My mother’s favorite national treasure to visit was Badlands National Park. Every time we went west, we had to go through the Badlands. That was the least we could do for her. She’s the one who had to get everything ready and packed for the trip. She was the one who got stuck keeping kids or grandkids that weren’t big enough to go camping or backpacking in the mountains. She was even compliant with camping along the way from time to time. It may have saved them a few dollars, but it was a lot of extra work for her. So when we neared the Badlands, it was a given that we would go through.
1963
1963
The Badlands National Park consists of 244,000 acres. Formations of various sizes and shapes emerge from the eroded hills. The roads lead through grassy plains and then the earth opens up as canyons begin to take shape. Pinnacles and buttes rise from the earth that seem to have been swallowed by time, water and wind. Nothing can be seen for miles except flat land and ridges of layers of various colors of the strata of rough barren hills. The Lakota Indians called this place “Mako Sica,” which means “land bad.” Bison, big horn sheep, prairie dogs, deer, antelope and coyotes roam the land.
2003
2003
Mama always marveled verbally about the colors of the hills. She would explain that the hills change intensity of colors from one year to the next. Some years, the colors were muted. Other years, the colors were bright and intense. Looking across the quiet sacred hills, Mama would say, “This has to be God’s Cathedral.”
For a few years, our adventures had been limited to Red, the Judge and me. Spike never had the opportunity to go with us. Spike is Red’s cousin and a distant cousin of the Judge. This was her first trip with us.
Every day or two Spike asked, “Where are we going?” She had to learn the drill. “It’s a secret.” It’s called “destination unknown” for a reason. I tell the girls when we’re leaving, an approximate time for return, their portion of the cost, and what to pack on our adventure. I also give a general itinerary laced with a few hints without divulging locations or activities. In order to expand their horizons, there is usually an activity they wouldn’t do otherwise.
This trip KaKa, Maud, and Viv went with us. We loaded up and headed east. My Jeep seems to have a homing device that goes toward the mountains. About 40 minutes into the drive, I turned onto a little road that wound through the hills and farms that dotted the countryside. It seems an unlikely place for a restaurant, but we found it as advertised on the side of the road. We ate, talked and laughed before heading off again. It wasn’t long before we arrived at our destination. The curvy driveway was up a steep hill. We got settled in before going to supper.
Lunch
The view from our cabin of Lake Burton in the Blue Ridge Mountains
The next morning after breakfast, we started out for a day of adventure. It seems the girls have an attraction to bears. We hoped we would see a bear on our trip. Well, we were driving down the road, and I caught sight of a little bundle of fur rolling down the steep bank. I slammed on my brakes. It was a baby bear. It scrambled up the bank, but the little guy kept rolling down because it was too steep. Soon it turned and ran across the road to the other side.
Tallulah Gorge
Our first stop was Tallulah Gorge State Park. We hiked down the trail a bit and decided there would be just enough time to walk to the bottom. Boy, that was a mistake! Red and Spike decided not to make the downhill hike. They knew what went down had to come back up. They sat on a bench along the path and waited. The rest of us went down, down, down. We checked the time. Uh-oh, time to go. We went up, up, up. The more we climbed, the slower we got and the more we huffed and puffed. The Judge decided to crawl up the flights of steps. I wondered if we would have to call the rescue squad to fetch her out of the canyon. We finally made it with the help of KaKa going back to encourage the Judge along. We headed to our next adventure.
Do I have to climb those stairs?
We had a few minutes to spare so stopped at Old Sautee Store. We had the best cheese, crackers and homemade root beer while we looked at all the old farm implements displayed on the walls and counters in the old country story. A few minutes after leaving the store, I pulled into a parking lot. The sign said, “Winery.” I drove beyond and pulled into a gravel lot, parked and got out of the car. A big sign read, “Zipline.” The Judge grinned at me. Red and Spike got out of the vehicle they were in, and they both looked at me and shot me with daggers. Spike said, “We’re NOT going to zipline, are we?” My response was, “Yep, you are.” I thought, “She’ll never go on another adventure with us,” and I wasn’t so sure Red would either. The Judge and my other companions thought it was a great idea.
We got our harnesses and equipment on, climbed into a beat-up miniature bus and headed up a rutted red trail. At our first platform we got our instructions and climbed the ladder. There were still some evil looks at me, but no one dared to retreat. By the second zip, Red relaxed a bit and even laid out midway through the flight. Spike still wasn’t too sure about it. After the last platform, we decided we would take the Big Zip Intimidator that’s half a mile long. Red was game, and Spike only consented because she knew Red wouldn’t leave her behind. Well that was it! Spike spread eagle and flew through the air like she had done that all of her life. She was hooked!
The Judge
Red & Spike coming in for the landing
I’m proud to say that Spike had a great adventure. She has even gone on other adventures with us. Now she wants to know when we’re going ziplining again and asks, “Where are we going next,” to which I respond, “It’s a secret!”
My grandmother used to make homemade noodles with tomatoes. When I serve them to guests, most say they’ve never had homemade noodles and are amazed. Many have asked how to make them. Here is a short very unprofessional video of the process.
“Bring me back something.” That’s what I told Daddy every time he had to travel out of town for a conference or meeting of some kind. I didn’t care what it was, just as long as I got something.
As soon as he got home, I’d run to meet him, “Did you bring me something?” I wiggled and waited impatiently for him to unpack his suitcase. Sure enough, tucked away in the pocket was a special gift for me – a bar of soap. Yep, that’s what it was every time. You would have thought he gave me a million dollars.
The bar of soap was always from the hotel or the place he stayed. I would grin from ear to ear, hold the bar of soap close and run off to my room to hide the treasure in my jewelry box.
That may have been a silly little thing to most kids, but to me it was a never-ending game. Even when I was grown with kids and grandkids of my own, he would bring me a bar of soap from his adventures. Some of the soap ended up going on adventures with me. Other soaps are still tucked away in my jewelry box. Once in a while I get my bars of gold out, show them to my grandkids and tell them about my special gifts from the past.
You know? Those little bars of soap didn’t cost him a dime yet knowing that he always thought of me while he was away is priceless. It always brings a smile to my face and sometimes a tear to my eyes as I think of the joy that was given to a scrawny little girl in that one small sliver of soap.
I walked into the little shop A layer of dust coated the door Earthen faces peered from laden shelves Dusty footprints on the floor
The bearded man sat on his stool In front of the potter’s wheel That spun as his boot rose and fell As he formed the clay with skill
He lovingly stroked the earthen dough In his hands gentle and strong He shaped a unique work of art As the wheel hummed its song
He dampened his fingers to smooth the edge Then pushed back his stool to stand The wheel stood still as he lifted the bowl – The work of the Master’s Hand
A lot of folks collect mementos of their trips and adventures. Some people take home t-shirts, magnets, stickers, shot glasses, post cards, seashells, spoons, and thimbles, among other things. I have even carried back a bag of dirt. When I was a kid, I always managed to stash a favorite rock or even a bag of rocks. I’ve expanded my horizons and now collect pottery made in the areas I visit.
Each piece is more than just a trinket. It is a memory. The platter and bowl I picked up in New Smyrna Beach, Florida during my sister trip are reminders of lighthouses, beaches, seafood, sunsets, kayaking, an island rookery, laughter, manatees, Spanish moss, lots of good food and fun. A bowl from the Art Walk in Sequim, Washington holds memories of cousins, rain forests, hikes, mountains, lakes, scenic photos, cliffs, sounds of ocean echoes in caves, and ferries. The bowl from North Carolina tells of a surprise trip with “the girls.” It brings to mind waterfalls, the Biltmore Estate, ghost hunting, cold rain, friends, little towns, Madison’s Restaurant, winding mountain roads, and a wintery Segway ride.
Unique bowls from Alaska remind me of the fulfillment of a childhood dream come true to visit there with my dad. My husband and I were able to take that trip with my dad, aunt and cousins on an Alaskan Cruise plus a four-day inland tour to Denali.
Two pieces from the Brad Walker Pottery Shop in Dahlonega, Georgia, brings the sound of laughter. “The girls” and I have passed through there many times on our “Destination Unknown” trips. We’ve hiked, explored, gone off road to climb mountains and stick our feet in mountain streams. We have eaten at many delicious places, stayed in lodges and cabins, zip-lined through the trees, shopped in quaint little towns, rode horses, slept in a tack room, visited fudge shops, and many other things.
While traveling through Montana, we have gone through little towns and followed roadside signs that say, “Pottery Shop.” We came across Basin Creek Pottery in Basin, Montana, one of those towns that can easily be missed if you blink twice. The artist gathers his own clay and makes his own paints with natural minerals found in the mountains. The pottery I got from there is a long, narrow and shallow dish that is perfect for crackers. It holds memories of Ghost Towns, a bumpy ride through the wilderness and chasing elusive outlaws. Firehole Pottery is another great little pottery shop off the beaten path between Belgrade and Bozeman. I have several pieces from there that all remind me of the mountains and visits with Maud and my grandson.
The bowl with the indented swirl in the middle is from Penn Cove Pottery shop in Coupeville, Washington on Whidbey Island. Various artists display their works of art, each unique. It was hard to make my choice. I ended up with two bowls. They remind me of island life, tall bridges over glacial waters, coastal towns, boats, seashores lined with rocks, green rivers and lakes, massive chains from sunken ships and other items washed up on the beach, squawks of sea birds and the deep sad tones of foghorns in the distance.
Another shop, Fat Elk Trading Company, in Packwood, WA, was small, but it had lots of pottery as well as other items. The pieces I selected were different than any I have seen elsewhere. They bring an old memory from a trip long ago to Mt. Rainier National Park as well as more recent memories of traveling in the shadow of Mt. Rainier and of sharing a meal of burgers at Cliff Topper just down the street.
Every piece of pottery I have collected holds a special place in my remembrances. Not only do I use them to serve up Sunday Dinner, but I also use them to serve up memories.
I don’t remember much about the day of my birth. In fact, I don’t remember anything about it at all. The first time my brother saw me, he said, “Take her back. She doesn’t have any hair or teeth.” They didn’t take me back but took me to my first home.
We lived out in the country along a narrow dirt road not far from my grandparents in a tar-papered share cropper’s three-room house. By the time I came along, the house had been improved. Before my folks and brothers and sisters moved in, it was abandoned except for the mice and possums that fed on the oats that were piled on the floor. It might seem like ten dollars a month rent would be a bargain, but I’m not so sure. Pillars of fieldstone under the corners and centers of each side of the house kept it off the ground. A screened porch on the back of the house also served as a pantry. The yard was red Georgia clay.
My brother, sister and two cousins playing
My brothers and sisters by the tar paper house
My oldest sister and the well
The house was covered in rolled tar paper that mimicked red bricks. An outhouse served as the private restroom. The house was bare when they moved in. Shelves had to be built in the kitchen. Sweeping the floor was easy enough. Mama just swept the dirt between the cracks in the floor. They bought a “square” which was a piece of linoleum to put on the floor. It stopped some of the wind that whistled up through the cracks. If the wind blew hard, someone had to stand on the flooring before the door could be opened. A corner of the linoleum could be lifted up, and we could see the chickens under the house. Daddy told about the time a man knocked on the door one morning and asked if he could catch the big possum that he saw run under the house. Mama was quick to oblige. She certainly wasn’t going to throw a possum in the pot! In the winter, water drawn from the well would be frozen solid by morning. The big round ice cube was rolled to the stove to be melted for the day’s needs. A small coal heater was purchased to provide a bit of warmth in the cold months.
Me and my brother who wanted to send me back
My heart aches as I think of my mother’s devotion and sheer determination as she looked at that rundown old shack with five children by her side – one just a baby. She didn’t have the personality nor the time to feel sorry for herself or moan and groan about the situation. I can almost see her square her shoulders, take a deep breath, and then start working to make the tar paper shack into a home. I joined the family almost two years later. As meek and meager as those days were, there was also abundance – abundance of family, good neighbors and church family who remained friends for years.
My memories of the tar-paper house are more from seeing the house after we moved. We would pass by on the way to visit my grandparents. The house stood there for several years with very little change. As we would go by the abandoned house, I could see kids playing in the yard with white sheets waving in the breeze in stark contrast to the red clay yard. The stories I heard of the time we lived there came to life in my imagination. I have a newfound admiration for my mother as I think of the sacrifices she made. The tar-paper house was certainly not a castle, but I am convinced that my mother deserves a crown and all the honor fit for a queen.
My Grandmother was a unique individual with some wonderful traits. She was a good cook. When she knew we were coming, she would make some of my favorite things to eat. It was often roast beef with mashed potatoes and brown gravy, homemade noodles with tomatoes, and homemade bread. She would pull out a quart jar of home canned thick sliced 14-day pickles that would about take my breath away and make me pucker. They were my favorite. Sometimes she would even open a jar of pickled peaches, each decorated with a clove belly button.
She crocheted, knitted and sewed. Many of the clothes my sister and I wore, especially in the summer, were made by my grandmother. She made us shorts with tops that matched, some trimmed with rick rack or lace. When I got a doll, it was well dressed in fancy homemade clothes (including undies) and crocheted dresses. She stayed in touch with family through her letters written in her impeccable handwriting. My grandmother was a good neighbor, a poet, and is said to have been an extraordinary horsewoman. My daddy said she could grab a chicken, ring its neck, have it plucked and ready for the frying pan by the time she made it to the house.
All of those things she did for others spoke volumes. We may not have been told, “I love you,” in words, but we were shown by her acts of service.
Among her admirable qualities were other not-so-admirable characteristics. For one thing, she was, well, stingy. I would ask her for a recipe, but when she gave it to me, she just happened to leave out ingredients or vital instructions. When I wanted her to teach me how to read crocheting instructions and to knit, she balked. I finally gave her no choice and told her, “One day you won’t be here anymore, and I want your legacy to live on. Tell me what I need to get, and you can to teach me.”
She was a Two-Square Grandma. We were only allowed to use two squares of toilet paper when we did our job. Now tell me, could you wipe your tush with just two measly squares? I couldn’t, and I had a tiny hiney. She must have remembered the days of rationing. Now I know why my granddad went outside to water the bushes or snuck off to the little house to use the unmonitored facility.
When my dad got to where he had to have help with his bathroom duties, I realized that he, too, suffered from a toilet paper phobia (acartohygieiophobia). He would take one square at a time, fold it in fourths and take one little wipe. Of course, that wasn’t enough to finish the job so he would tear off one more square and do the same thing. I’d come along behind (literally), grab a wad and finish the job. I told him, “Daddy, you can use more than one square at a time.” I think that Two-Square Grandma got hold of him, too!
My grandparents with some of their grandkids. My grandmother is holding me.
I was fortunate to have two grandmothers growing up. Today is the birthday of my grandmother called “Gommie” by her grandkids.
Just the thought or mention of her name brings a plethora of emotions and memories. It brings memories of curling up next to her on the sofa whether sitting quietly or being rewarded with a story, lumpy gravy, a trip to her beloved mountains, a visit to her cabin and “Gommie’s Lake,” a place of refuge, a place of safety, a peaceful place.
She was the family historian. People of all ages would gravitate to her house. Everyone was accepted into her home. In her younger days, she was a horse wrangler and a horse midwife for her brother on the ranch. She was a lady who could box your ears or dunk a sassy mouthed kid in a bucket of water. She could make the kids walk a fine line or play with them like a kid herself. “Babe,” as she was called by many, was a beloved girl at any age who was endeared to family and lifelong friends. She was a good neighbor and could throw together a meal in no time for whoever showed up at her dinner table.
Gommie & Poppy 1916
Gommie, 1922
When she married my English grandfather, she didn’t know much about cooking. Poppy’s partner, Ernest, taught her to cook. One day she made biscuits. After they had set out for a while, she saw a mouse in the kitchen, picked up a biscuit and threw it. It hit the mouse and killed it.
One time on a trip to Montana, Daddy stopped in Wall, South Dakota in late afternoon. He decided we’d drive on through, so he wanted to call Gommie and tell her we’d be in about 1 a.m. He went to the pay phone but discovered he had no change so made a collect call. Gommie answered. The operator said, “You have a collect call from Mr. Ward.” She said, “I don’t want no damn ford!” and slammed down the phone.
She was like a mama bear to any who dared mess with her kids or grandkids, yet she was a soft squishy teddy bear who offered a snuggly resting place. Her black dancing eyes spoke volumes. They could pierce a proud tongue, and one look could shoot arrows that stopped unacceptable behavior in its tracks. Those same eyes, black and soft, could penetrate the very depths of the soul and warm the coldest of hearts. Gommie did not live by idle words. Before she spoke, she asked herself, “Is it true, is it kind, is it necessary?”
When we visited her place, we had hot tea every day. We got to pick the tea cup of our choice and use as much sugar and cream as we wanted. I was always extra careful not to break any of her fine china. That love of hot tea and the memories that linger are now shared with my own grandchildren.
A poem by C R Gibson, we know as Gommie’s Creed, reflects her character and convictions:
I have wept in the night at my shortness of sight that to others’ needs made me blind.
But I never have yet had a twinge of regret for being a little too kind.
