Crossroads

A friend has been talking to me about the meaning and feeling of crossroads, or how it feels to at a place where roads cross and what the signifies and how these places often have a special feeling to them. Ms. Abbey Sawyer recently posted the following story on the Appalachian Americans Facebook page. It isn't an easy read but it begins to get to what my friend has been talking about.

Appalachian Story Time- This story has been passed down a few generations. It's so incredible, and steeped in superstition that I had to share it.

So I've seen a few posts on here about old Appalachian superstitions and old wives tales. It's deep in our roots as mountain people to look for signs, find remedies, and tell stories. I wanted to share an old story about superstition that became very real to my Great-Grandfather in the back hollers of Martin's Fork, Kentucky in about 1914 when he was 9 years old.
My great-grandfather Dan Smith was born in 1905 way up in an old holler near Martin's Fork, Kentucky. We're talking miles and miles from town, in a time where folks primarily still road horses to and from wherever they were going. He was one of 4 children, and my great-great-grand parents had a small farm house back up on the side of a mountain road where they had small crops and fruit trees. In the summer of 1914, my great-grandfather, we called him Papaw Smith, was 9 years old. He and his brother were goofing off,as boys do, and were climbing a huge old apple tree out in the field. They climbed about half way up the tree which was about 12ft off the ground. They would search for the best apples, pick them, and throw them in a pile on the ground to pick up and take back up to the house. As Papaw Smith was climbing higher to grab a big beautiful apple, he looked over on the same branch, and saw two of the prettiest blue, blue jay eggs he had ever seen sitting in a small nest. He looked back at the apple, then over at the eggs, and decided he wanted both. He locked his legs on the branch and reached out both hands, one for the apple, one for the nest. As he closed his grasp on each with both hands, he leaned too far and lost his grip on the branch. He fell about 10 feet. As he fell, he reached his arm out, still gripping that apple, and a forked branch snagged his forearm, snapping it and nearly tearing his arm plum off before he fell back to the ground. His arm was broken and barely hanging on, it was in bad shape. He and his brother ran back to the house and my great-great-grandfather and few other men from up the holler ended up having to remove the rest of his arm with a hand saw to save his life. There were few doctors in the backwoods of Kentucky in 1914, so they did what they could to fix him up. Over the next few weeks, my Papaw's stump struggled to heal. They would keep it clean, and dressed, but the wounds were not closing and it was becoming extremely painful. One day, my great-great-grandfather road in to town and was speaking to a few of his neighbors and folks he knew about my Papaw's arm. Now back in those days, with few doctors nearby, there were people in those mountains that were known as "healers", medicine women or men, or sometimes called granny women, that specialized in herbal healings or remedies. Some of which were steeped in superstitions.. Some might call them witches today. Depends on who you ask lol. But, one of those towns people he was speaking to happened to be the kind. An old woman who knew things. The woman started asking him questions about what happened. She then asked him "What did you do with the arm?". My great-great grandfather, perplexed by the question, said, "Well, I buried it up on the hill". She asked "In what fashion did you bury it?". Again confused, he replied, "In a hole". The woman then said, "There's your problem". She then began to explain, to a T, what he needed to do for my Papaw's stump to heal. She said, "Go back on the hill and dig up the arm. Clean it, and wrap it in white cloth. Bury the arm in a new hole near a crossroad or fork in the road facing away from the house, with the palm facing up towards the sky. Do this, and the stump will heal not long after". She explained this with such conviction that my great-great-grandfather raced home and did just that. He dug up the arm, wrapped it in white, buried it near a fork in the road, with the palm facing up. A few short weeks later, my Papaw Smith's stump had healed and he was left with no problems or pain there forth. My Papaw Smith grew up to be a Pentecostal preacher who preached in churches all over Eastern Tennessee, Lee County and Southwestern, VA, and Eastern Kentucky. He was know as "The One Armed Preacher". If you were from those areas and went to church in the 70's and 80's, you knew of him. He told that story to everyone despite being a Pentecostal preacher, and was superstitious about small things most of his life there after. One thing is for certain, always trust an old medicine woman deep in the backwoods of Kentucky, it might save your life.