Sixty Fifth Anniversary of Bombing Hiroshima and Nagasaki

August 6 and August 9, 2010, marked the sixty-fifth anniversary of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan, respectively, earth-shaking events that led to Japan’s surrender and cessation of World War II. These are facts of history, regardless of our perspectives since then on the decisions to drop the bombs. At least to the present, those two nuclear weapons were the only ones, before or since, that have been detonated for war purposes.

Previous to the decision to drop the bombs, President Harry S. Truman of the United States and other allied leaders had met at Potsdam and presented on July 26, 1945 what has been called the Potsdam Ultimatum. Delivered to Japan, it asked for surrender or the allies would attack Japan. Within the document was this warning: “the inevitable and complete destruction of the Japanese armed forces and just as inevitably the utter devastation of the Japanese homeland.” No mention was made of atomic bombings. The Japanese government, with Prime Minister Kantaro Suzuki as spokesman for Emperor Hirohito announced that the Potsdam Ultimatum was no more binding than the earlier Cairo Declaration. Japanese newspapers on July 28 stated that the declaration had been rejected by Japan.

President Truman, in his position as President of the United States and Commander-in-Chief of the nation’s military, had seriously considered the situation on his way to the Potsdam Conference. In the end, it was he who made the final decision to use bombs from the atomic arsenal to bring Japan to surrender. His reasoning was that to do so would induce a quick end to the war by such devastation and fear of further destruction as would cause Japan to surrender.

On August 6, 1945 the B-29 plane, named “Enola Gay” piloted by Colonel Paul Tibbets, left North Field airbase on Tinian in the West Pacific. It took about six hours for the “Enola Gay” and two other B-29 planes in the formation, “The Great Artiste” and “Necessary Evil” to make the flight to Hiroshima. At 8:15 a. m. (Hiroshima time) the “Enola Gay” released the bomb known as “Little Boy.” Captain William S. Parsons released the bomb. Although with an innocent-sounding name, the weapon carried 60 kilograms (130 pounds) of uranium-235, with a blast equal to 13 kilotons of TNT. The “Enola Gay” was 11.5 miles away from the bomb site when shock waves were felt. The bomb had detonated about 1,900 feet above the city of Hiroshima, directly over the Shima Surgical Clinic, missing the Aioi Bridge target by 800 feet. The devastation was over a 4.7 square-mile area. About 30% of the population of the city met death immediately (estimated at 80,000) and another 70,000 were injured, many dying later.

With such devastation upon Hiroshima, a surrender was expected, but it did not occur, and a second bomb was released, this one on Nagasaki on August 9, 1945. It was one of the largest seaports in southern Japan, a city of great importance to the Japanese military. Actually, Kokura was intended as the target, but due to a cloud cover and poor visibility, Major Charles W. Sweeney flew the B-29 Superfortress named “Bockscar” on to Nagasaki, the alternate target. At 11:01 a. m. on August 9, 1945, bombardier Captain Kermit Beahan released the “Fat Man” atomic weapon carrying 6.4 kilograms (14.1 pounds) of plutonium-239. equal to 21 kilotons of TNT.

The Urakami Valley containing the Japanese torpedo works was within the targeted area. Mountains on either side of the valley formed a shield that gave some protection to surrounding areas. Casualties immediately were estimated between 40,000 and 75,000, with wounded who died later bringing the total to 80,000. Survivors of the blasts at both Hiroshima and Nagasaki were called “hibakusha,” meaning “explosion-affected people.” It is said many walked around, unattended, “looking like ghosts,” with their skin sagging from searing and atomic burns. Many of the “hibakusha” suffered extensive burns, for the bombs generated temperatures up to 3,900 degrees Celsius or 7,000 degrees Fahrenheit. Later, many survivors died of complications from cancer and leukemia.

On August 14, 1945 the Japanese Emperor announced to his people that he was surrendering, and officially on August 15, 1945 the declaration was made to the world. Thus ended the long and devastating World War II. Then came the period of military occupation forces in lands that had been the enemy and efforts to bring a World Peace Agreement.

After the surrender, the US Navy ship on which Grover Duffie Jones was a radioman, was ordered to dock in Nagasaki Harbor. The command the crew had was to restore communications to Nagasaki, that devastated spot that had been hit by the second atomic bomb. In recalling that assignment, Jones (who later became my husband) described the land “as though a mighty hand had smashed everything for miles.” That Navy crew was able to fulfill their assignment. But evidently little thought had been given as to the later effects on the health of that crew from atomic radiation and fallout.

Anniversaries like August 6 and August 9, the dropping of bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, are dark parts of history. Sixty-five years later, we are still seriously debating the pros and cons of the action, and always is the dread of some nation breaking atomic bans causing devastation in this and future eras.

c 2010 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published August 12, 2010 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Naduhli in the Cherokee Language--Nottely or Notla in English

Naduhli is a Cherokee Indian word meaning “daring horseman.” This name, given to the major river in Union County, Georgia and to the lake formed by damming up the waters of the river, is now called Nottely, also sometimes spelled Notla.

The Nottely River’s headwaters rise high in the mountains of southeastern Union County near the Union-Lumpkin County line. This largest river in Union County begins in the secluded regions of the mountains and makes its way northwestward over falling terrain to form rapids and eddies. It is not a large river at any point on its journey northwestward. It picks up beauty as it flows on its northerly course through the county. Nottely Falls are on the stream near Vogel State Park. At times some of the water gathers in placid pools. More regularly its course has small rapids rather than the type tourists seek for their whitewater rafting. The river’s waters were dammed up in 1941-1942 to form Nottely Lake.

As the overspill flows out from the Nottely Dam, the waters of the river flow some twenty more miles through north Georgia and into North Carolina to become a tributary of the Hiawassee River. Again, the river into which the Nottely flows, and the Tennessee Valley Authority dam and lake called Hiawassee, is a Cherokee derivative from the Cherokee word ayuhwasi meaning savannah or meadow. The Hiawassee River Dam was completed six years before the Nottely Dam. Begun in 1935, the Hiawassee Dam boasts the tallest overspill dam in the world at 307 feet tall and 1,376 feet wide.

Both the Nottley and Hiwassee Dams are part of the Tennessee Valley Authority’s hydroelectric generating power system. They also have as aims floodwater control and recreation. Add to this system Lake Chatuge in Towns County and extending into North Carolina, with 128 miles of shoreline. These lakes make our section of the mountains a much-sought out area for boating, water skiing and other water recreation sports.

Returning to Union County’s Nottely River and Nottely Dam, we note that prior to the project’s launch in 1941, a total of 7,984 acres of land were purchased. Already two private companies, Southern States Power and Union Power owned land but had not developed it into an area for the lake or power production. Tennessee Valley Authority bought those holdings as well as private lands. A total of 91 families had to be relocated from their property, houses moved, or, in some cases, demolished. Roads had to be relocated to go by the properties on which the houses were moved. It was a topsy-turvy time when all the changes occurred.

Construction began on July 17, 1941, with engineering already done to determine the best location for the 184-feet high dam that runs for about 2,300 feet across the Nottely River. In a little over six months, an unprecedented time for such a massive construction project, the opening date for the dam was January 24, 1942, with fanfare, speeches and a celebration. The rush to complete the dam was so that the giant reservoir covering some 4,180 acres could fill during the rainy season of that winter.

World War II brought added demands for hydroelectric power to operate aluminum and other manufacturing sites for the war effort. It was fortunate that the series of dams were available, not only for flood control but for generating electricity. A plethora of jobs were also created by the origination of the Tennessee Valley Authority in 1933, helping to bring the area out of the Great Depression.

Now as we sit beside the banks of the Nottely River or go north of Blairsville to find the shores of Lake Nottely, we think back to the time when the Cherokee Indian Village of Nadhuli thrived prior to 1838 along the river near what became the Georgia/North Carolina border. White men had been settling on Indian lands prior to 1832 when Union County was formed.

One of my favorite poems of Union poet Byron Herbert Reece is entitled “I Know a Valley Green with Corn” (in A Song of Joy, 1952). In that poem he writes longingly of his being away and wishing to be back in Choestoe where corn grows green along the Nottely River. He could just as well have been writing of the dislocated Cherokee who grew maize in cleared patches alongside the Nadhuli. The first two stanzas read:

I know a valley green with corn
Where Nottely’s waters roil and run
From the deep hills where first at morn
It takes the color of the sun

And bears it burning through the shade
Of birch and willow till its tide
Pours like a pulse, and never stayed,
Dark where the Gulf’s edge reaches wide.

Beloved Nottely in the hills of home. Flow on, sparkling mountain waters!

c 2010 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published July 8, 2010 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

A Heritage of Patriotism

Our nation’s birthday is July 4. This year, 2010, marks the 234th year since our forefathers signed the Declaration of Independence and continued the struggle to gain freedom from England. Since that time more than two centuries ago, our nation has seen multiple threats to the freedoms we hold dear. We have a heritage of patriotism. We are wrapped in colors of red, white and blue, but the symbolism and the price of these colors is almost beyond imagination. We hear it over and over: “Freedom is never free.”

As we see “Old Glory” wave on the 4th of July and raise our voices in strains of “The Star Spangled Banner,” may the colors of red, white and blue bring to remembrance the sacrifices of many for the cost of freedom. Long ago a wise man named Thomas Campbell wrote: “The Patriots’ blood is the seed of Freedom’s tree.”

Several of those who had relatives that later came to Union County to settle engaged the enemy at the Battle of King’s Mountain during the Revolutionary War. This decisive fray occurred on October 7, 1780. The battle was a definite turning point for the American Continental Army. After defeats to the British and Tories (Americans loyal to the British Crown) at the fall of Charleston, the Battle of Waxhaws, and Camden, all occurring in South Carolina in the summer of 1780, the Overmountain Men entered the picture. Mountain militia men made up of settlers west of the mountains in Virginia, Tennessee and North Carolina rallied a group that marched “over the mountains” (hence the name “Overmountain Men”) to Major Patrick Ferguson’s stronghold at King’s Mountain. Ferguson, a Tory leader, directed by British General Charles, Earl of Cornwallis, had made the threat that they would “lay waste the countryside (of the frontier settlers) with fire and sword.”

The Overmountain Men would not give in to such a threat from Ferguson and Cornwallis. Instead of that prediction coming true, the wiry mountain men made plans to thwart the enemy. The patriots made a U-shaped entrenchment around the mountain where the Tory and British forces were ensconced. About 3 p. m. on October 7, 1780, William Campbell told his mountain men to attack. Other flanks were led by John Sevier, Isaac Shelby, Benjamin Cleveland and other notable patriots under whom our ancestors served nobly.

At the end of the Battle of King’s Mountain, 28 of the Patriots had been killed and 62 wounded. The battle’s toll on the Tory and British side numbered 157 killed, 163 severely wounded and left on the field to die, and 698 captured. The King’s Mountain Battle was a prelude to the final victory at Yorktown a year later on October 17, 1781.

Revolutionary War soldier, John Nicholson, whose grave is in the Pleasant Grove Baptist Church Cemetery in Union County, fought at one of the battles before King’s Mountain. He was at the Battle of Camden where General Gates of the British Army was defeated. His second major battle was at Guilford Court House. Later he was with Colonel Sevier, and may have been at King’s Mountain, although his record does not so indicate.

Revolutionary War soldier Michael Tanner, whose grave is in the Old Choestoe Cemetery, Union County, had the signal honor of being at Yorktown when General George Washington engineered the surrender of British General Cornwallis. To have stood among the American allied forces there, composed of 8,000 Continental Army troops, 3,000 militiamen (of which Michael Tanner was one) and augmented by the 15,000 French sailors who blocked Cornwallis’s escape in the harbor, victory after long years of struggle became a reality.

Another ancestor to many of us, John Henry Stonecypher, Jr., whose grave is at the Stonecypher Family Cemetery, Eastanollee, Georgia, was a soldier at the famous battle of King’s Mountain. He also fought at the Battle of Okimish at Beattie’s Ford on the Catawba River, at the Battle of Camden under General Gates, and at Guilford Court House. His three years of Revolutionary War service were fraught with dangers, near-death, and bravery that we can hardly imagine.

We could multiply stories such as these for any war for freedom in which America has engaged since that day of declaring America’s independence in 1776. Today our battles are more subtle and insidious. Just yesterday I read a speech of a Dutch patriot who warned present-day Americans and Europeans of the creeping “take-over” by powerful forces that work in underhanded ways to malign freedom. Edward R. Murrow, that famed American newscaster of the twentieth century stated, “We cannot defend freedom abroad by deserting it at home.”

The adage often attributed to George Washington, but stated also, in slightly different words by Thomas Paine, John Philpot Curran, Plato and others holds very true: “Eternal vigilance is the price of freedom.”

In this season of our nation’s birthday, I plan to think deeply and gratefully about the freedoms I enjoy as an American. I will not take freedom for granted. My brother, Eugene Dyer, did not take it for granted when he served as a gunner over Europe during World War II and earned the purple heart and other distinguished service awards.

We are often more prone to criticize America than to stand firm for its principles of freedom and harmony. Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche made a notable observation when he stated “Freedom is the will to be responsible to ourselves.”

When we salute our flag may we know that the red represents the blood, war, love, power, intensity, energy, passion and strength it has taken to make and keep America free. The blue represents peace, stability, harmony, unity, trust, truth, order, loyalty and security of a strong nation. The white stands for reverence, purity, humility and innocence America had at the birth of our nation 234 years ago. May we recognize, too, that it will take far more than the idea to keep winning and maintaining freedom. Freedom must become a way of life for all of us, responsible, wise and in-depth freedom not couched in selfishness but in harmony and giving, in vigilance and gratitude.

c 2010 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published July 1, 2010 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

May--An Important Month in U.S. History

The “Merry Month of May” for 2010 is soon to end. We will celebrate its last day and an important national holiday, Memorial Day, on Monday, May 31. It is a time to honor our patriotic dead and to recall the sacrifices they made for our freedoms. “Lest we forget,” let us take time to consider the price paid for liberty.

Such beauty as we enjoy can sometimes take our minds from more serious matters. Spring is here with great profusion of growing, blossoming landscapes. But it was also thought by old timers that May was a difficult month, one that required attention to practices of good health to get through the month. Two sayings characterized the month: For those already ill with some critical disease, the prediction was, “Ah, he (or she) will never get up May-hill.” Another had a brighter aspect: “If he can climb May-hill, he’ll do.” Well, we “climbed May hill” again this year, and I hope we are another year wiser as well as having reached another milestone in years accrued. Let us consider some blessing we too often take for granted.

In a review of American history, we see that a new, struggling America following winning of the Revolutionary War set the second Monday in May as a time to have delegates from the thirteen independent states (no longer colonies under the King of England) meet in Philadelphia in 1787, “for the sole and express purpose of revising the Articles of Confederation.”

The Convention was convened on May 14, 1787. Rhode Island declined to send delegates. From the other twelve states, seventy had been selected to go to Philadelphia. Only fifty-five of the seventy delegates elected to go ultimately attended, and of those fifty-five, only thirty-nine ended up signing, not the revised Articles of Confederation, but the brand new document, the Constitution of the United States. It took from May 14 until May 25 to get a quorum of the delegates together to revise the Articles of Confederation.

Many of the arguments, proposals, objections, revisions and adoptions are a matter of record, and can be accessed if anyone is an avid student of how our Constitution came about. However, that group of fifty-five delegates from twelve states represented the citizens, and was truly a “think-tank” for America’s document that has stood through the years.

Georgia’s elected delegates to the Convention were Abraham Baldwin, William Few, William Houstoun, and William L. Pierce. Of the four, only two went to Philadelphia and participated in that May conclave in 1787. These two were Abraham Baldwin and William Few who eventually signed the Constitution after it was circulated in Georgia (and other states). It met with general approval, following the addition of the first ten items in the Bill of Rights. It took from May 14, the day of convening of the Convention to revise the Articles of Confederation, until September 17, 1787, four months, for the new Constitution to be passed. One of the primary arguments was that states’ rights be assured, with the federal government not being all-powerful over the states. Considering the means of communication and transportation in 1787, the passage of the document in four months was indeed a spectacular feat.

It was to the wise, elderly Benjamin Franklin, that final success of the Convention is due. He rose, and reading from a prepared speech which has been preserved for later generations to read, he stated: “Mr. President, I confess that there are several parts of this Constitution which I do not at present approve, but I am not sure that I shall never approve them…The older I grow, the more apt I am to doubt my own judgment and to pay more attention to the judgment of others…I think a general government necessary for us…what may be a blessing to the people if well-administered…On the whole, sir, I cannot help expressing a wish that every member of the Convention, who may still have objections to it, would, with me, on this occasion, doubt a little of his own infallibility, and make manifest our unanimity, put his name to this instrument.” Benjamin Franklin then introduced the motion to have the delegates sign the document.

And to that document, thirty-nine men set their signatures, enough to give the newly formed United States of America a document, which, though amended numerous times throughout its more than two-century history, still stands as a beacon to democratic governments world-wide. One of the major responsibilities of the president of the United States is to “uphold the Constitution.” Now, we as citizens must be discerning that whatever person is president will honor and uphold the document that was formed in the month of May so many years ago. As citizens of a wonderful nation, we have to “climb May hill” all over again to assure that those things which are vital to the fabric of our freedom are not ripped out, torn apart, misinterpreted and cast aside. On Memorial Day, may we give these “May summits” and all who worked on, stood for and died for them some very serious thought and thanks.

c 2010 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published May 27, 2010 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Cherokee Names and Legends

BLOOD MOUNTAIN

Elevation 4458 Ft.

Chattahoochee National Forest
--------------0-------------
In Cherokee mythology the mountain was one

of the homes of the Nunnehi or Immortals,

the “People Who Live Anywhere,” a race of

Spirit People who lived in great townhouses

in the highlands of the old Cherokee Country.

One of these mythical townhouses stood near

Lake Trahlyta. As a friendly people they

often brought lost hunters and wanderers to

their townhouses for rest and care before

Guiding them back to their homes. Before

the coming of white settlers, the Creeks

and Cherokees fought a disastrous and bloody

battle at Slaughter Gap between Slaughter

and Blood Mountain.

The historical marker gives interesting information about early dwellers in our land. The Cherokee who were in Union County long before the white settlers left us many names and legends that, though sometimes sad, enrich our land and lend much food for thought. The historical marker on Blood Mountain gives a taste of both legend and real history, and helps us know why the mountain was named Blood.

First, to the myth about the Nunnehi, immortal people. These were believed to be the immortals who dwelt in these mountains. Their task was to help all who traveled and needed assistance of any sort. We can only imagine how overwhelming was their tasks when the Creeks and Cherokees met in battle at Slaughter Gap near Blood Mountain. It is said the blood ran down so profusely from the dead and wounded that the whole area was covered in blood. Hence the names, Blood Mountain and Slaughter Gap.

Prior to the Revolutionary War, the Cherokee had made contact with English, French and Spanish settlers. They had learned to trade and make bargains with the European colonists. We find many instances of Cherokee leaders negotiating with traders and government officials. Oftentimes, the Cherokee would make raids against the settlers. Living on the frontier in those days was fraught with danger. In the Revolution, the Cherokee sided with the British against the colonists.

In 1791 at what was called the Holston Conference, Cherokee-American negotiations were somewhat stabilized. There followed several treaties in which Cherokee land was ceded to states and the federal government. By 1819, the Cherokee Nation was left with about ten million acres of their former land holdings. Some of the Cherokee began to move to western lands in the early 1800’s. The Overhill Cherokee that had remained in the mountains of Georgia, the Carolinas and Tennessee were the most adamant against moving west. In 1828, the government of Georgia declared Cherokee law null and void. Governor Gilmer, with the support of President Andrew Jackson, sent troops to push the Cherokees out. The next governor, Wilson Lumpkin, continued to push for Cherokee removal. Many had left before the final exodus and the Trail of Tears that began under the military direction of General Winfield Scott in 1838.

When white settlers began to come into what became Union County in 1832, some Indians remained but most had already moved.

The town of Blairsville was incorporated on December 26, 1835 and became Union’s county seat. Two reports exist about whom the town was named for. In his Georgia Place Names, Kenneth Krakow states that it was named for Francis Preston Blair (1791-1876), a Kentuckian, editor of The Washington Globe newspaper which was established to support Andrew Jackson’s presidency. The fine house in which F. P. Blair lived in Washington was purchased for government property and is now known as the Blair House.

The other person (probably more authentically) for whom the town of Blairsville was named was Captain James Blair. He was an official Cherokee Indian agent, born in Augusta County, Virginia in 1761, and listed as working in Tennessee, Georgia and the Carolinas as an Indian agent between the years of 1801-1835. The naming of our county seat town for this Blair was declared in “The Blair Family Magazine,” Volume 8, No. 3 in the Fall of 1990 by researcher Margaret Vance Webb. She tells how James Blair worked to settle land claims and to assist with Cherokee removal from Georgia. In Habersham County, Georgia, where Georgia Highways 115 and 105 intersect, a historical marker indicates that spot as where the “Blair Line” crossed. The historical marker reads: “It was a line between the state of Georgia and the Cherokee Nation, surveyed by Captain James Blair in the early 1800’s. The line extended from the forks of the Soque and the Chattahoochee Rivers in a direct northerly line to the Tallulah River. It was the boundary line in 1817 for all the lands east of the Chattahoochee River by the State of Georgia from the Cherokee Nation by the Treaty of 1818.”

This abbreviated sketch merely hits the high places of the stormy era of our history prior to and leading up to Cherokee Removal. Each time you hear a name, like Walisiyi, Trahlytah, Arkaquah, Coosa, Choestoe, and many more, know that the Cherokee left place names where they once lived, names that we now take for granted in our familiarity with our beloved county. Honor the names and the land left to us. They came our way at great sacrifice and with much heartbreak.

c 2010 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published May 20, 2010 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Spring in Appalachia –The Service (Sarvis, Sorbus) Tree Blooms

In spring in Appalachia we look through eyes of winter’s lingering to see signs of renewal. Stretching up our mountainsides are trees with snow-white blooms, looking more like angel-clouds descended and brightening our still cool days.

It is our sarvis tree (also known as service tree, an Anglicization of the Latin sorbus torminalis, or wild service tree). Its white blossoms are as welcome as the spring sunshine, as heartening as the balmy breezes that blow from the south to awaken all of nature and bring hope and beauty to a gray landscape.

Our north Georgia poet, Byron Herbert Reece (1917-1958) wrote about the service tree in his second book of poems, Bow Down in Jericho (E. P. Dutton, 1950). The poem is so beautiful, so to-the-point. It gives such a clear word-picture of the scene that no explication should be forthcoming. Just enjoy his words, his insight, his flawless presentation in:

We Could Wish Them a Longer Stay

Plum, peach, apple and pear
And the service tree on the hill
Unfold blossom and leaf.
From them comes scented air
As the brotherly petals spill.
Their tenure is bright and brief.

We could wish them a longer stay,
We could wish them a charmed bough
On a hill untouched by the flow
Of consuming time; but they

Are lovelier, dearer now
Because they are soon to go,
Plum, peach, apple and pear
And the service blooms whiter than snow.

-Byron Herbert Reece (in Bow Down in Jericho, 1950)

Reece in his poem pairs the “service tree on the hill” with more domesticated trees common to Appalachian orchards: “plum, peach, apple and pear.” There on the mountainside, the service tree bears its blossoms, fragrant in the early-spring.

It gives me a sense of connectedness to know that my grandmother looked out and saw the service (sarvis) tree blooming and declared, “Spring is here!” And it was also with a sense of continuation back to her mother and grandmother before her who had likewise looked for this harbinger of spring on the mountainsides, lighting up the grayness before all the trees had budded forth.

A commonly held belief about why this tree was called the “sarvis” or service tree is likewise a part of our Appalachian culture. It bloomed out in time to be gathered and taken to church services (sarvis) in the early spring. It could also be used at spring funerals, some of which had to be delayed until the ground was thawed enough to dig the grave and bury the dead. I can’t remember this happening, but I am told it was true, back when our winters were much more severe than now. Much farther north than our North Georgia mountains, I did once visit in the Adirondak mountain region and saw a “holding place” where the corpse was kept until the thawing ground removed the resistance and allowed the shovels to enter to dig the grave.

And why did Reece, in his poem, relate the service tree blossoms to our better known “plum, peach, apple and pear”? I think it was because they bloomed close to the same time in spring. He could have included it because the service tree had fruits of its own coming in the fall season as a result of spring blooming. The service tree bears a small edible fruit which is similar to a date. This fruit is stringy and astringent.

My grandmother, Sarah Evaline Souther Dyer (an herbalist “doctor”) would have known that it was good for colic when boiled and made into medicine. Even the second part of the Latin name, “sorbus torminalis,” means “good for colic.” Also, when the fruit was left until the over-ripe or “bletted” stage, it became less-astringent and good for use as food as well as for home-brewed medicines.

Go back now and re-read Reece’s beautiful poem. Let its lines help you to see “the service tree on the hill.” These “blooms whiter than snow” provide a lovely sight to winter-weary eyes. “We could wish them a longer stay,” but alas, time moves on (and times, too, for that matter). And so do our mountain ways, our connections to a past life slower in pace, our ways of “making-do” and appreciating what we have. Even a show of spring and blossoms ready for “services”—whether church celebration or funeral wake —can remind us of those good times. We can only prolong these white blossoms of our rich mountain life through passing on our lore, our stories, our memories. They, like “the service blossoms whiter than snow” are “lovelier, dearer now/Because they are soon to go.” Let us do what we can to help these rich stories remain among us.

c 2010 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published April 15, 2010 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Memories of Easters Past

The early morning chill made shivers run through my body. I was but a child, maybe seven or eight at the oldest. I stood with other church members from Choestoe Baptist Church on the crest of the hill on the Holt property. From that vantage point, we had an excellent view of the eastern sky. Already it was tinged with streaks of gold and sparkling magenta. At the very first peek of the sun on the horizon, the Easter Sunrise Service began.

This, to my knowledge at least, was the first sunrise service I had ever attended. Our pastor, the Rev. Claud Boynton, who had come to our church when I was age six, was what we call a bi-vocational pastor. For his “real” living, he worked under that inimitable forest ranger, Mr. Arthur Woody, to patrol the forests of our section of north Georgia, to build fire breaks, to build roads, and whatever else was assigned to the forestry workers. And, as an additional—and I might add—called—job, he served as pastor at Choestoe Baptist Church and at Zion and maybe Mt. Lebanon, too, over in Suches community. Later, he would go to full-time status as pastor, with Choestoe and Blairsville First as his charges, and eventually only Blairsville First. But the Easter sunrise service of note was rather early in his career as an outstanding pastor in the hills of North Georgia.

Pastor Boynton had many innovative ideas that we at Choestoe had not experienced before. One of them was to hold an Easter sunrise service. And so we were gathered there, on the crest of the Holt property hill, awaiting the sunrise that early Easter morning.

As I mentioned above, I was cold. Mornings in Choestoe in March or early April (I did not look back to see which month Easter might have fallen, for I really don’t know exactly what year that long-ago sunrise service was held.) Even wrapped in my warmest coat, the early morning cold penetrated, and I wondered if I had been wise to attend the service. Everything about it was new and unusual to my child mind.

But the impression it made has held for my lifetime since then. I became aware at a very early age of how special Easter is. Where there was death and a tomb, there came, instead, resurrection from the dead and an empty grave. Where there was sadness and mourning, there came joy and hope. From that point onward in my life, any time I stood at the grave of one beloved, I did not consider the doom associated with death but the victory in resurrection.

You might say the cold I felt on that long-ago Easter morning when I attended my first sunrise service turned to a warmth in my heart that sees beyond death to life everlasting.

I can see in my mind’s eye the brilliance of the sunrise on that long ago Easter. I return again and again to the words my pastor, the Rev. Claud Boynton read from Matthew 28:1-10 (or maybe he read from Mark 16:1-11, or Luke 24:1-12, or John 20:1-18, all accounts of the resurrection). The experience of that first sunrise service made a deep and lasting impression on me. It changed my perspective on death and dying and gave me hope for life and eternity. How much would I need that hope, and how it grew into fruition a few years later when my beloved aunt, grandfather and my own mother died (I was only fourteen at her death).

So Easter is a time of hope.

It was many years later, 1978, as a matter of fact. It was not even Easter in early spring but July, and heat from the sun in the Holy Land let us (my husband Grover, his sister Estelle and I) know that we were in a strange land. But in a sense, it was not a strange land, for most of my life I had read and heard about the places Jesus frequented when He was in the flesh upon this earth.

My husband and I, in that summer of 1978, were having the privilege of visiting his sister Estelle who was a missionary to the Holy Land. We went together to many of the sites described in the Bible and where Jesus traveled, performed His miracles, taught His disciples. And finally, the sites where He prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane, was tried by the Jewish Sanhedrin and in the Roman Praetorium, traveled on the Via Dolorosa (The Way of Sorrows), went to the cross on Golgotha, was placed in the tomb offered by Joseph of Arimathea, and then on that glorious First Easter, the tomb was empty.

We experienced seeing the empty tomb and hearing a service of celebration beside it. I thought of times in my husband’s ministry when he had led Easter sunrise services at various churches he pastored. All of those early morning vigils were filled with hope and joy. The visit to Jerusalem and the Garden Tomb was indeed a highlight of my Christian life and journey. But as impressive as the visit to the empty Garden Tomb was in our Holy Land trip, it was no more impressive than that first Easter sunrise service in my memory when the sun burst forth from behind the mountains as the assembly of faithful believers gathered on Holt’s Hill in Choestoe. Resurrection took on a most significant meaning then.

c 2010 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Apr. 1, 2010 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Home for Christmas

“Home is where the heart is,” we hear often, and especially at Christmastime. In mind if not in journeying we turn toward home, the place where we knew love, security and peace in our lives. Indeed, “all hearts go home at Christmas” if we were fortunate enough to experience a home of solidarity and nurturing.

This Christmas, may we each remember home, and some of the foundational attributes learned there that have made you and I who and what we are today.

I learned the important lesson of sharing with others at home at Christmastime. My early childhood was spent in the throes of the Great Depression. My farm family was hit by this 1930’s blight on the American economy, but I do not remember that we suffered immensely from its impact. We had shelter, food, clothing and the basic needs that made us comfortable enough. But through that time, I learned that one toy from Santa on Christmas morning might be the extent of my gifts, and whatever that was, whether homemade doll with clothing to change her, a checkerboard and marbles, or a homemade “fox and geese” board, these were to be shared unselfishly with siblings and cousins as we played together. Indeed, many happy hours were spent around a winter fire enjoying simple games and story times.

This concept of sharing learned as a child grew with me into later life. At Christmas we are made very aware of places to share and people to assist. We hear the ring of the Salvation Army kettle keepers, smiling in their cold posts beside stores in the mall. Their “Merry Christmas” is a reminder to help many less fortunate than we. Maybe our donation is too small in comparison to the great needs. But with gifts from many, the extent of help can be multiplied. This could be said of helping in soup kitchens and with holiday meals for the unfortunate. Taking a name from the “Angel Tree” to fulfill Christmas wishes from those depending on social services and many who assist can make someone less fortunate happy on Christmas Day.

“Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.” We can light a candle, figuratively, in the homes and in the lives of people and help them go home happier this Christmas by sharing through a generous heart.

Then Christmas reminds us of our reasons for giving. It was at Christmas that God “split time apart” (literally, into BC—Before Christ, and AD, Anno Domini, in the year of our Lord) and visited mankind with the greatest gift ever known, “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son…” (John 3:16). Because God gave, we too can give with generous hearts to help others.

America is a composite of many cultures, many practices observed at Christmas. But even with the “political correctness” that would tear down our tried and true observances of this most holy season, I find it encouraging that people are finding a way to assert their allegiance to Christmas and its true meaning. From the many who came to our shores in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries—yes, and even to the present day—we have the sense of “going home at Christmas.”

In our Southern colonies, settled by people from England, Ireland, Scotland and many other European countries, we have the traditions of making our homes festive and beautiful at the Christmas season. Evergreens are a silent symbol of everlasting life and giving is an active motivation from hearts of gratitude and love.

With the Moravian settlers, most from Germany, came the tradition of agape, the love feast, a time of traditional food, music, candles and gatherings to celebrate the Christ Child’s birth. These centered around going to church to celebrate the flame of love from white candles with red ribbon bands, representing purity, the Light of the World and the blood of Christ. After the candlelight service they go home or to the homes of friends to joyously partake of a bountiful meal.

And we can’t neglect the gift of music. From caroling groups moving from house to house to great massed choirs in cathedrals and churches to spontaneous singing wherever Christians are gathered, music is a gift to the world at Christmas. Stories behind the carols make the words even more meaningful as they fall gently on our ears at Christmas.

On Christmas Eve, I will be at church for the Candlelight Lord’s Supper, and as we light our candles, as many of my family members as can gather on one pew, surrounded by our friends and neighbors worshipping with us, we will be reminded that we have the light of our lives to share in a dark world. Wherever and however you celebrate Christmas this year, may you rejoice that the spirit of this holy season has found a home in your heart, lifted you to new heights and to genuine joy.

c 2009 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Dec. 24, 2009 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Christmas, Family Solidarity, and Meeting a Challenge

We didn’t have firecrackers and fireworks popping off that Christmas. In fact, I doubt if we had ever had the spectacular fireworks that some people see and marvel at on certain holidays like the Fourth of July and Christmas.

But we did have fireworks of a frightening sort that year, and they did not come from detonation of firecrackers or sparklers.

This is how the true story goes as I remember it and as it was told to me.

My father had loaded up his family in our farm wagon, with our two trusty mules pulling our rig. We had feed for the animals for overnight, and, because the weather was very cold, we children were well-clad in warm wool clothing with blankets wrapped about us to ward off the cold. Old black flat irons had been warmed, wrapped in towels and placed at our feet in the wagon to add warmth as we journeyed four miles over the country road to Grandma’s house to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

Mother and Daddy sat “up front” in the wagon on the bench especially made to be placed in the wagon for the driver and one passenger. We children rode behind them, in the bed of the wagon, softened by the hay for the mules, our blankets to keep us warm, and the meager presents we were able to take to Grandmother and others who would be at her house. The time of this trip was about 1936 and the Great Depression was still bringing economic hardships to everyone. We country people were fortunate. We had plenty to eat we had grown on the farm, and we had shelter and clothing, although the clothing was much-worn and hand-me-downs.

A sense of excitement swept over us, for, although we went to see Grandma fairly often, going at Christmastime was special. Some of my cousins my same age would be there from Atlanta and other away places. We would have a delightful time playing together. And, we’d been promised that if we had been good, Santa Claus would find us at Grandma’s house as well as at our own. So we had our special stockings to “hang by the chimney with care.”

Grandma’s house was built in 1850 by her father, so it was an old structure. It started out as a log cabin. The original cabin was somewhere beneath the added rooms and lumber that had seen the cabin grow from its former one-room and lean-to kitchen to three large rooms across the front, an ell added-on dining room and kitchen, two large porches, front and back, and an attic that held all sorts of mysteries and delights for curious children who played hide-and-seek there and found plenty of treasures to entertain us in old storage trunks. There were three fireplaces and chimneys in the house, one in Grandma’s front room, one in Uncle Hedden’s front room, and one in the kitchen. All fireplaces were burning large logs on that particularly cold Christmas Eve.

Arriving at Grandma’s house well before dark, we played outside some even in the cold before supper (that’s what we called the evening meal then.) Then Aunt Dora, my Uncle Hedden’s wife who, because Grandma was so elderly at this time, was the “lady of the house,” called us in to wash up and eat the steaming meat stew she had prepared for her large family and all the guests present for that Christmas Eve feast. With dark coming early, there was no more playing outside after supper. How we managed to settle down enough to go to bed that night, I’ll never quite know. Exhaustion probably had overtaken us. Because there were not enough beds, several of us children had the delight of sleeping on “pallets” made with our warm blankets on the floor in front of the fire. The sandman finally took over and we drifted off to sleep.

Then, sometime after falling asleep, we were roused with the excited shouts of “Fire! Fire! Get up! Get outside as quickly as possible!”

We instantaneously changed from sleeping to leaping, heading for the closest door to the outside, somehow remembering to take our blankets with us to guard us from the cold. The adults urged us children across the road and into the barn, where we watched from the barn hall with wide-eyed fright.

The adults formed a bucket brigade from the spring near the house and began a frantic movement of water to fight the fire. With a tall ladder propped against the roof, the water was lifted by climbers and poured on the blaze shooting from one chimney.

From our safety in the barn, we children could see that the fire was leaping from the chimney on the north side of the house, the one from the fireplace in “Grandma’s room.” The men and women worked swiftly, and soon the blaze was under control. Grandma’s house had been saved and everyone in it.

“What happened?” we children wanted to know as we left the barn and went back to the house that had seemed to be in such great danger but was saved from destruction. “The soot caught fire in the chimney,” someone explained to us. “We built up the fires too large and we had not properly cleaned out the chimneys,” someone else said.

Despite the midnight fire and the excitement, we finally got settled back into beds and on pallets. “Can Santa get down the sooty chimney?” some of us children asked. We were assured that yes; Santa might even be able to help brush out the congested chimney as he lowered himself through it to bring our gifts.

Whether it was in my sleep and dreams or whether I actually saw Santa descend, fill our stockings with candy, an apple, an orange, some nuts and one hand-made toy for each child, I learned a few great principles about the season. Love of parents and family is better than a warm blanket anytime. When an emergency arises, it takes level-headedness and doing what has to be done to meet the challenge. And, indeed, if a child is good, obeys his parents, and does his best, Santa will come on Christmas Eve despite the frightening fireworks in the chimney and the failed economic times.

c 2009 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Dec. 17, 2009 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

"The Magic of Christmas" at Central State Hospital

The Powell Building named for third administrator of Central State Hospital, Dr. Thophilus O. Powell, commands a central position in the hospital complex. Here the stately columned building is decorated for Christmas.

Some of the mayors present on a special day in Middle Georgia may have driven through mountain mists to arrive at Central State Hospital by mid-day when the parade began forming for an annual event enjoyed not only by the clients and employees but by local citizens and visitors as well. This was my sixth year to be inspired by the event.

Central State Hospital in Milledgeville, Georgia held its annual “Mayor’s Christmas Parade” and an unbelievable musical presentation called “The Magic of Christmas” on December 1, 2009.

Called “Mayor’s Christmas Parade” because the mayors of towns and cities throughout Georgia are invited to attend and bring gifts their constituents have collected to be distributed to the patients at Christmas time. The annual event begun by First Lady of Georgia, Betty Vandiver, wife of Governor Ernest Vandiver, in 1958 has continued. Weeks in advance, social workers, music therapists, and staff gifted with preparing a program work with the patients to aid those able to participate in the musical production.

The auditorium is always well appointed with beautiful Christmas decorations. Although the day was cold for Middle Georgia and standing to see the parade was chilly, inside the large auditorium a warmth lifted the spirits and the chilled bodies.

Chief Executive Officer Marvin Bailey gave opening remarks summarizing the history of the institution. Approved in 1837 by the Georgia Legislature when the capital was Milledgeville, it took from then until 1842 for the four-story dormitory building to be open for clients. Then called the Georgia Lunatic Asylum, it at first admitted paupers with mental disabilities, but services were soon expanded to include any citizens who needed institutional care. Tomlinson Fort and William A. White were the legislators who introduced the bill to begin the institution. The first allocation was $20,000 for the four-story building which contained clients’ rooms, treatment rooms and a small area for office space. The hospital facilities grew on the 1,700 acres set aside for the institution. At one time in the 1960s, almost 13,000 clients occupied the various buildings of the massive complex. At that time, it was the largest mental hospital in the United States, and maybe even in the world. The first administrators were Dr. David M. Cooper (serving 1843-1846), followed by Dr. Thomas F. Green (1847-1879), and then Dr. Thophilus O. Powell (1879-1907), with the central building still standing that was named in his memory.

Mr. Bailey told us that current client population is slightly above 600. One reason for this low number, compared to the thousands that once occupied the dormitories, is new psychotropic and other treatment medications that can assist patients with mental disabilities. Then about two decades ago, it was deemed better to place those capable, with supervision, in group homes to live more like ordinary citizens. The group homes are not on the Central Georgia Complex. Also, the regional hospitals care for those with mental or other disabilities, thus decreasing Central State’s population.

First, we heard “Somewhere” from the movie “West Side Story” performed as a solo by Robb Weiss with Lisa Vaughn accompanying on piano.

Then the curtains opened to “The Magic of Christmas” setting, appropriate choreography and lighting to enhance the performances. Milledgeville ballet studios provided dancers, especially the children, who performed “Little St. Nick” and “Frosty the Snowman” interspersed with the musical and dance numbers by Central State clients and staff members. The costumes fitted each musical number and the backdrops were artistic, eye-catching and bright. “The Magic of Christmas” truly came to Central State December 1. Several numbers from “The Nutcracker” ballet were spectacular. In the middle of the program was a tribute to current service men and veterans with ties to any of the hospital staff. My daughter had not told me in advance, so I was surprised when a picture of her father, my husband, Rev. Grover Jones, appeared in his World War II navy uniform. There was a picture, too, of Cynthia’s husband, S/Sgt. Carlos Berenguer, retired from the Air National Guard, along with many others in the power-point and patriotic music interlude.

Tears always come to my eyes when the march of the wheel chair patients, each decked out in Christmas finery, followed by aides who roll the wheelchairs, come down the aisles and perform a wheel-chair dance in front of the stage. Even though the music was cheerful and peppy, “Mister Santa,” many in the audience smiled while wiping tears. This group appeared again in the finale when together with all the others made one great crowd of performers. We were inspired by the final number, “O Holy Night” performed by soloist Angela Ingram, a staff member with a magnificent voice.

A standing ovation and much applause filled the large auditorium. Then came brief remarks by selected mayors and Mrs. Nita Cagle, wife of Lt. Governor Casey Cagle. And what the clients will enjoy at Christmas, the gifts from towns throughout Georgia were presented, stacked in abundance before the large stage. The staff will give them to the clients and make them happy again by their gifts received on Christmas Eve.

We sometimes think of “lunatic” asylums (we don’t call them that any more) or mental hospitals being dismal places with no prospects of enjoyable times. This Christmas extravaganza is a wonderful event that brings “The Magic of Christmas” to many people—cheer enough to last the New Year through.

c 2009 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Dec. 10, 2009 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved

Christmas Traditions Reflect Our Heritage--The Christmas Tree

Here in the mountains of North Georgia our ancestors hail from many countries. Since we become a part of what we have known from previous generations, our Christmas traditions are a rich fabric of many customs practiced first in the Mother countries from whence our ancestors came and then established as rituals and observances throughout the years and in our present-day practices.

The Christmas tree is a beloved entity of our Yuletide decorations. Just how did we arrive at the tradition of having a tree in a prominent place in our home, adorned with decorations, glittering with lights, and underneath wrapped gifts galore for members of the household and others?

We can thank, first, our German ancestors for the Christmas tree custom. Then we will have to give our English forbears credit, too, for they borrowed the tradition from the Germans and added to it. These early immigrants to America celebrated Christmas with a tree as in the old country.

But we find that some of the meanings behind the Christmas tree are older, even, than our German and English practices. The ancient Egyptians, Chinese and Hebrews—long before the advent of Christmas—used the evergreen as a symbol of eternal life. Pagans in Europe, even in Germanic and Anglo-Saxon settlements, practiced tree worship. They used the branches of evergreen trees placed in strategic places in their barns and houses to ward off evil spirits. After their conversion to Christianity, they used their pagan customs of evergreen placement as part of their Christian observances.

The first date attached to a Christmas tree is 1510 in Riga, Latvia, which is now northern Germany. Several men wearing black hats set up a large evergreen tree in the square at Yule time, the winter solstice, the shortest day in the year. Although it was to commemorate the birth of the Lord Christ, it also was a tribute to their sun god, Mithras, whom they had worshipped before learning about Christ and His birth. They decorated the giant tree with artificial flowers. After observing Yule, or Christmas, they then set the tree on fire, and the burning signified that from Yule Day, the days would gradually grow longer.

Martin Luther (1483-1546), the leader of the Reformation, was out walking one night near Christmas. He saw some fir trees with the starlight reflected through their branches. It was a beautiful sight and reminded him of Christ and eternal life. He wanted to teach his children what he had experienced at seeing the tree, but words failed him. He went back to the trees, cut one and took it into his house. He placed candles on the branches. He taught lessons about Christ’s birth and His offer of eternal life through salvation, represented by the evergreen of the branches. Candles represented Christ as the Light of the World, and taught that Christians should go forth as shining lights in a dark world. Martin Luther married Katharina von Bora, a former nun, on June 13, 1525. Six children were born to them, four of whom lived to become adults. Perhaps the Christmas tree in Luther’s house was in the mid to late 1530s. Luther died in 1546 of a massive heart attack.

Another legend of the Christmas tree predates the one in Riga, Latvia and the Martin Luther family tree. Winifred of England, who was later called St. Boniface (c672-754), went as a missionary to the Druids of Germany in the eighth century. About the year 723, he came upon a group of Druids preparing to sacrifice their young Prince Asulf to the god Thor under an oak tree. He stopped them. When he began to cut down the “bloody tree,” to the Druids a sacred oak, a strong wind came and blew down the tree. In its place a green fir tree sprang up. Because Boniface was not killed in the act of intentionally cutting their sacred tree, the Druids listened to him and embraced Christianity. Boniface taught the Druids that the fir was a tree of peace and its green represented eternal life. From then forward the fir trees had a special designation as the tree of Christ the Lord.

Queen Victoria of England and her husband, German Prince Albert, were pictured standing around their decorated Christmas tree in 1846 with their children. With a popular queen embracing the custom of having a Christmas tree, many Englishers followed suit and began the annual practice of decorating a tree in their own homes.

In America, the Pennsylvania German settlements had community Christmas trees and celebrations as early as 1747. Decorations were of the “home made” variety. White homemade wafers were baked to represent the bread of the sacrament. Berries, flowers and homemade garlands added to the decorations. Before electric lights, candles were placed in fireproof holders to prevent conflagration. Seeing the tree as a beautiful part of Christmas, many settlers, regardless of the country of their origin, placed Christmas trees in their homes and in churches as our nation expanded. Now, beautiful Chrismon trees with decorations representative of biblical truths are often seen in churches.

As you decorate and enjoy your tree this Christmas, know that you join in a long tradition of customs that seek to bring meaning and joy to the season. And I hope you will call it Christmas tree—not holiday tree.

c 2009 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Dec. 3, 2009 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

A Correction, A Thanksgiving Wish, and Another Brown Family

First, a correction from last week’s column. Thanks to Wanda Brown Gibson of Blairsville who knows much more about the many Brown family lines in Union and Towns Counties than I could ever hope to uncover, I have this glaring error to correct from last week’s column (November 19), last paragraph.

I wrote that Smith and Mary Brown’s eighth child, Henry Franklin Brown, became a Baptist minister. Actually, this Henry Brown, son of Smith and Mary, became a deacon at New Liberty Baptist Church—not a minister. The Rev. Henry Brown was a descendent of Ezekiel Brown through Walter Brown. Ezekiel Brown had large holdings along the Hiawassee River in Towns County and before the Emancipation Proclamation, owned a number of slaves. This line of Browns made bricks from clay and Ezekiel Brown built an imposing brick house for his family. Rev. Henry Jud Brown was born February 28, 1880 and died March 20, 1968 at age 88. At age 21, he was the first pastor of West Union Baptist Church in Towns County when it was organized in 1901. Other known pastorates were Mt. Pisgah in North Carolina, and in Georgia Old Brasstown, Old Union, Liberty, Zebulon, Harmony Grove, Ebenezer, Antioch, Blairsville and Choestoe. I’m sorry for any confusion my error caused researchers.

Now for a Thanksgiving wish. Our American holiday which we call Thanksgiving dates back to November 21, 1621 when the Pilgrims of Plymouth Colony and their neighbors, the Wampanoag Indians with Chief Massasoit as their leader, gathered for a feast of Thanksgiving. The Mayflower Compact governed the Plymouth Colony in those early years. The friendly Indians lent help to the brave band of Pilgrims as they planted their first crops and survived the rigors of their first year in a strange land.

The stories of how they built their government, settled into village life, and made friends with the Indians has inspired generations since 1620. As we gather with families on this Thanksgiving, may we consider the principles upon which America was founded. The Pilgrims made a solemn covenant to treat one another with brotherly love, to seek to supply one another’s needs, to live together in peace and harmony, to share each other’s joys and sorrows, and to work for the greater good of their community. My wish for you is a solemn and grateful Thanksgiving and a return to principles that served our forebears well in the early years of this nation.

Today’s focus on another Brown family will be that of Martha Clementine Brown (05/02/1861-09/05/1933), the eleventh child of twelve born to Harmon and Sarah Brown. On February 12, 1878, Martha Clementine, called “Tina” and John Padgett Souther (09/12/1858 -3/04/1959) spoke their wedding vows. Tina’s husband was the fifth child of ten born to his parents, John Combs Hayes Souther (10/22/1827-01/04/1891) and Nancy Collins Souther (02/13/1829-07/22/1888). Recall, please, from last week’s article that Mary Elizabeth Souther (04/07/1853-01/11/1929), John Padgett’s Souther’s oldest sister, married the Rev. Smith Loransey Brown (01/20;1850-05/16/1932), the sixth child of Harmon and Sarah Brown. The children of these couples, being double-first cousins, would have much in common, living rather close together on farms in the Choestoe District. Rev. Smith Brown and Mary Elizabeth Brown had nine children (see last week’s article for that list). John Padgett Souther and Martha Clementine “Tina” Brown Souther had sixteen children:

1. Jasper Gilliam Souther (11/29/1878-07/24/1943) married first, Nancy Collins (1876-1907) and second, Estella Mae Cole (1888-1978). Gilliam was an ordained Baptist minister. He died in the pulpit while conducting revival meeting at New Liberty Baptist Church. He had expressed a desire to die while preaching, and his wish was fulfilled. He was buried in Clermont, Georgia.

2. Sarah J. Souther (10/18/1880-02/15/1881)
3. Homer H. Souther (12/24/1881-1946) married Lizzie Plott.
4. Oria C. Souther (12/23/1883-12/29/1965) married Edward Collins.
5. Infant (b/d 03/14/1884).
6. Nora E. Souther (10/12/1887-10/17/1919) married LaFayette Jackson.
7. Maria Souther (08/02/1886-05/30/1950).
8. William H. Souther (07/17/1889-?), married twice; spouses’ names unknown.
9. Joseph Thompson Souther (02/22/1893-05/14/1983) married Bertha Pruitt.
10. Martha D. Souther (02/11/1891-07/03/1893)
11. Grady G. Souther (01/05/1895-09/25/1970) married Mary Johnson
12. Mary Souther (08/02/1897-05/30/1950).
13. Lydia Souther (09/22/1899 - ?).
14. Emily Rose Souther (10/26/1901 - ?) married John Rice.
15. Johnnie P. Souther (01/15/1905-01/06/1929).
16. Cora Souther (07/27/1903-11/09/1903).

We can imagine the heartache Martha Clementine “Tina” Brown Souther endured with four of her sixteen children dying as infants and one young son, Johnnie, at age 24. Tina died ten years before her preacher son, Jasper Gilliam, died at New Liberty Church in 1943, but his father, John Padgett Souther, who lived to be 99, was still living when his son, Rev. Gilliam Souther, died at age sixty-seven.

c2009 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Nov. 26, 2009 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

About "How Firm a Foundation" -- First Baptist Church History Book

Recently off the press is the beautiful book recounting the history of First Baptist Church, Blairsville.

Serving on the committee to research, write, design and publish the book were Ed and Doris Durban, Eva Decker, Mary Sue Moon, James Hooper, Tina Hourihan, Carol Rabun and Alan Morgan. They readily acknowledge that many more contributed to the book, making it a compendium of local and area history as well as the story of a faithful group of people who have lived and exercised faith in this place since at least 1875 or earlier.

It is an unusual book. Seldom do you see a church history book that is bound in what I like to call a “coffee table” format, one so comely and physically appealing in a book that you will want to place it in a prominent place in your home. Cover and contents, color and design—all invite the reader to enjoy.

The committee could not find an exact beginning date for First Baptist Church, Blairsville. They learned it was already founded and functioning as early as August 12, 1875, the earliest written records about the church. On that date, three messengers from the church—Isaac Petty, E. Boling and A. Carpenter—were representing Blairsville Baptist Church at the annual meeting of the Notla River Baptist Association and were so recorded in that body’s written minutes.

How long before 1875, or just when or by whom the church was founded has been lost in the mists of time and the absence of recorded information. The committee is to be commended for the sources they consulted to bring as much information as possible to readers about the church’s existence, growth, work and influence in the community and to the ends of the earth.

Old land deeds of August 29, 1883 reveal that a gift of two acres of land on Lot 303 was made to Blairsville Baptist Church Trustees by Jacob Luther Colwell. The Trustees receiving the land on behalf of the church were John A. Christopher, J. W. Meeks and Jessie Y. Walker. Later, in another gift of land from the same Land Lot 303, Mr. Jacob Luther Colwell gave another acre of land on January 8, 1890. On this land a house of worship was erected.

Early pastors, from a list made from memory by J. L. “Uncle Boney” Colwell in 1944, provided insight to first leaders in the absence of recorded minutes of the church’s first decades. Thumbnail biographies of these pastors are given, together with pictures when available.

The title of the book, How Firm a Foundation: A History of the First Baptist Church, Blairsville, Georgia, lends a hint of one of the unique features of the book. “How Firm a Foundation” is the title of a beloved church hymn appearing first in 1787 in London in John Rippon’s “Selection of Hymns.” It was beloved, too, by the first settlers who practiced the “faith first delivered to the saints.” They sang the songs they had learned in the mother country when they gathered to worship. In the seven chapters of the book, the committee used a hymn contemporary to and beloved in that particular historic period. This feature, combined with the history of the period and extensive pictures, many in color, provide a readable, interesting and composite picture of Baptist Church life and the context of events in which the church worked and ministered.

The dust jacket cover has these words about the book: “This is not your average church history book. This is a book about people—Christian men and women who, through dedication and commitment to God and each other, built the First Baptist Church of Blairsville. It is a story, not of a building, but of individual lives bound together within a community of God.” – The Book Committee; Ed Durbin and Doris Durbin, Editors and Writers.

As a researcher and writer, I will return to this book time and again as I seek information about people whose brief biographies and remembrances are included in the book. The excellent index makes the book an easy-to-use reference source. For inspiration, I will read testimonies and remembrances included in the book by various people I have known. In this way I can reconnect with people who made a difference in my own life.

Thanks are certainly in order to the church body itself for calling for and voting to publish what Honorable Zell Miller calls “a golden treasure-trove.” Thanks, a thousand-times over, for the persistence, digging, and hard work of the committee that brought the book to fruition. We think of crowns being a reward of our faithful service and coming after our transition to glory. But with this earthly work, the compilation and publication of How Firm a Foundation, your crown, faithful committee, is in our hands, ready to use, a glowing tribute to your efforts. All who read and appreciate the book will be basking in the glow of your shining crown.

c 2009 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Sept. 17, 2009 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Mountain Way: 'Putting Up' Grape Juice and Jelly

Last week we recalled the mountain ways of preserving foodstuffs for winter use, with a general look at the processes of drying, pickling, barreling, canning and mounding-up to preserve foods for winter and early spring use.

Today I invite you to “go purple” with me and come along on a trip back in time to the old grape arbor, to the creek bank to gather fox grapes, and to that work of making grape juice and jelly for winter use. Purple has always been the color for royalty, and as we looked at our cans of purple grape juice and the small glasses of jelly, we could anticipate a feast fit for royalty supplemented and abetted by these two tasty preserved items.

My Grandpa “Bud” Collins had a grape arbor. He grew Concord grapes. The vines were staked “to a fare-you-well,” which in mountain vernacular meant the lush vines were well-trained along a sturdy grape arbor. It was a happy day for me—like play, not work—when I was allowed to accompany my Aunts Ethel and Avery to the grape arbor to gather the harvest. I can remember still looking up to see the luscious clusters of ripe grapes hanging like purple gold from the vines with broad leaves that ran along the whole length and breadth of the scaffold.

As a small child, I was allowed my own small bucket and a step stool on which I stood to gather grapes. I was warned in advance, “Be careful; don’t wiggle or you’ll fall off the stool!” My aunts gave me instructions on how to reach to the end of the cluster and gently pull off the whole bunch of grapes. I would soon have my small bucket filled and feel quite an accomplishment at my help with this valuable harvest.

Then came another work-play task I enjoyed. I was shown how to wash the grapes in pans of clear water. We didn’t have running water at that time, so we drew cool buckets from the deep well, using the “well bucket,” rope and windlass. We always washed the grapes twice to insure they were clean, and always “looked” them to remove any insects that might be hiding somewhere on the grapes.

The next step was pulling the grapes from the cluster, making sure no stems remained on them. In the pot, the grapes were covered with water and put on the Home Comfort wood stove to simmer. It was customary to use a wire potato masher to crush the grapes as they boiled so that the juice could be readily released from the hulls. After a proper length of time of cooking, the grapes were set aside to cool some, and then they were strained through clean cheesecloth to save just the royal purple juice. This was placed in one-half gallon Mason fruit jars, sealed with a “rubber ring and can top,” the kind of sealer we had for the jars in those days, and the whole cans were submerged into a hot water bath until processed—just a few minutes, maybe ten, for juice. If the juice was too tart, some sugar was added to the juice in each jar and stirred to dissolve, before processing.

When the sealed jars cooled, they were taken to the cellar and stored on the shelves there awaiting winter use. What a treat it was to get a half-gallon of grape juice and taste its tangy goodness in the dead of winter. How pretty the jars looked, sitting in their assigned place in the well-ordered cellar. This royal-purple drink took its honored place beside the other many jars of preserved food from summer’s bounty.

Some of the grapes were turned into jelly or jam. When the juice was made, it was matched, cup-for-cup with white sugar and boiled until it “jelled.” Sure-Jell, which has been a marvelous find for jelly-making in the latter half of the twentieth century, was never heard of when I was young and helping with the jelly-making. We simply boiled the sugar-juice combination until a drop of it into water in a cup would indicate to the practiced eye that the jelly was ready to put into sterilized small jars and sealed over with melted wax to await those future treats with jelly and butter on a hot biscuit. Yum, yum. Can’t you just imagine how that tasted on a snowy morning in December or January?

Fox Grape harvest came in the fall. It was harder to gather these grapes, for they were wild and grew on vines that had climbed trees in our forest, especially along branch or creek banks. My younger brother Bluford became an expert fox grape gatherer, for he could “skinny up” a tree, with a bucket strapped about his waist by a belt, ready to pluck those grapes from their tall hiding places. We would take two or three buckets on our treks to find and gather fox grapes. Once home again with our treasure from the forest, the same processes as with Grandpa’s Concord grapes was followed to make juice and jelly from these wild grapes. They had a tartness that distinguished them from the tame Concord grapes, and the color was not quite as royal purple as those from the arbor.

I was age fourteen when my mother passed away. I found myself of necessity having to be “chief cook and bottle washer”—as well as canner and preserver—around the Dyer household. Looking back now, I often wonder how I was able to do adult work and still go to school. It wasn’t easy, but I had been taught well: “Whatever thy hands find to do, do it with thy might” and “Work is honorable; do it to the best of your ability and without complaining.”

Every time I purchase grape juice in today’s modern super market or get a jar of Smucker’s grape jelly or jam from the grocer’s shelf, I think back to those days of yore when I thought nothing of gathering grapes, processing them, and enjoying the products of my labors, that mountain way of “putting up” against the hunger and cold of winter months.

c 2009 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Sept. 2, 2009 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Mountain Way -- 'Putting-Up' Foodstuffs for Winter Use

With the economy in a downslide and the future uncertain, conditions may behoove us to go back to some old mountain ways of insuring our family’s welfare in the long, cold months of late fall and winter.

We call it “putting-up,” the processes we used to preserve food for future use. There were many of them used by frugal mountain folk, industrious people “to the Nth degree”, as we say here, to save what we grew and gathered by the sweat of our brow to grace our tables in winter’s cold. Drying, pickling, barreling, canning and mounding-up were a few processes that come to mind.

Drying included stringing green beans twice. First, “stringing” them to remove just that, the strings from white half-runners, our favorite variety to grow in the mountains. Then came stringing the unbroken beans by pushing a threaded needle through the middle of each until a goodly string was saved. Next came the drying process—hanging the “strung” beans from a nail in a safe, clean, out-of the way place or over a rafter in the attic to await winter’s need for them. The end product of this process had an interesting name, “Leather Britches.” When the housewife-cook was ready to prepare a “mess” of them, she washed them thoroughly, soaked them until the dryness gave way to plumpness as the beans hydrated again, and then cooked them slowly (in an iron pot) with a piece of “fat-back” pork meat.

Drying included many mountain products, among which were October beans (somewhat like present-day Pinto beans), peas of various sorts—the early spring sweet peas to make split-pea soup, several varieties of “field” peas, as black-eyed peas, Crowder peas, and purple-hull peas. These were shelled, dried in the sun, and put into bags to await winter meals. On my Daddy’s farm, we grew a lot of peas, and the dried peas were “beaten out” on a tarpaulin on the ground, and when the peas were thus out of the hull, they were put into a bucket, and held up and “winnowed” to blow the husks out. Then the beautiful dry peas were ready to store, labeled by kind, for winter use. Sometimes we sold a few bushels of the winnowed peas, what we would not need. The extra money for a few bushels of peas always helped out in our shortfall of cash.

Drying fruits was another skill. We used scaffolds on which we dried fruits—apples and peaches cut into slices, and dried carefully in the sun for several days with a screen-wire covering over the scaffold to prevent insects from harming the fruit. The scaffolded fruit was always brought inside at night to prevent its getting wet with dew.

One of the most delectable desserts imaginable was dried-fruit (apple) cake, with the layers stacked several high and a mixture of cooked dried apples with sugar and cinnamon added, spread on each thin cake layer for icing.

Pumpkin was dried, too, much like green beans, by stringing strips on a thread and hanging this cache to dry. The country cook knew how to turn dried pumpkin into pumpkin pies or how to add just the right amount of dried pumpkin to winter soups with potatoes, onions, carrots and stew meat, to make the soup delicious. The drying process guaranteed winter use of pumpkin, for this product, unless properly preserved, would not last through the winter. It had a short “shelf life” in the pumpkin shell.

Pickling was another process altogether. We pickeled beans, corn, cabbage and cucumbers, to name a few vegetables thus preserved. For these “putting-up” processes, we had to have crocks, or ceramic churns, in which to layer, process and then store the prepared vegetables.
Beans and corn were cooked (separately) until done. Then they were placed in churns with salt between each layer and set aside until “pickled.” The pickled product was then washed, and in more recent years, canned. But a long time ago, the products were washed off and returned to the crock pots, covered with clear water, to lessen the saline taste. The cabbage were chopped, and place raw, in layers of salt, in the pickling churn. The housewife knew, by daily examination, just when the process of pickling the kraut was finished, and washed the cabbage thoroughly and either returned it to the pottery jar with fresh water to await winter’s need, or else canned it. Cucumbers were helped along in the pickling process with a seasoning of dill herb and salt in much the same manner as the cabbage from which kraut was made.

Barrels of fresh apples were preserved by wrapping each in a piece of newspaper and storing in what we called “the apple barrel’—a wooden barrel made from upright wooden staves and secured by iron bands. Likewise, green tomatoes were wrapped in newspaper and stored in the “tomato” barrel. We usually had these stored apples and tomatoes to feast on through Thanksgiving and maybe until Christmas or after.

It was a happy day for the mountain housewife when Mason jars became available. At first they had a tint of green, but when food was placed in jars and sealed, and cooked a long time in a water bath (pressure cookers were a twentieth-century invention), the food the jars contained was a welcome addition to the winter menu. As a point of pride, each housewife who set her jars in neat rows, arranged by category of food along her cellar shelves, had a virtual showcase of accomplishment. One of the country ways and pastimes was to visit from farmhouse to farmhouse and see each lady’s handiwork in the cellar, her assurance against winter hunger.

Mounding for food preservation purposes was mainly the task of the man of the house. He prepared an outside place for the vegetables that could be “buried” for the winter. Potatoes, both Irish and sweet, turnips, carrots and cabbage were “mounded” up, covered in straw, and then with dirt and a plank roof overhead to protect them from freezing in the winter temperatures. When a “mess” was needed, he went to the appropriate mound to retrieve vegetables for his household.

All of these methods of preserving the harvest from the farm have not included sorghum-making, that fall festival of sweetness from sorghum cane, which, at the Dyer farm was a September and October activity for the whole community. My father, Jewel Marion Dyer, was the “syrup-maker” for a broad area. The syrup, when made, was stored in tin buckets of half- and gallon-size. This product was our main money crop to pay taxes and get fall and winter clothes and shoes. It was also our “sweetener” when sugar was scarce, and could be used to sweeten the best gingerbread imaginable and various other desserts, as well as being eaten as a food itself with farm-fresh butter and hot biscuits on a cold winter morning. And have you ever tried sorghum syrup over kraut? If not, you might like to taste this evening meal dish with pork sausage.

Both ingenuity and necessity led our forebears to find various means of preserving and providing food for their families in days gone by. Maybe we need to relearn these lessons for this twenty-first century.

c 2009 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Aug. 27, 2009 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

On July 4 - Remembering the High Cost of Freedom

"With firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor."

Under the closing words of this document known as America's Declaration of Independence are inscribed the names of fifty-six men who knew that their determination to see the thirteen colonies free and independent of Great Britain would levy a great price.

We hear this often: "Freedom is not free." But do we take time to actually weigh the costs of freedom and see, unfolding through the now 233 years since this document was enacted, the blood, sweat, tears and costs of liberty? I must admit that I, personally, must commandeer my thoughts toward that end and refresh my memory with the mind-boggling weight of how dearly freedom has been purchased at great cost.

John Adams wrote to his wife Abigail in 1776: "I am well aware of the toil, and blood, and treasure, that it will cost to maintain this declaration, and support and defend these states; yet, through all the gloom, I can see the rays of light and glory. I can see that the end is worth more than all the means."

In this present age, America is floundering. There are those who would like to rewrite history, to delete from its pages references to "the protection of Divine Providence" and other declarations of "one nation under God." We live in a period of change and insecurity. We are in an economic downslide. Our escalating national debt is phenomenal. Ordinary citizens can barely think in terms of millions of indebtedness, much less trillions. Add to financial woes the distrust from nations we once considered our allies. Then consider the multiple internal problems that grow proportionately worse as time passes. We could wallow in a terrible pit of pessimism about our beloved America.

John Adams saw "rays of light and glory" and that "the end is worth more than all the means." He did not lose a sense of vision and optimism, despite the battles and sacrifices that lay beyond the Declaration of Independence.

On this, America's birthday, the Fourth of July, it is time for Americans to draw hope from a well-spring of patriots who were willing to sacrifice. We cannot be bound by selfish motives in the never-ending battle to make freedom triumphant. It will take far more than the idea to maintain freedom. It must be a way of life.

Those who set their names as seals of promise on the Declaration did pay a high price. Five were captured by the British and tortured unmercifully before their deaths. Twelve saw their houses and property occupied by the enemy, looted or burned. Two lost sons in the fray and another had a son captured. Nine died in the war. All were true to their pledge of their "lives, fortunes, and sacred honor."

Pages of history record that as the Colonial Congress signed the Declaration, "a pensive and awful silence …pervaded the house…as we were called up one by one...to subscribe what was believed by many to be our own death warrants" (from the pen of Dr. Benjamin Rush).

In this far-flung year more than two centuries after the Declaration was signed, and as we consider an uncertain future, but one that depends upon our determination to help stabilize and insure the ongoing freedoms America has enjoyed, may we take seriously that message from Thomas Payne who wrote in 1776:

"What we obtain too cheaply, we esteem too lightly; it is dearness only that gives everything its value. Heaven knows how to put a price upon its goods, and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as freedom should not be highly rated."

c 2009 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published July 2, 2009 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

A Very Special Time--Holy Week

Because of the special time on our calendar known as Holy Week, from Sunday April 5 through Sunday April 12, I will suspend regular historical writing on early settlers and their descendants and focus on events observed throughout the world.

Even with the limelight on a special week, it is good that we consider its historical significance and the weight centuries of observation plays on our present-day celebrations of this event in the Christian year.

Christmas and Easter: One does not have significant meaning without the other. The birth of Christ which we observe at Christmas splits time in two. Ever since that significant date, whatever time of the year it happened originally, we have had B. C. and A. D.—Before Christ and Anno Domini, in the year of our Lord.

But Christmas without Easter would not have had worldwide and centuries-long impact. The latter celebration gives the former purpose and direction.

Since time as we know it was set by the birth of Christ, we might think that Easter, which does not have a division of time named for it, is less significant. But great Christian leaders of the world, from the earliest time until the present, have been avid in proclaiming that without the death of Christ and His resurrection, His birth would hold far less importance. Easter, then, authenticates the purpose, the mission of the Babe of Bethlehem, Emmanuel, God with us.

It was not until about the 3rd century A. D. that churches began to observe what we know as the season of Easter. We oftentimes complain that both Christmas and Easter are too secularized, a time for buying and selling, excessive giving, and many celebrations that are far removed from the spiritual meaning of these two holy seasons. As a matter of convenience, both seasons were set upon dates already observed in pagan cultures. We must remember that Christianity was launched in a pagan world.

The date of Easter changes slightly each year and comes no earlier than March 22 and no later than April 25. To confuse the date further, Eastern Orthodox and Western Orthodox observances of Easter are oftentimes on different calendar dates. That is because the Eastern date is set using the Julian calendar and the Western date is set using the Gregorian calendar. To confuse matters further, the date for Easter is set not on the astronomical first full moon after the spring equinox, but on the Sunday immediately following the Paschal or Ecclesiastical full moon. When I read about how it is enumerated, I'm just grateful that someone in the know can determine the date for Easter and let us know.

Regardless of how it came to be and when, it was named Easter by Venerable Bede, because a celebration was already in place to honor a Teutonic and Anglo-Saxon goddess named Eostre (or Estre). She was believed to be the goddess of the rising light of day and the dawn of spring. It seemed to Venerable Bede that, since Christ's death and resurrection brought light and new life, it would be well to name the celebration of His coming forth from the grave Easter.

Those who delve into and record statistics tell us that Easter is the one Sunday in the year when more people attend Christian churches, regardless of denomination, than any other day of the year—even Christmas. Ask these once-a-year church-goers if they are Christians and they will probably respond "Yes." After all, does not their faithfulness on Easter Sunday prove this? They believe in life after death. They have a hope of their own resurrection following death. After all, Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior, crucified on what we now term "Good Friday" broke the bonds of death that bound him. Will He not do the same for believers? Did he not promise the thief on the cross who believed in him, "This day you will be with me in Paradise?" We somehow need to remember there are fifty-one other weeks in a year, fifty-one other Sundays to show faithfulness of beliefs and Christian practice.

I read with a great deal of concern that the twentieth century registered more martyrs for the faith than any other century. Considering how many Christians lost their lives in the early years after the resurrection when the church was spreading rapidly and believers were killed for their faith, this statistic was alarming. In the year 2,000, over 150,000 Christians worldwide were martyred. Those who study trends predict that persecution will spread and that even in the United States the freedom to worship and practice one's Christian faith will be in great jeopardy.

Strong Christ-centered beliefs played an important role in the formation of America's government. In 1892, the Supreme Court of the United States made this decision: "Our laws and our institutions must necessarily be based upon and embody the teachings of the Redeemer of mankind. It is impossible that it should be otherwise; and in this sense and to this extent our civilization and our institutions are emphatically Christian." [Quoted from Supreme Court Records by Thomas Horn of Worthy Christian News]

Easter is a good time to evaluate our seriousness of belief and commitment. Easter can be a new beginning, a time when night turns to day, darkness to light, mourning to joy, despair to hope, weakness to strength, fear to courage, distress to peace, defeat to victory; death to life. A catchy but truthful saying made the rounds a few years ago. The statement was: "If it is to be, it is up to me." Could we think on these things this Holy Week and Easter—and even beyond, all year long?

c 2009 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Apr. 9, 2009 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

'Anything is Possible in America'

We are living in the midst of history this week.

On Monday, January 19, America celebrated the 80th birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr. He stood at the Lincoln Memorial on August 28, 1963, and made his famous "I Have a Dream" speech. In it he declared:

"When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will all be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty, we are free at last!"

On January 19, president-elect Barack Obama, one day before he would take the oath of office as the forty-fourth president of the United States, stood in front of the Lincoln Memorial, looked out at the huge crowd gathered on the Washington Mall, and proclaimed these words:

"What gives me hope is what I see when I look out across this mall. For in these monuments are chisled those unlikely stories that affirm our unyielding faith—a faith that anything is possible in America."

Reflective and with gratitude in his voice he further stated, as he looked at the tall spire of the Washington monument rising sedately through the cold winter clouds and fog:

"Rising before us stands a monument to a man who led a small band of farmers and shopkeepers in revolution against the army of an empire, all for the sake of an idea."

That idea was freedom, winning against great odds the right to self-government in a free nation. The price was phenomenal. The rewards since have been extraordinary.

The idea George Washington and his contemporaries held was that, indeed, "anything is possible in America." The same idea lay behind President Abraham Lincoln's signing of the Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863. Similar ideas fired the million-man march on Washington and Rev. King's "I Have a Dream Speech" in 1963.

Seeing the more-recently erected World War II monument in the Mall, Barack Obama said of it:

"(Here stands) a tribute to a generation that withstood war and depression, men and women like my grandparents who toiled on bomber assembly lines and marched across Europe to free the world from tyranny's grasp."

Then, looking at the statue of the Great Emancipator, Obama paid this tribute to President Abraham Lincoln:

"Watching over the Union he saved sits the man who in so many ways made this day possible."
This appeal rang out:
"Remember their struggles. Remember the thread that binds us together in common effort, that runs through every memorial on this Mall. (All offer a lesson) that there is no obstacle that can stand in the way of millions of voices calling for change."

In this week of momentous historical change and challenge, my prayer is one of remembrance and thanksgiving for my ancestors who were patriots in the American Revolution, who were willing to give their very lives for America's freedom. I recall that during our nation's bloodiest conflict, most of my ancestors were pro-Union and stood with Lincoln to hold the nation together, to bring freedom to those in bondage. During World War I and World War II, my kinsmen fought on foreign soil and also labored diligently on the home front to do what they could. And through all of these struggles, they held onto dreams, one of the main ones being "anything is possible in America."

But my prayers today will be more than thanksgiving for past achievements. I will earnestly pray for leadership for the new president and his cabinet, for vision, purpose and guidance for "one nation under God." God's smile on America will come only if we as citizens recognize His lordship. Personal and selfish motives are anathema. Only sacrifice and service should be at the heart of what can be wrought in America.

The words of the 44th president of the United States are soon to be uttered in his address as I send this column by e-mail on the day of his inauguration. We will pinpoint gems of wisdom from what he says and historians will preserve his speech for generations to come. It will give school children hope for what they can become in America. It will remind senior citizens of their unparalleled heritage.

We pray that all citizens will be renewed in their faith. Lying at the heart of the dream are responsibility and cooperation. These are inherent to the dream that "anything is possible in America."

c 2009 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published Jan. 22, 2009 in The Union Sentinel, Blairsville, GA. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.