What My Father Saw

Posted on June 16, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“A house is made with walls and beams; a home is built with love and dreams.”
–Attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882; American essayist, lecturer, philosopher, and poet who led the transcendentalist movement of the mid-19th century.)

Houses come. Houses go. Some we remember. Some we don’t. Usually, though, the house that we remember the most is the one that we call home. For me, it was the house that I lived in from the age of ten (when I started the fifth grade) until the age of seventeen (when I graduated from high school, left home, and started college). We moved there in the summer of 1957.

It wasn’t much of a house. White clapboard siding. Front porch with wooden columns. Living room. Kitchen. Two bedrooms. Screened back porch. Unfinished basement. Outhouse. The woods on one side were so close that the trees seemed to brush against the windowpanes even in the gentlest breeze.

It wasn’t much of a move, either, maybe a mile south of where we had been renting. That fall, I went to the same grade school that I had attended since we moved to Shady Spring. I remember standing in the school yard with Mr. Pack, my English teacher. I pointed to the house, calling his attention to the side stairs that led up to the screened-in back porch.

But this house was different from the others. This house was our home. Well, it would be one day if my parents could stay on top of the mortgage payments. It didn’t have a white picket fence, and it needed lots of “fixin’ up.” But it was our slice of the American Dream.

Fixin’ up was right up my father’s alley. Even though he was a coal miner, he was, in many ways, a visionary. When we moved in, my father saw many things that he could do that would turn what had been a tucked-away summer place into our year-round home.

I remember lots of his improvements because I was his helper. Straightaway, he and I started clearing the adjacent lot. Our home was still in the woods but no longer against the trees. I helped him take the back porch and turn it into a dining room opening into the kitchen. The two of us mixed cement in a wheelbarrow and poured a floor in the large unfinished basement, where my father framed out two bedrooms, a downstairs kitchen, and a bathroom. We tilled the field across the road and turned the thin layer of soil on top of the rock shelf into a garden, perfect for sturdy stalks of corn rising up like sentinels with delicate tendrils of green beans gracefully twining around them. The dry, clay soil seemed ideal for sunflowers, too. Somewhere, I have a polaroid of me kneeling –sun-bleached hair, radiant smile–holding a sunflower so large that it covered my chest.

Looking back at the initial hard work and the eventual improvements, I see my father’s unwavering determination. He saw potential where others saw obstacles, teaching me the importance of perseverance and the transformative power of a dream fueled by love. This house was more than a structure. It was a testament to his resilience and dedication to our family’s future.

But more than any of those memories is the memory of my father at the dinner table. I was the youngest child, the last one at home eating with my parents.

My mother, who always said grace, sat at the head of the table, looking toward the wall at the other end, with a large oil painting of the Last Supper. My father sat to her left, gazing through his bifocals out of the large picture window in the dining room that he had built. I sat to his left, looking toward the window as well, with a golden candle sconce on each side, their glass shades gently casting a warm glow on holidays or when we had company.

I turned toward my father and my mother a lot, usually talking with my mother. My father was, by nature, a reserved man, and after talking about his day’s work in the mines and about his strategy for loading more cars of coal the next day, he didn’t have much to say other than to praise what my mother had prepared for dinner or to respond to something that my mother or I said that required his response. I didn’t think anything about his silence then. I don’t think anything about his silence now. It was as natural to my father as being talkative was to me and my mother.

But as I watched him looking out our dining room picture window, I wondered then–and I wonder now–what my father saw.

No doubt he saw the present.

He had a multitude of snapshot possibilities. In his immediate line of vision would have been our lower terraced yard concealing an elaborate and fully provisioned underground bomb shelter that my father built. Further down the sloped yard was the meandering creek. My father planted an apple tree next to it that still bears fruit. Across the creek, another small garden. One summer, my father erected six or so towering structures, made from large sapling poles. He planted his favorite Kentucky Wonder beans around them. Somewhere, I have a polaroid of him standing inside one of the green-bean teepees. Long, smooth beans hanging down met his calloused, coal-sooted hands, reaching up.

Beyond that snapshot would have been the homes of three neighbors on Rt. 3. We always called it the Hinton Road because it connected our town to Hinton and the world beyond. More important than those neighbors’ homes, though, was the immense towering oak. My father stood beneath it, waiting for his ride to the mines, day after day after day, stretching out to the final day of his fifty-year career as a coal miner, never missing a day’s work.

Looking back, I see my father surveying the tangible results of his hard work and vision. Each tree planted, each structure built or improved, was a testament to his ability to transform dreams into reality. His daily routines, anchored by resilience and a relentless work ethic, spoke to the value of dedication. Even in the most ordinary moments, my father’s presence embodied commitment to our family and our future. His view from the window wasn’t just of our present home. It was of a legacy he was building, one that would endure long after he was gone.

No doubt he saw his past.

His mind likely wandered to his most recent past, the bankruptcy that bottomed out his short-lived dream of being a prosperous coal-mining operator on par with the company-store owner. It prompted our move from Ashland to Shady Spring.

Perhaps he saw his early coal mining years in the late nineteen teens and the 1920s. He was an activist for the United Mine Workers of America and a staunch supporter of its president, John L. Lewis. Somewhere, I have my father’s first UMWA membership card.

Perhaps he saw even further back to Patrick Springs, Virginia, where his farming family had Colonial American roots and where he was born there in 1902. Perhaps he saw the day when, as a teenager, he left home and boarded the Danville and Western Railroad. He made his way to Cherokee, WV, to make a life in the booming coal heartland of America.

Looking back at my father’s journey from a farmer’s son to a coal miner to an advocate for workers’ rights, I see a man who never let his circumstances define him. His past was marked by hard work, sacrifice, and an unyielding spirit. These experiences shaped his character, instilling in him a relentless drive to provide and care for his family, despite the hardships he faced. His past was not just a series of events, but a foundation of strength and resilience that he built upon every day.

No doubt he saw his future.

Perhaps my father saw the day when I would go to college, leaving him and my mother to explore their new roles as empty nesters. They always waited for me and my five siblings to come back home for visits.

Perhaps he envisioned some of his many innovative ideas coming to fruition in the marketplace. He made copper jewelry, believing that it provided therapeutic benefits for arthritis sufferers. (My father’s idea was not far-fetched: copper jewelry began to be marketed in the early 1970s.)

He also had a vision for extension ladders with adjustable legs, designed for painting homes built on sloped yards like ours, and he even built a prototype. (Again, my father’s idea was ahead of its time: extension ladders with adjustable legs for working on slopes began appearing on the market around the early 2000s.)

One of his more futuristic ideas involved cars moving along highways, advancing magnetically to specific destinations designated by the driver at the start of the journey. (This concept, while far-fetched in its time, became reality with the marketing of self-driving cars in the mid-2010s.)

Perhaps my father saw into his final years. I wonder whether his body was telling him early on what his doctors told him later. Black Lung. Third Stage Silicosis. I wonder whether his heart saw a 1982 Golden Wedding Anniversary. I wonder whether his soul foresaw a calm and peaceful passage heavenward a year later.

Looking back at my father gazing out the window, envisioning the future, I realize that he saw possibilities that others didn’t. His innovative ideas and forward-thinking mindset were a testament to his enduring hope and determination. Even in the face of illness and the unknown, he remained focused on what could be, leaving a legacy of optimism and ingenuity. His ability to dream beyond the present instilled in me the same fervor and faith in the future.

Whatever my father saw–whether his present, his past, or his future–I have not a doubt in the world that he was looking through the same metaphorical lens that he held up to my eyes when he taught me as a young boy how to use a push plow to lay out a perfectly straight row in the field.

“Don’t look down. Keep your eyes fixed on something in the distance where you want the row to end.”

He was teaching me far more than how to plow a straight row. He was teaching me how to live my life in a way that mirrored his. Maintain a clear vision. Stay focused on long-term objectives. Persevere through challenges with resilience and determination.

That’s what my father saw.

§ § §

John Saunders Kendrick (April 8, 1902–September 21, 1983)

A “Viral” Post and the Power of Connection

Posted on June 4, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The reader’s heart is the writer’s pen.”
—Rachel Carson (1907-1964; American marine biologist, conservationist, and writer, best known for her 1962 groundbreaking book Silent Spring.)

Something remarkable just happened, thanks to you! My May 11 post “Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands” has gone “viral,” already reaching over 1,000 readers—a milestone for me that touched my heart deeply.

As I reflect on why this post might have resonated so widely, I want to express my profound gratitude to all of you who read, shared, and connected with it. I can’t begin to thank you enough, My Dear Readers, whoever you are and wherever you are.

Let me share with you some possible reasons behind its impact and celebrate the universal themes that seemingly brought us together.

Emotional Connection

We all have someone whose hands guided us, comforted us, and helped shape who we are. Whether it’s a parent, grandparent, or mentor, the memories of their touch and care hold a special place in our hearts. It seems that my post captured the essence of this emotional connection, and it’s clear that many of you felt a similar bond. Thank you for allowing my intimate memories to remind you of your own cherished moments.

Vivid Imagery

Describing my mother’s hands and the memories tied to them in vivid detail perhaps allowed many of you to visualize and feel these experiences alongside me. I believe that this shared imagery created a bridge between my personal story and your own life experiences. It’s a testament to the power of storytelling, bringing us closer despite our different backgrounds.

Nostalgia and Sentimentality

Nostalgia is a powerful force that connects us to our past and to each other. The sentimental journey through my memories of my mother’s hands seemed to evoke a similar sense of nostalgia in many of you. It’s a reminder that we all hold onto pieces of our past, and sharing these pieces can bring warmth and connection to our present.

Timeless Themes

The themes of love, caregiving, and the passage of time are universal. They resonate across cultures and generations. Your engagement with these themes in my post highlights our shared human experience. By reflecting on these timeless elements, we honor those who have shaped us and acknowledge the ongoing journey of life.

Personal Storytelling

Sharing personal stories can create a powerful connection. By opening up about my mother’s hands, I hope that I touched a chord within you. The wide reach of this post suggests that personal stories can transcend individual experiences and resonate on a much larger scale.

Broader Appeal

While the post was a tribute to my mother, the themes it touched upon are broad and inclusive. The experiences of love, loss, and memory are ones we all share. Thank you for finding your own reflections in my words and for making the story your own.

§ § §

As I look back on the unexpected “viral” success of “Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands,” I am filled with gratitude. Your readership and engagement have shown me the incredible power of connection. Thank you for being a part of this journey, for sharing in these universal themes, and for reminding me of the ties that bind us all. Here’s to many more moments of shared humanity and heartfelt connection.

With deepest appreciation, I remain–

Your Wired Researcher

Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands

Posted on May 11, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Mothers hold their children’s hands for a short while, but their hearts forever.”
–Unknown

On top of my bedroom chest of drawers is a pair of studio portraits of my father and my mother. They’re hand-colored originals, each measuring 3 inches by 4 inches, taken a year or so after my parents’ 1932 marriage. The portraits are in hinged gold frames. My father is on the left. My mother is on the right. A lamp behind illuminates both.

Right now, as I lie in bed, I’m focusing on my mother. Even though her portrait is five feet or so away, she is as clear to my sight as if she were right beside my bed. I’m glimpsing into a distant past, where memories of her linger like whispers.

She’s seated on a bench, wooden, perhaps. The artistic backdrop transports me outdoors. Trees frame the scene, a tall one behind her, their branches reaching skyward, and shorter ones in the background, on the bank of a calm body of water, perhaps a serene river.

She’s wearing a dark dress with short sleeves and a deep-cut neckline, accentuated by a glistening leaf-shaped brooch.

Her finger-waved hair, parted in the middle, falls softly just below her ears. Her eyes are dark and intense, with a gaze that seems to pierce through the image. They are surrounded by her soft, light skin tone, which provides a striking contrast. Their depth and intensity draw me in and make me wonder. What secrets lie hidden behind them? What stories and dreams do they hold? Are they looking into the depths of the world, seeking answers and understanding? Are they inviting me to join in their quest for knowledge?

Her features captivate and mesmerize me, regardless of how often I look at her portrait. Somehow, though, I seem to see my mother’s hands the most. Their contours are soft and graceful, and the fingers curve delicately, one hand gently clasping the other hand.

I see my mother’s hands the most because I know her hands the best.

My mother’s hands are engaging hands. Her hands held mine when I was but a child, and we scurried down the path behind our home where two boulders stood sentinel on either side as colored snow fell down in green and pink and blue flakes, making me believe in magic. Her hands held mine when I was a few years older, and she led me outdoors when our world was covered in snow and showed me how to lie down in stillness, moving arms and legs left and right to create angel wings, making me believe in flight. Her hands held mine a few years later when our world was green with summer and led me to lie down in warm grass, eyes skyward, discovering cloud figures, pointing out the details to one another so vividly that each could see brand new worlds of our own imaginings, making me believe in sharing visions so that others might see.

My mother’s hands are cooking hands. Her hands could transform pinto beans, onions, cornbread, buttermilk, and sweet potato cobbler into a feast, making me want it weekly. Her hands could turn a 25-pound turkey into a bronzed Thanksgiving dinner that rivaled Norman Rockwell’s iconic oil painting Freedom from Want, making art come alive in our own coal camp kitchen. Her hands could measure out with perfection all the ingredients for any dish from any cuisine that she had tasted with no need for recipe and with no need for measurements, teaching me to trust my senses.

My mother’s hands are versatile hands. Her hands could make our clothing without pattern, simply by taking our measure with her hands, making me aware that some things are more felt than seen. Her hands could cut my hair using scissors, comb, and the soft stretch of her fingers, reinforcing in my mind the marriage of expertise and craftsmanship. Her hands could take a pastry brush and turn a greased baking sheet or cake pan into a perfect likeness of Christ, making me see Holiness in the everyday.

My mother’s hands are industrious hands. Her hands could transform a grassy field into a kaleidoscope of gladiolas or dahlias, bursting with vibrant hues, teaching me to see potential in the ordinary. Her hands could hold her side of a wooden pole stretched through handles of a galvanized tub, carrying water to the garden, making me realize that many hands can carry heavy loads. Her hands could hang wallpaper with finesse, demonstrating how effort can elevate even the smallest task to art.

My mother’s hands are inclusive hands. Her hands always opened wide the door, welcoming everyone as guests into our home, making me value open-heartedness and acceptance of others, regardless of differences. Her hands always set a place for them at our modest table, making me understand that meager becomes abundance when shared with others. Her hands always held theirs in loving celebration and thanksgiving, making me a witness to the genuine communion of mankind.

My mother’s hands are nurturing hands. Her hands cared for her father and her mother in times when they could not take care of themselves, impressing on me the importance of helping others. Her hands cared for my dad and me and all my siblings, even when our hands might well have lessened the weight that she carried in hers, showing me that strength comes with sacrifice. Her hands took pine rosin to hold tight and heal the gash in my foot, the scar on my sole still a reminder of what she had learned from her mother’s hands, helping me appreciate generational know-how and wisdom.

My mother’s hands are writing hands. Her hands penned sermons when she pastored a church, making me realize that the intellect can lead the heart to be slain by the Holy Spirit. Her hands sent letters out into the world to those she knew well and to those she hardly knew at all, making me see that the power of words reaches beyond the pulpit. Her hands discovered typewriter keys late in life, determined that hand tremors would not tame her self-expression, making me realize the strength of determination.

My mother’s hands are spiritual hands. Her hands joined the hands of other warriors, praying over me as a child with polio, making me–one of the lucky, uncrippled survivors–a believer in the power of prayer. Her hands walked their way through her Bible and her commentary books–from cover to cover–more than thirty times in her lifetime, making me know the richness to be gained through close readings and research. Her hands clapped, sending thunderous applause into the Heavens to show her thankfulness and gratitude, making me know the joy of praise.

My mother’s hands are clasped hands. As she lay in her casket after her funeral, I removed her rings, took her hands and clasped one gently on top of the other, leaned in for a farewell kiss, and, then, closed the lid.

After her burial, my hands–strong from the strength of hers–released from their cage three white doves, flying upward toward the celestial realm, perhaps at that same mysterious moment when my mother found her way back home and celebrated her arrival with outstretched hands.

§ § §

Bertha Pearl Witt Kendrick (May 16, 1912–May 30, 2010)

My Kentucky Wonder

Posted on April 8, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“To cherish what remains of the Earth and to foster its renewal is our only legitimate hope of survival.”
–Wendell Berry (b. 1934; American novelist, poet, environmental activist, cultural critic, and farmer.)

My oldest sister, Audrey, keeps everything, and, like her memories, everything is tucked away here and there and everywhere, ready to be brought out and shared with others in a heartbeat.

Not too long ago–Yesterday? The day before? Forever ago?–she sent me a package, securely wrapped and taped, as befits irreplaceable heirlooms sent out into the world, leaving nothing behind to hold on to save precious memories.

When the package arrived, I wondered what was inside. With great care, I managed to unloose family treasures that had been alive decades ago, now destined for a new life decades later.

One by one, I gave Audrey’s relics the loving release that she desired. As I held each, I witnessed the release of my own memories locked away since–Yesterday? The day before? Forever ago? I recognized and remembered everything immediately.

The stainless steel EKCO can opener from my teenage 1960s, perfect for opening cans and bottles with ease, even today. It must have been quite high tech in its day, based on the full directions stamped into the handle:

MIRACLE CAN OPENER. HOLD IN LEFT HAND – HOOK GEAR UNDER RIM OF CAN – SQUEEZE HANDLES – TURN KEY TO RIGHT.

I grin as I hold that vintage kitchen marvel. Squeezing the handles, I wonder why my sister held on to it.

The Belgian tapestry, measuring 18″ high x 56″ long, that once hung above the fireplace mantel in my parents’ bedroom. I recall its presence vividly when I was a toddler. It offers a captivating glimpse into a Venetian court ball beneath a moonlit sky, where graceful dancers swirl elegantly across an outdoor terrace, their movements bathed in the soft glow of the moon. Despite some fraying along the edges, the tapestry remains beautifully preserved, capturing the timeless allure of a bygone era. I wonder when my mother gave the tapestry to my sister.

The Ever-Ready #79 Sterilized Shaving Brush, with its bakelite handle adorned in a nostalgic red and cream hue, its bristles worn ragged by decades of use. As a child, I watched my father dance the brush upon the surface of the soap, coaxing forth creamy lather like an artist delicately crafting a masterpiece. As a teenager, I danced that brush on the surface of my own shaving soap as I journeyed into manhood. Now, as I hold the brush in my hand in a moment of memory and reflection, time stands still, and I wonder when my father held the brush in his hand for the last time.

The Red Velvet Pipe and Cigarette Tobacco tin, with a hinged lid, made by Pinkerton Tobacco Company, Owensboro, Kentucky. It’s still filled to the top. My father smoked cigarettes until he was seventy and had a heart attack. I wonder whether this was his last tin of tobacco when he came to the realization that he had to quit.

The robust pipe, the next item that I gave release. When my father stopped smoking cigarettes, he took up pipe smoking. I hoped that the pipe in my hand was the incredibly expensive Meerschaum that I gifted him. It wasn’t. Instead, what I held in my hand was a Whitehall Jumbos large rustic straight pot pipe. It shows slight signs of age, but the walls of its bowl remain thick with a large flat surface on the rim. The pipe has a robust feel in my hand. I wonder when my dad held it in his weathered hands for the last time, wisps of smoke dancing ’round his head, carrying the rich fragrance of aged tobacco that I so much enjoyed. I wonder what happened to the Meerschaum that I hoped to hold.

Or the infamous knife, the one that nearly cut off my right hand. When but a child—no more than four or five, so small that I had to stand on a kitchen chair to watch as my father butchered a fresh chicken—I reached out to ask, “What’s that?” just as his knife—raised high in air—came thrusting down to sever the chicken breast. The knife could not stop. With equal speed, my father’s hand grasped my nearly severed right hand and held it in place until the doctor arrived. Today, the scar that spans my hand authenticates the strength of his: holding on, not letting go. My mother threw the kitchen knife into the coal bucket, resolving to never use it again. My oldest brother, John, took the knife and hid it away in a brown paper bag. Now, as I hold the knife in my scarred right hand and the crumpled bag in my left, I wonder why he retrieved it. I wonder why he kept it. I wonder when he passed it on to Audrey.

Or what about the Prince Albert Tobacco can, the last heirloom in the box that arrived–Yesterday? The day before? Forever ago? It’s the one that fascinates me the most. It’s 3 inches wide, 4 inches tall, and 3/4 inch thick. It’s vivid red, adorned with elegant gold lettering. On the front is an oval portrait of Edward VII before he was king, when he was known as “Prince Albert.” Since the image appears on the front only, the tin would have been manufactured before 1960. After that year, it was printed on the front and the back.

As I run my fingers over its surface, I feel the nostalgic echo of my father’s smoking tradition. This pocket tin holds more than just the 1 5/8 ounces of tobacco that it once held. It holds treasured memories of a time that is no more.

Audrey taped a small handwritten note on the front:

“Look in can under paper. Try to see if they will grow.“

I wonder what’s inside. I take my thumbs and push up on the lid. I remove the paper. Beneath, bean seeds. Dark brown bean seeds.

“Kentucky Wonder!” I exclaim to myself. “Those are Kentucky Wonder seeds, my father’s favorite pole beans.”

I called Audrey to thank her for passing these keepsakes on to me. We shared memories, hers far richer than mine because she lived those treasures through the eyes of an older sibling.

She’s certain that the Prince Albert Tobacco tin is from the 1930s or 1940s, when my family lived in Cherokee (WV). She’s certain that my father collected those seeds from one of his gardens during those years.

Now, I’m not sure when that box of treasures arrived–Yesterday? The day before? Forever ago? But now that spring is here, I vow to do what Audrey bid me do:

“Try to see if they will grow.”

My mind is racing fast and faster with questions. I could ask Audrey who, no doubt, would know the answers.

But my mind is slant toward wonderment.

● I wonder whether those seeds really are from the 1930s and 1940s.

● I wonder when Audrey closeted away that tobacco tin filled with such potential.

● I wonder why she didn’t plant the seeds herself.

● I wonder why she sent the seeds to me, now, as she approaches 90 and as 80 chases me.

● I wonder whether those seeds will germinate and grow after all these years.

● I wonder whether those seeds really are Kentucky Wonder beans.

● I wonder what bean they might be if those seeds are not Kentucky Wonder.

I don’t wonder, however, about what I need to do. I will do exactly as my father and I did when I was but a child, and we started gardening together. As soon as the danger of frost is past and my fingers feel warm when I push them deep into the soil, I’ll put the seeds in a glass of water, and I’ll wait patiently for them to sprout.

Then, I’ll plant them, in threes, next to something tall that they can cling to and hold on to as they climb higher and higher. Then I’ll wait and watch with hope as summer unfolds and fulfills itself, wondering whether my father’s Kentucky Wonder beans, after seven decades or more of hiding away, have run back home to me.

§ § §

John Saunders Kendrick (April 8, 1902–September 21, 1983)

Memories of Christmas in the Country

Posted on December 25, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

These Christmas memories were recorded on tape by my mother, Bertha Pearl Witt Kendrick, as part of a larger oral history project that she and I undertook. What appears in today’s blog post retains the integrity and the flavor of her spoken word.

These memories preserve a small part of the Christmas customs of Patrick Springs, Virginia, as they were practiced there just after the turn of the twentieth century. My mother was born there, and her family was established in that region well before the turn of the American Revolution. It is possible that some of these customs are observed there even today. More likely, though, they belong to an age that exists no more except in memory.

“The love they showed each other is what the world needs now.”
Bertha Pearl Witt Kendrick (1912-2010; wife, mother, and homemaker; teacher of humility, honesty, hard work, and forgiveness; embracer of diversity; demonstrator of endurance; giver of unconditional love.)

The Christmas Season, as it was celebrated in the rural area of Patrick Springs, Virginia, where I grew up, actually started about a month before Christmas. Children were told that ole Santa Claus was watching them to see if they were good, and if they weren’t, he might pass them by. Boy, were they good! They didn’t have to be spoken to but once, and they were as quiet as mice and willing to help out in any way they could. They were told that when Santa was ready to bring his gifts, he would leave the North Pole with his sled and reindeer, come sailing through the air, make his stop on top of the house, and come down the chimney with his sack of toys and goodies.

About two weeks before Christmas, Mama would start baking pies and cakes. Country people didn’t make traditional fruit cakes in those days. Instead, they made an ole timey, layered fruit cake, using a buttermilk biscuit dough, sweetened with a little bit of sugar and with enough molasses to turn the dough’s color. After the dough was lightly kneaded, it was rolled out rather thin, cut into rounds the size of a dinner plate, and baked in a skillet. Mama would have a stack, oh, I don’t know how high. She would put one layer on a plate and cover it with home-dried apples that had been stewed, mashed, and flavored with spice. Next she would add to that another layer and cover it with sweet potatoes that had been cooked, mashed, and flavored with freshly grated nutmeg and with vanilla. She would continue stacking the layers, alternating between the dried apple and the sweet potato fillings. The top layer would be covered with the dried-apple mixture, I think. Then, where the apple and sweet potato mixtures had filled out all the way to the edges of the cake, Mama would take a knife and go around and smooth the sides. It was pretty, and it was good, too. I’ve always wanted to make one of those fruit cakes, but I can tell you one thing: the store-bought dried apples of today wouldn’t be good like the home-dried apples.

But Mama would make two other cakes at Christmas which I especially liked. I just wish you could have seen one of those cakes, and I wish you could have had the privilege of tasting one of them. One was a large white cake made from twelve egg whites. (The twelve egg yolks were used to make a large, golden pound cake.) It wasn’t an angel food cake, and while it had the texture of a white wedding cake, a wedding cake couldn’t compare with it. Mama would put white icing on it and would decorate it with boxwood leaves, sort of in a flower design. It was beautiful, and it would just about melt in your mouth, too. The other cake I especially liked was a large coconut cake made from fresh coconut milk and freshly grated coconut.

Mama used the fireplace to do most all the cooking and baking during the winter. She baked most of her cakes in a three-legged, iron skillet with a lid. Coals of fire were put under the skillet and the lid was placed on it after being heated on the coals of fire.

By Christmas Eve the cupboard would be full of cakes and pies. Did they look good! But we didn’t ask for one piece. In the meantime, Mama would be telling us the Bible story about Christ’s birth, and I recall that she said that at midnight on Christmas Eve, all the cattle would bow down on their knees.

We would be very excited by the Christmas story, all the baking, and the belief that Santa was watching us. At last Christmas Eve would arrive. We would hang our stockings over the mantle. Mama would put a couple of cakes on the table so Santa could eat some if he was hungry. Then everybody would go to bed early so the fire could go out and Santa wouldn’t get burned as he came down the chimney. Of course, we children slept upstairs, and it seemed we would never go to sleep. But at last it would be morning, and Daddy would be calling for us to get up and come see what Santa had brought. Down the steps we would run to the fireplace! There in the ashes would be the footprints made by Santa as he had come down and had gone back up the chimney. (So we thought, at least. When we were older, we learned that Mama or Daddy had pulled their shoes off and had made footprints in the ashes!) One slice of cake had been cut from each cake. We thought it was grand that Santa would eat some of our cakes, but we were glad that he hadn’t taken them with him. We would grab our stockings. The girls would have a doll, sometimes a dress and hood, an orange, English walnuts, Brazil nuts, and raisins-on-the-vine. The boys would have cap-busters and caps, Roman candles and firecrackers and sparklers, plus the orange, candy, nuts, and raisins-on-the-vine.

Afterwards Mama would start breakfast and Dad and the boys would go outside to celebrate. Dad would take the shotgun and shoot straight up in the air. After hearing Mama tell the story of Christ’s birth, the Lord seemed so real and so close to me that I was afraid Dad might accidentally shoot Him! But Mama reassured me there was no danger. Then she would finish breakfast. Dad would come back inside and make a ginger stew by boiling pieces of ginger in water and then by adding a little whiskey and sugar. Or he would make a coffee lace, usually by adding some apple brandy and sugar to hot coffee. Each of us would be given a drink.

It was the custom then that the first person to visit a neighbor and holler “Christmas gift!” would be given a drink of whiskey, ginger stew, or apple brandy. I remember that Mama’s father, my Grandfather Adams, had real large cedar trees in his back yard, and the chickens roosted in them. I recall Mama telling about an episode that took place there when she was single. One Christmas morning about four o’clock, the chickens woke the family up, making the most noise. Grandfather thought a weasel was after them. He jumped from bed, grabbed the gun, and went running out. Two young men were up in the trees, holding a couple of chickens. As soon as Grandfather ran out, they hollered, “Christmas gift!” Grandfather told them to get down and come in, and he made them a ginger stew.

Country people in those days didn’t have lots of elaborate store-bought decorations. Things were handmade. Coat hangers and ground pine would be used to made wreaths, and the leaves of laurel branches would be pinned together to look like bells. Sometimes holly and mistletoe could be found, and, of course, whoever stood under the mistletoe got kissed. It was only after I grew up that Christmas trees were put inside homes. People just didn’t put up trees when I was a child. The local store didn’t sell tree ornaments and such things, so people didn’t know anything about that custom. One year when I was older, we had a Christmas tree. I recall it well. It was a large black pine. We didn’t have fancy ornaments. We simply decorated it with strings of popcorn and with bunches of candy–five or six sticks of peppermint candy tied together in each bunch. The sticks of candy didn’t just hang straight down. They would sort of go in different directions and stick out. They looked beautiful on a big tree. That year, our gifts were tied on the tree instead of being placed in the stockings on the fireplace.

People also celebrated by having dances in their homes. Some people moved all the furniture out of one room so that there would be lots of space to dance. When I was a child, people mostly square danced. After I grew up, they still square danced, but they also waltzed and did the Charleston.

For the Christmas dinner celebration, most people had ham or chicken instead of turkey. I don’t remember everything else they had for dinner, but most people had potatoes, turnips, and cabbage put away for winter. The potatoes and turnips were put in a keel, which was a large hole dug in the ground, lined with straw, covered with boards, and finally covered with dirt. Usually, the cabbage was pulled up in the fall, and then put in deep furrows, heads down. It would keep all winter. Plus people had all kinds of canned food, dried apples and peaches, and dried green beans on strings which were called “leather breeches.” So it wasn’t any trouble to prepare a good dinner any time.

I remember one Christmas after I grew up that Mother, my brother Mallie, and I went over to Preacher Sam Koger’s. He and his family didn’t live very far from us. Of course, we had already eaten, but Mrs. Koger had a ham baked, and I don’t recall what else. Preacher Koger made a coffee lace and passed it around and had us all drink some of that, and nothing do them but what they had to fix us a biscuit with ham in it. It was very good. During that same Christmas, Mother gave Mrs. Koger some fresh turnip greens because we had a large turnip patch with pine branches over top of them. Mother could go and remove the pines and get fresh greens practically all during the winter. Mrs. Koger thought that it was wonderful to have fresh greens for Christmas time. I think that she gave Mother a piece of material to make an apron or a dress. I don’t recall which one.

To me Christmas was a very happy time. People were satisfied with what they had, and they made the most of it. Then people didn’t tire themselves with hectic Christmas shopping, and they spent very little money. I think that’s one reason why they could enjoy Christmas the way they did. Also, they would visit each other and show their love in a way that people seem to have forgotten these days. The love they showed each other is what the world needs now. It doesn’t cost us anything to love people, and Jesus has told us to love one another as He has loved us.

When I think of Christmas and what it meant to me, I would like to be able to spend one more Christmas just like I had then back in the country.

The Magic of Fruitcake

Posted on December 25, 2022 by Brent L. Kendrick

“From time to time, I savor a slice, but I’m parceling it out ever so rarely and ever so thinly. I want the magic of this fruitcake to last forever.”

Let me tell you about the magic of fruitcake. I know. You probably think that’s a ridiculous claim. Most folks hate fruitcakes because they’re hard and dry and filled with citron and raisins and Lord knows what all. Most are so bad that jokesters rightfully disparage them as next year’s paperweights or doorstops.

Obviously, those naysayers never tasted one of my Mom’s fruitcakes. Obviously, those naysayers never experienced the magic of my Mom’s fruitcakes. For time immemorial—seventy years, perhaps longer—she perfected her fruitcake recipe, recording her adjustments religiously. For one single, seven-pound fruitcake, she uses four pounds of cherries, golden raisins, pineapple, and pecans. For her batter, she mixes just enough to hold the fruit and nuts together, and it’s rich with a half dozen jumbo eggs, a pound of butter, and a magical blend of lemon juice, vanilla, freshly grated nutmeg, cinnamon, and allspice. And when it comes to fruitcakes, Mom’s no tee-totaler. Her fruitcakes are redolent with booze. She soaks the fruit in brandy before baking, and, once her baked cakes have cooled, she nestles them in thick layers of brandied cheesecloth, replenished weekly—starting in August when she bakes her cakes and continuing through Christmas when she gives them away.

Mom shared her treasured, secret recipe with me, right after two strokes in quick succession left her paralyzed in both legs and one arm. She was 92 then. It was the last year that she made her fruitcakes, from start to finish.

For the next few years, I made the fruitcakes. Everyone raved, even Mom. To me, however, something magical seemed missing.

Then, one year, my oldest sister called, claiming the ritual as hers. Mom had given her the recipe, too.

My sister followed it with precision, but as she started spooning the batter into the tube pan, she broke down in tears. She phoned Mom, who lived just two houses away.

“It’s all mixed,” she sobbed, “but it’s not going in the pan right.”

“Audrey, bring it on down here and prop me up in bed. I’ll show you how to do it.”

My sister went down and propped Mom up. With her one good arm and all the love and courage that she could muster, Mom packed the batter into the pan, pressing it down with the back of a wooden spoon, as only Mom knows how to do. Then she adorned the top with a ring of brandied, candied fruit flowers, just like always. Undoubtedly, that fruitcake was her most beautiful, ever, and it tasted just as first-rate as any Mom ever made all by herself.

My sister gave me a huge hunk of that love-laden fruitcake—undoubtedly, the best in the world and, sadly, Mom’s last. I have it wrapped in brandied cheesecloth, and I keep it in the freezer, the same way that Mom always kept one or more fruitcakes, from one year to the next. From time to time, I savor a slice, but I’m parceling it out ever so rarely and ever so thinly. I want the magic of this fruitcake to last forever.

In Praise of Fruitcake

Posted on December 20, 2021 by Brent L. Kendrick

“From time to time, I savor a slice, but I’m parceling it out ever so rarely and ever so thinly. I want the magic of this fruitcake to last forever.”

I believe in fruitcakes.¹ I know—that’s ridiculous. Most folks hate fruitcakes because they’re hard and dry and filled with citron and raisins and Lord knows what all. Most are so bad that jokesters rightfully disparage them as next year’s paperweights or doorstops.

Obviously, those naysayers never tasted one of my Mom’s fruitcakes. For time immemorial—seventy years, perhaps longer—she perfected her fruitcake recipe, recording her adjustments religiously. For one single, seven-pound fruitcake, she uses four pounds of cherries, golden raisins, pineapple, and pecans. For her batter, she mixes just enough to hold the fruit and nuts together, and it’s rich with a half dozen jumbo eggs, a pound of butter, and a magical blend of lemon juice, vanilla, freshly grated nutmeg, cinnamon, and allspice. And when it comes to fruitcakes, Mom’s no tee-totaler. Her fruitcakes are redolent with booze. She soaks the fruit in brandy before baking, and, once her baked cakes have cooled, she nestles them in thick layers of brandied cheesecloth, replenished weekly—starting in August when she bakes her cakes and continuing through Christmas when she gives them away.