Grace Revealed

Recently, a search for family history led me to my grandmother Grace's wedding announcement from 1942. As I read the clipping, I was surprised to learn that prior to marrying my grandfather, she attended business school in Columbia, South Carolina. 

Although I am a historian (yes, my degree says so), I never gave much thought to what my grandmother did prior to knowing me. Indeed, all of my experiences with her and my memories of her are based on our kinship timeline. 

I mean I loved her, learned from her, respected her, spent time with her, and enjoyed watching her in the garden. In fact, this blogsite is named after her and the majority of the posts are about her. And although I feel I have done my best to honor her memory, I have also limited it because I never pictured her in any other era except my own. Why is that? 

The simple answer, I think, is me. I am the primary source, the common denominator if you will in the equation. Ask me a question about my grandmother and I will tell you what I experienced as her grandchild; I have no other historical point of reference for who she was - until now. So, here we go.

After graduating high school, my grandmother attended Draughan's Business College in Columbia, South Carolina. 

Memories to be continued in future posts. 

Backroads

Backroads are awesome, and I should know. I'm from a state - West Virginia - that probably boasts more backroads than most. In fact, despite the interstates, folks could not navigate through the mountains and trees in this wild and wonderful place if not for backroads.

In any state, narrow and oftentimes dirt roads provide a way to get from point A to point B, but they are also gold mines for things you may not see while zooming down the interstate or the freeway.

Just last week alone, while traveling one of my favorite Tennessee backroads, I saw a group of baby goats sitting on a collective of tree stumps, a man who makes and sells birdhouses hard at work behind his house (well, I assume it was his house - otherwise, I saw a man stealing wood planks from behind his neighbor's house), and signs for an upcoming church camp meeting.

Last Saturday, however, my travels on my beloved backroad led me to what every historian yearns to see - an estate sale! Yes - a pink piece of posterboard in the front yard of a 1950's-ish house bid me stop - and I did!

After exploring the house, the barn and a small run-down log cabin, I came away with some pretty cool stuff - pottery, an antique rooster salt and pepper shaker set, a walking stick, and a glass Fire King measuring cup. My favorite item, however, is this vintage cast iron wood splitter, picked up for $1.25.

If you're scratching your head right about now, let me explain. I collect old tools and things made out of metal, iron, etc. I can't tell you why, but I am drawn to these things, and I like to think about the hands that held and used them before mine. My collection includes old chains, railroad spikes, hinges, shovels, chisels, bed springs, and white porcelain insulators.

The bottom of this wood splitter is full of dings and marks made by someone, I like to think, that chopped firewood and built things, magnificent things. Not just because they had to, but because they wanted to. Things they could sell in their front yard to people like me who prefer the backroads and care about the history created there.

Succumb to the Thumb

My green thumb has been itching of late. At first, I thought it was just a case of chapped skin brought on by too many hand washings, too little lotion and frigid February temperatures. 

However, while picking up a few things at my local hardware store the other day, I happened upon a huge seed display rack. Taller than me and more colorful to boot, there it stood, surrounded by a plethora of gardening tools - unassuming yet conspicuous, decorous but at the same time obvious. 

My first attempt to just walk on by the fantabulous structure was immediately met with a slight tingle in my left forearm, followed by a small flutter in my stomach. Silently, I regretted my early morning decision to skip breakfast and once again tried to bypass what had now become my nemesis. 

But the tingle would not subside! Instead, it progressed to my left thumb and settled there, daring me to take another step without looking through the packets, each adorned with a colorful picture of promise on the front and planting instructions on the back. 

Well, what could I do readers but succumb to the thumb? Indeed, like a cat in a tuna factory, I pawed and sniffed at those tiny envelopes until I found the ones I wanted, arched my back ever so slightly, leisurely made my way to the checkout and paid for my purchases. Then, I proceeded to walk out to the parking lot and climb into the passenger seat of my husband's truck. 

As I settled in and clicked my seatbelt in place, I turned to look at my husband, only to see a quizzical expression on his face. I blinked several times, tilted my head to the right and gave him the "is there something wrong look" he has come to know over the years. 

He smiled, reached over and picked a small seed from my hair and started the truck.