This wonderfully descriptive story by Roberta "Birdi" Stephens appeared on the Appalachian Americans Facebook page and is used with Ms. Stephens' kind permission. I believe that she is a gifted writer who can capture people, places, and times quite well. She does this in few words, which takes special skill. I think of her writing as reporting from the soul.
When The Spirit Moved Ollie
When I was a young girl, I knew a special old woman named Ollie. And even though I lived way out in the country myself, I considered the place where she lived to be in the very deep boonies.
I guess it might be easy to simply say that she lived up in the head of the holler....but it was a bit more complicated than that. You see, once you got to the head of the holler, the road forked into two more hollers. If you took the left-hand holler, you'd travel for miles and miles, and no matter where you were headed, you'd eventually come out in the wrong place. But if you took the right-hand holler, it was only a short distance through the hills to a dead-end. But right before you got to the end, another holler branched off that one. To be honest, that last holler was little more than a foot path, and it only led to Ollie's cabin. But once you got there, it was exactly where you wanted to be.
I can still see her small cabin standing there in the clearing. It was made of rough-hewn logs, and only had three rooms.
The front room had mud-chinked walls and a natural stone fireplace. A small wooden rocking chair with traces of buttermilk paint sat near the fireplace, and Ollie's pale blue knitting bag hung from the back of the chair. An old faded burgundy couch sat against the wall, and it was brightened by one of Ollie's hand-knitted afghans that was always draped across the back. On the other side of the room, an old iron bed with its' feather bedtick sagged under the weight of at least a half-dozen hand-stitched quilts and a thin feather pillow. An aged stone churn with its' wooden dash sat on the hearth....next to the blackened iron poker that leaned there. There was little else in the room...except for a coal oil lamp and a blue Mason jar filled with Indian arrowheads that adorned the mantle.
The other two rooms in the back held the kitchen and a bedroom. I really can't recall much about the bedroom, but I can still vividly remember the kitchen. It was dominated by a huge wood-burning cookstove that had an unusual blue and white enameled warming oven. I had never seen anything like it. And it was at that old stove where Ollie could make magic! I can still see her standing there stirring a pot of something scrumptious. Everything she made was scrumptious! A few iron skillets hung on the wall...just waiting to be called into service.
A homemade wooden table stood in the middle of the floor, and a bench stood on either side. An old time-worn Bible lay on the table, bound with a soft leather cover, with the words of the gospel printed on whisper-thin pages. A long slim table stood next to the wall by the back door, and a piece of lye soap lay in a small dish next to a tin wash pan. A sun-bleached towel hung on a nail by the door.
A water bucket sat with a long-neck gourd dipper hooked to the side. And a stone crock full of clabbered milk sat waiting for Ollie's attention. Strings of leather britches and dried peppers hung from the rafters. Even today, I can close my eyes, and still see and smell that kitchen all the way across the years.
The cabin was plain and sparsely furnished, but it had a warmth that was hard to describe. It was as if the place had some ancient patina that glowed and warmed your heart. Or maybe it wasn't the cabin at all...maybe it was just Ollie.
She was old when I knew her, but I could still catch a glimpse of the young woman she had been. She had obviously been a great beauty in her youth. Her hair was long, and she told me that her hair had never been cut in her lifetime. It was pale silver and carefully plaited into a braid, and the braid was then wrapped around and around her head like a crown. Her cheekbones were very high, and her deep mossy green eyes looked as if they had been lifted from a dark forest floor. She was a delicate looking woman; and even though she had a gentle demeanor, that old woman was as tough as nails.
One day I was admiring the flowers that bloomed all around the edge of Ollie's yard, as she hoed her vegetable garden beside the cabin. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a huge copperhead that had stood to strike at Ollie. But before I could call out to her, she quickly and quietly struck it down with her hoe, and without saying a word, she just continued hoeing her way down the long row. Like I said, she was as tough as nails, but she mixed that grit with a quiet grace.
Her voice still sticks in my mind. She was not softly-spoken, nor was she loud. Instead, I would describe her voice as rich and melodic. Hearing her speak was like listening to old-time music, and every story that she told flowed just like a mountain song.
She had never been influenced by the outside world in any way. Her life had been spent deep in the hills. And she seldom saw anyone except family and neighbors. She lived without electricity, so not even a radio or television had ever intruded into Ollie's world.
I asked her once if she ever got lonesome, and I'll never forget what she told me. She said, "Well, lawd, lawd child! Why would you think I was lonesome?"
And I answered, "Cause you don't have anyone to talk to."
And that old woman laughed at me! She said, "Well, child, that's just not true! The good Lord is with me all the time, and I can always hear His voice speaking to my heart."
I guess you could say that she was a natural woman. Children loved her. Birds would light on her shoulder, and wild animals would walk right up to her. She lived with nature...not as an observer, but as a full participant. And she seemed at peace and at ease with everything around her.
She had married when she was very young. But her husband had died, leaving her a grieving widow with small children. She had married again, and had more children. And she had once again been widowed. And she had also lost children along the way. I can still remember hearing her scream at the cemetery on the day when one of her handsome sons was buried. It was such a painful wail that it just seemed to hang there in the air. Even the birds were silenced by Ollie's grief.
But that old woman always found a way to keep moving forward. It was like she could see beyond everything....beyond the hills and even beyond the sunset. It was as though she had her eyes set on some glorious thing that I could never see back then. But Ollie's vision for the future always seemed clear and certain.
There was a little church that sat on a hill not far from my home, and every once in a while, Ollie would walk down out of the holler just so she could worship there. And as long as I live, I will never forget how that old woman praised the Lord.
As soon as the church service started and the music began...I could always hear Ollie's breathing become heavy. Her eyes would become transfixed on something that only she could see, and her mystical journey would commence. It would be a quiet sob at first...then a moan, and finally a long wail. She would wave her hand in the air.....she always had a white hankie. And she would wave that white hankie like a flag, signaling everyone around her that something mighty was approaching!
By the time the second hymn was started, the church pew could no longer hold Ollie. She would hit that old wooden floor, and slowly start walking up and down the aisle...crying and moaning and waving that hankie. And then the best part came as she began running as fast as she could....both arms waving in the air now. And shouting!!! As loud as her voice would allow! And it would allow plenty!
The people would sing as long as Ollie was on the floor. And she always took her time. Sometimes one of her outbursts would last for fifteen or twenty minutes, but however long it took...that's how long we sang! Her face would turn blood red, and I would think that she was going down.....and sometimes she did. Just passed out right there on the floor! But it was not a worrisome thing, because we all knew that Ollie would be back on her feet within a few seconds.
It was an amazing thing to see Ollie worship in the way that she did!!! And even though I was just a child, I was entertained and excited by the spectacle of her faith. And I was scared half to death by it. But even my childish mind understood that whatever was possessing her was real.
I loved that old woman, but the whole thing just made me cringe inside. And yet, it was too compelling to ever look away. When Ollie would finally start to wind down, she would return to sobbing, then to the moan, and then she would end by saying, "Children, I just love the Lord with all my heart, and He has been so good to me. And sometimes I get to thinking about Him, and it just makes me so happy that the Spirit moves on me. So I just want to ask y'all to remember me in your prayers. And I'll remember you in mine."
And just like that, the whole thing would be over. Her color would return to normal, her demeanor would change, and she would once again be this quiet and modest woman looking very demure there in her church pew. And except for the fact that sometimes her hair braid had slipped out of place, making it look as if she was wearing a lopsided silver crown...you would never know that anything out of the ordinary had happened to Ollie that day.
Like I said, the whole thing just scared me to death, and so I hoped, and even prayed, that if I ever got religion...that it would not manifest itself in me the same way it did in Ollie.
She has been gone for many years now. But I still think of her often. And I guess that my childish prayer to never have Ollie's religion manifested in me was answered, because I have never in my long life come close to experiencing what she found. And even though I still don't understand what often possessed her, I no longer cringe at the thoughts of it. Because maybe, just maybe, Ollie got it right. Without any outside worldly influences, she listened to the only voice she ever heard. And the Spirit moved on her gentle soul.
Written by Roberta “Birdi” Stephens
In memory Ollie and the Spirit
Copyright February 5, 2017
All rights reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment