcorn and holly berries. We made snowflakes, cut from paper and fastened them to the tree. Our school tree would not take a prize in beauty in a decorating contest. But in joy of creating something which we thought beautiful, our room decorations rated high marks, indeed. Each window was decorated with a construction-paper candle, snowman, or laughing Santa. Our school house was ready for visitors.

Then came the day of the big performance. We had the two rooms, now opened into one large one, set for our visitors, our parents and others in the community. A sense of nervous anticipation pervaded the students. Could we pull off this program and please our teachers and our parents?

We had no need for concern. Whatever we did was appreciated and applauded.

And when it came time to distribute presents, whatever we received brought smiles and pleasure. A bag with an apple, an orange, some wrapped candy kisses- and pencils, always pencils with our names on them- came from our teachers. The play, the recitations and the caroling all went well. The wood heaters had put out too much heat with the school rooms overcrowded with people. But everyone left happy and elated.

Christmas had come again to Choestoe School. And we had been a part in bringing the happiest of all days of the year to fruition. If snow would only fall on our walk home from the schoolhouse, it would be of all times the merriest, with each snowflake a smile from heaven to earth's brown sod.

c 2007 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Dec. 6, 2007 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

William Harrison Jackson- from Choestoe to Colorado

This true episode is how a person born near the end of the nineteenth century went out from Union County seeking his fortune. His name was William Harrison Jackson, born September 1, 1889 in Choestoe, Union County, Georgia. His parents were William Miles Jackson (1853- 1910) and Nancy Souther Jackson (1853- 1899).

William Harrison Jackson was the eighth of nine children born to Bill and Nancy Jackson. It is interesting to note that seven of the nine children left Choestoe to find work elsewhere. His sister Camilla (1873-1925) married H. L. Henson and they moved to Copperhill, Tenn., where H. L. worked at the Tennessee Copper Company. His sister Lydia (1875-1956) married Virgil Collins and they moved to Laramie, Colorado. His brother Oscar Jackson (1879-1901) died before reaching his twenty-second birthday and was a teacher in Choestoe. Harrison's brother, Ira Jackson (b. 1881) died as a seven month old baby. Della Nora Jackson (1883-1911) and her husband, Ulysses Thompson Collins, moved to Verden, Oklahoma. After Della's death in 1911, Ulysses returned to Choestoe with their three children, Goldie, Mayme and Ralph. Cora Bessie Jackson (1885-1951) married Thomas L. Hood and they moved to Eaton, Colorado. Florida Kate Jackson (1891-?) married Jasper Shuler and they lived in Greeley, Colorado. Oliver Grady Jackson (1893-?) moved to Greeley, Colorado, where he met and married Anna Jensen who was born in Denmark. With so many of his siblings migrating west, William Harrison Jackson at a young age also got the urge to "go west, young man," but his was not a straight trek there.

From his own memoirs written in January, 1969, we learn how William Harrison Jackson left Choestoe and eventually settled in Colorado. He expressed thoughts about his growing-up years in poetry:

"My mother's name was Nancy,
My father's name was Bill.
We lived in a pleasant valley
Close by the Blue Ridge hills.
Some things to me were a marvelous wonder;
Thoughts to my heart were great to ponder:
God, Creator of all life, the Giver,
Creatures, meadows, rills, rivers.

His elementary school years were at the old Choestoe Church house, with slat benches for seats. The building was heated with pot-bellied stoves. In 1896, his first teacher was Joseph Collins who had been to the Hiawassee Academy. Harrison was happy to follow the career of his first grade teacher, noting that he became a prominent lawyer in Gainesville. The Jackson children, including William Harrison, all did their share of work on the Choestoe farm of his parents.

Harrison's mother died when he was ten years of age in 1899. In 1905, his father married again to Jane West. He tells how he left home by "Shank's Mare" (walking). He carried his clothes and other meager possessions "in a valise" and made his way to Mineral Bluff, Georgia, where his sister, Camilla Henson lived. There, and in nearby Copperhill, Tennessee, he found "odd jobs" to earn money until the spring of 1906.

His brother-in-law, Thomas L. Hood, husband of Harrison's sister, Cora, invited him back to Choestoe to help him work on the farm he had rented from an aunt, Mary Collins. In the fall, Aunt Mary paid Thomas $300 in gold for the crops produced that season. Thomas paid William Harrison $15 for each month he had worked with him on the land. Tom and Cora then moved to Colorado. It was back to Copperhill, TN for William Harrison Jackson. There he worked in the copper mines until March 7, 1907. He had saved enough money for a train ticket to Eaton, Colorado, where he went to work in the potato fields and sorting houses at $30.00 per month and board. This work occupied his time from 1907-1913.

William Harrison Jackson's next move was to Blackfoot, Idaho. There he met and wooed Hazel Edith Thompson. They were married August 11, 1913. Her parents, Tommy Thompson and Hilda Edge Thompson, were born in Norway. At Blackfoot, Harrison and Hazel settled down to farming. Their five children were born in the Rose Precinct about five and one-half miles north of Blackfoot. The children were Barton Grady Jackson ( US Marine and professional dance instructor), June Hilda Jackson (US Navy, and educator), Thelma Edith Jackson (twin to June Hilda, died at age six months), Zelma Nancy Jackson (communications and radio operator during World War II, and administrative assistant) and Dwain Thompson Jackson (music educator and employee of Horace Mann Insurance Agency for teachers). The Jacksons bought a ranch at Cedar Ridge, Colorado. There Hazel died with cancer in 1935.

After his children were grown and left home, Harrison Jackson married his second wife, Nora Miller, in 1937. She was a daughter of Andrew Miller and Carrie Young Miller, early pioneers in Arkansas. In 1957, Harrison and Nora sold out their ranch in Cedar Ridge and moved to Delta, Colorado, where he continued to work, even to age 80 and above. He described himself and his wife, Nora, as "happy, busy, and continuing in the faith of the Disciples of Christ." He always liked to tell stories--of his growing-up years in Choestoe, of moving away to find work, of life on the farm or ranch in the west, and of semiretirement and still active. His poem about his life ends: "Those childhood days are gone forever, But such memories we cannot sever."

[Personal note to my readers: At 7:00 a. m. on Thanksgiving morning, November 22, 2007, I received a call from the nurse at Memory Support Unit, Georgia War Veteran's Home, Milledgeville, that my husband, the Rev. Grover D. Jones, had fallen and was in great pain from the fall. He was taken by ambulance to the emergency room of the Medical Center of Central Georgia in Macon where he underwent extensive examinations and preoperation treatment. His left hip operation (replacement of the ball and socket joint) was on Sunday, November 25. He came through surgery well, and today (Monday) was up on the "new hip" for a short time. His physical/ mental condition is now classified as "Advanced Alzheimer's". Admittedly, the past several days have been stressful- and extremely tiring for me. Less than three months ago, as my readers will recall, I myself underwent five bypasses heart surgery. We learn to meet emergencies and life's challenges "one day at a time," and there is always miraculous strength to walk through them. These, to me, are results of strong faith and God's presence. Thank you for your concern.]

c 2007 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Nov. 29, 2007 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved

Giving Thanks -- 2007

I have a delightful hour once each month on the third Thursday afternoon.

I refer to the Learning-in-Retirement (its acronym is LIR) class that I, along with about twenty-five other senior citizens, pursue. Sponsored by Georgia College & State University here in Milledgeville, the Creative Writing and other classes in the LIR Division are part of the University's outreach program to retirees to give them something worthwhile to do. Creative writing is not the only class. Art, architecture, history, geography (which includes both domestic and foreign travel in the agenda), and other disciplines can be pursued by the active-minded senior citizens—and for a membership fee of only $40.00 per year. Talk about a bargain, this LIR system is certainly one.

The premise behind the LIR program is that we are never too old to learn! That thought within itself gives pause for gratitude. Through the class, I have met some delightful new friends. Mary Purcell, our current teacher, is one of them. Snatched from the hands of death from a brain disorder, vivacious Mary is now healthy and productively leading our group. If she has to be absent on a class day Thursday, she asks me or another lady in the class to substitute for her.

We have written a book which we have entitled Milledgeville Tapestry. It will contain short stories, memoirs, essays and poems, a hodge-podge of literary graffiti which twenty-five or more "old" people have written for the LIR Creative Writing Class.

We had another title selected: Sweetwater Tapestry, going back to the original settlement name of this fair city, for the name Sweetwater came from the Sweet Spring within the GC&SU Campus where the town's early water supply was located. But a corporation far away from our placid Milledgeville protested, threatening to sue because of the use of "their" name, Sweetwater. Hie on them! Sweetwater town here was founded way back in the late 1700's. But you know how it is with "politically correct" terms. Our teacher Mary and we felt it would be easier, all around, to change our title to Milledgeville Tapestry. After all, this city was the strategic capitol of Georgia prior to and during the Civil War era.

When noted Macon Telegraph columnist, Ed Grisamore, instructed us for a month back in February, 2007, one of his former students, a spry lady in her nineties, labeled an earlier session of the month-long writing Memoirs class with the heart-felt plea: "Don't die with a song still in your heart!" And that's what we want to try to do: To get the songs of our lives on paper before the Grim Reaper comes to say, "No more, no more!"

Now how does this long introduction about the writing class and its purposes have anything to do with "Giving Thanks, 2007"- the title for this column and the thought in our minds as we face "Turkey Day" this week?

In a class, have you heard about an assignment? Even worse, home work? You guessed it. Mary Purcell told us to write about Thanksgiving (the Day) and/or Giving Thanks (the act of praise and thanksgiving). What are you most thankful for in 2007? Have you ever tried to make a list of "the most" anything? It isn't that easy to do. One thing and another keep vying for top billing. My list is not necessarily arranged from the most to the least- but all, to keep the exercise somewhat simple and on task, follows the acrostic pattern of listing. The letters of "Giving Thanks" are the glue that holds the list together.

G- "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." (Psalm 46:1) "Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised." (Psalm 48:1).
I- "In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths."(Proverbs 3:6). Be grateful for insight to know that you need someone to lead you in right paths.
V- "Viva"- Latin for "long live" or for life itself. "For what is your life? It is even a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away." (James 4:14). In August, 2007, I learned as never before how valuable is life, and how it is indeed like a vapor that can vanish away in a moment. Be grateful for life and breath, for a heart that works, and for a second chance.
I- Instruction, teaching- be grateful for the ability to learn something new every day. "Hear, ye children, the instruction of a father, and attend to know understanding." (Proverbs 4:1). "Hear instruction and be wise, and refuse it not." (Proverbs 8:33).
N- Needs supplied: "Give us this day our daily bread." (Matthew 6:11) "I have been young, and now am old: yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread." (Psalm 37:25)
G- Government that is stable and allows freedom under law: "Let every one be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God; the powers that be are ordained of God." (Romans 13:1.
T- Today. "This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it." (Psalm 118:24.) "One day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day. (II Peter 3:8-b).
H- Home and all the people who inhabit home. "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in." (Robert Frost). Home is such a place of respite and rest that Jesus promised us a house in Heaven with the Father: "And I go to prepare a place for you...I will come again, and receive you unto myself that where I am, there ye may be also." (John 14:2 and 3).
A- Access to blessings: "Ask and it shall be given you, seek and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you. For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened. (Matthew 7:7-8).
N- Nature and all its beauty, riches for us to enjoy and conserve: "For he hath made everything beautiful in His time." (Ecclesiastes 3:11).
K- Kindnesses shown and kindnesses given: "The Lord hath appeared of old unto me, saying, Yea, I have loved thee with an everlasting love: therefore with loving kindness have I drawn thee." (Jeremiah 31:3).
S- Sacrifice by the Savior for our salvation. "Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, and today, and forever. By him, therefore let us offer the sacrifice of praise to God continually, that is, the fruit of our lips giving thanks to his name." (Hebrews 13:8, 15).

Have a wonderful time with your "Giving Thanks" list for 2007.

c 2007 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Nov. 22, 2007 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Praying for Rain

Would it not be a welcome sight this November, with a long dry summer and fall behind us, if we could look up and see rain on the mountains, see the damp mists rising, and then feel the sprinkle of drops on our face as we lift our heads in gratitude in the valley?

We are in the midst of a serious and devastating draught. We hear newsmen say: "We can't live without water; and our supply will last only three months." A draught (also spelled drought) is defined in the "Glossary of Meteorology" as a "period of abnormally dry weather sufficiently prolonged for the lack of water to cause serious hydrologic imbalance in the affected area." Much of Georgia and other states have experienced draught conditions for months.

We know the serious consequences of lack of rainfall for extended periods. Among these we see widespread damage to agricultural crops, forests, any plant growth. When streams and lakes run low on water, even non-agricultural areas panic, for the modern-day water supplies everywhere hark back to enough rainfall to replenish the loss of water. And water is necessary to so many processes: production of electricity, operation of factories- the list could go on.

We come, therefore, in serious times and areas of draught to call upon the Creator of water and rain to favor us with water from the skies. Governor Sonny Perdue of Georgia called a public prayer meeting on the steps of the state capital. The meeting, held Tuesday, November 13, was introduced by the governor with these words: "We've come together here simply for one reason and one reason only: To very reverently and respectfully pray up a storm."

Time was when government leaders could call the people to prayer without fear of recrimination. Not so today in our "politically correct" environment. We can be scorching from warmer temperatures and extremely fearful from low water levels and lack of rain. Yet the cry goes up: "We cannot mix church and state."

Near the prayer vigil on November 13, a group of protesters raised signs and voices against a religious service at the state capitol, crying "nay" to Governor Perdue's gathering to invoke God's mercy to send rain.

I remembered incidents from my own childhood when we were in serious draught conditions- not as critical as now, but raising great concern in our agricultural community of Choestoe, Union County, Georgia.

We met at church on several occasions for the specific purpose of praying for rain. Some with faith as strong as the words uttered in the pleas, brought their umbrellas with them to the prayer meeting, expecting with sincere faith that God would hear and answer their prayers for rain.

For a farm well to go dry was a major calamity. In one of the long dry spells, we had no water coming from our well for our household needs. Some of the streams in our pasture where livestock drank were but a tiny trickle. My father knew that only a miracle could relieve our dry situation. I can remember the incident well, although I was but a young child. He first prayed that we would have water--that the well would be restored or that he could find a spring. Then he took a forked peach tree limb which country people called a "divining rod." Holding it in front of him in both hands, he went to a certain area of our farm and walked back and forth. I was a little child, following him through this strange ceremony. Some might ask, "Was this using black magic to help God answer the prayer for water?" At that time, using a divining rod was just a practice some people with "the gift" (as it was called) used to discover water at a place where a well was to be dug. In my father's case, he was looking for a spring in an area where water might be found.

The peach tree limb began to tremble in his hands. I can remember his excitement and my awe. He dug in the spot which the limb had indicated water might be found. And there, in a short while, a stream of water was bubbling up, its sparkling liquid like a radiant rainbow amidst the dry grass. We called it our "bubbling spring"- and there it was, a place for us to get clear, cold, water- an answer to prayer. My father dug out the spring, lined it with rocks, and built a springhouse a little below the place where the water bubbled up. And from that location we carried water to the house in buckets. At the spring, we had a place cool as a refrigerator, to store our crocks of milk and other food items that needed refrigeration prior to the days of electricity and refrigerators in our community.

Let's "pray up a storm." Well, maybe not hurricanes and tornadoes that wreak havoc in our land and pour inordinate amounts of water that become forces of destruction. But let's pray for gentle rain, days of it, so that streams can flow full again, reservoirs be replenished, and man will again have the gift of water.

Is it too much to ask that we pray for rain?

c 2007 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Nov. 15, 2007 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.