Five Reminders For A Better 2023

This comes from Jonathan Buttry in Holston. Tennessee. Brother Buttry is an active teacher and leader in the Primitive Baptist Universalist community. I have relied on them to help me understand a few weighty religious or spiritual concepts over the past couple of years. I think that there is some real wisdom here.

5 reminders for a better 2023

1. "Honor your father and mother" should never mean accepting their manipulation, abuse, or toxic interactions or behavior.

2. Being a "person of faith" should never mean that seeking professional therapy is a sign of weakness.

3. "Taking up your cross" should never mean denying your needs, desires, or individuality.

4. Being a "Godly woman" should never mean assuming a posture of inferiority, submission and appeasement to men, to tolerate domination and abuse.

5. The "fear of the Lord" should never mean living in a state of anxiety and uncertainty about being unconditionally worthy of acceptance and love.

O Night Divine

The following story comes to me from Rod Such. I think that it speaks to the kinds of "ordinary miracles" that run into us once in awhile and transform us. I hope that you have had such an encounter.

A friend writes:

O Night Divine

It’s Christmas, a time when almost all bloggers feel compelled to share a Christmas story. I usually try to avoid orthodox behaviors, but I’ve got Santa looking over my shoulder here, so today I’ll go mainstream.

This story took place three years ago, a few days after Thanksgiving. My brother Bob was getting married at his house on the near north side of Chicago. My family lives in Cary, about 40 miles northwest of the city. To avoid the drive and eradicate global warming, Karina and I decided to take a commuter train downtown, walk five blocks through the Loop, and take the subway to my brother’s neighborhood. We thought it’d be nice for the kids to see the city’s towering Christmas tree on Daley Plaza and take in the window displays at what was then still Marshall Field’s (now it’s Macy’s, a fact few Chicagoans acknowledge).

So we did this, and it was in fact delightful. The tree was as tall and beautiful as we remembered it from our childhood, and the kids squirmed their way through the crowds huddled at Field’s windows, getting their noses up close to the glass. Then we went over to the subway entrance and walked down the long flight of stairs.

As we slowly descended, Karina and I chatted with each other in sign language. Like many late-deafened people, I have to pay close attention to understand signs and I become oblivious to everything else in the surroundings. About halfway down, Karina motioned me to look in the direction we were heading.

There at the bottom of the steps stood a black man, like an apparition, looking directly at us. He wore a frayed brown fedora and a rumpled tweed sports coat several sizes too big, a person obviously down on his luck. He continued to look at us intently as we descended. Then with hesitance he finger spelled the words “Bill…Bill Graham.”

Startled, I cautiously signed “Yes.” Only gradually did I realize that I knew this person. I knew this person finger spelling my name. He smiled and with big signs and voice said “Good to see you.” “Hi,” I signed weakly, trying to place him and remember his name. He saved me by saying “Morris.” He finger spelled it as well.

Morris, I thought to myself….Morris…How do I know him? Then came the dawn of recognition: “Morris!” I shouted. “Morris Haynes!”

Morris had been in my very first sign language class at the Chicago Hearing Society almost 30 years ago. A hearing person, he took the class because he had a deaf cousin.

We shook hands warmly, and I introduced him to my wife and kids. He smiled broadly.

“This is wonderful,” he said, and with a waggle of his index finger signed: “Where are you going?”

I told him about my brother’s wedding, and he again said: “This is wonderful.”

Then he paused a moment in thought.

“I would like to sing your children a song,” he said finally.

I looked at Karina, who nodded. “Okay,” I said.

Morris led us over to a post where a cigar box lay on the platform. He positioned himself next to it and told the kids to stand right in front of him. Then he began to sing. It happened to be one of my favorite Christmas songs, “O Holy Night.”

Morris looked at my kids while he sang, his eyes never leaving their faces, his voice echoing off the tunnel walls. “….The stars are brightly shining…..A thrill of hope….For yonder breaks…..O hear the angels voices!.....O night divine….Led by the light……He knows our need……Behold your king!....”
We could hear the train coming from down the track. In a minute or so we would be on our way.
“O HEAR the angels VOIces! Oh night divine….”

The train roared closer, building to a crescendo. Morris sang louder.

“O NIGHTTT! O HOly NIGHTTT! O NIGHT DIVINNNEEEE!”

As he finished the train rolled into the station, like it was carefully planned.

Morris said to our kids: “Did you like it?” They nodded.

“That was beautiful,” Karina said, signing.

“Thank you,” I signed.

Awkwardly, I took out my wallet. I removed a ten dollar bill and placed it in his box.

“Thank you,” I signed again, and we hugged.

“Have a merry Christmas,” he said to me, and then to my family.

“Merry Christmas,” I said, as I started to walk away. “You take care.”

“Merry Christmas, Bill.”

“I hope to see you again.”

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

Karina and the kids waved me onto the train. I boarded and stood at the door looking out. Morris had moved to another area of the platform. As he positioned his box, our train began to move and quickly gathered speed. Soon we would be at my brother’s wedding.

I turned to Karina and she signed: “He has a really beautiful baritone voice.”

“That was wonderful,” I signed. “Wonderful.”

Morris will probably never know how special his song was. Or that he’s been in my heart on Christmas ever since, his voice resounding in the tunnel as that train approached the station.

Merry Christmas, Morris. Merry Christmas. I hope you’re well.

A memory of a cold morning

This was posted by by Keith Betsy Cain on the Appalachian Americans Facebook page. Readers of this blog know that often I post here about Slovak coal miners ands steel workers. In fact, this blog began with a quote from the book "Out Of This Furnace," a wonderful book that tells the story of several generations of Slovak and Slovak American steel workers. The account below is so well written that I could feel myself warming up on a cold morning when I first read it.

These cold days sparked a memory for me. Dad worked at the coal mine and was always the first one up. On really cold days, he would wake me up a little early for school. I knew the routine well. I would sit up and rub my eyes while the sleeves of Daddy's white t-shirt, that I wore as a nightgown, would be near my wrists. I would take the sheet off my bed and head to the living room. There, in front of the hot air register, I would lay on my stomach with my feet touching the warm metal. Daddy would completly cover me with the sheet. Then I got to work, pulling the sides of the sheet under my body and using my feet to hold the sheet to the wall sealing the register inside the sheet with me. All I had to do now was wait for the furnace to kick on. (Now, I think Daddy probably went over to the thermostat and bumped it up) When it came on, warm air inflated my sheet tent. I would lay there surrounded by perfect warmth in my little cocoon while Daddy made me coffee-milk and toast humming and singing in English/Slovak. When the furnace shut off, breakfast was ready, and I was ready to start my day.

Flour Sack Clothing

For a few weeks now I have been posting pictures of beautiful homemade items on this blog. Some of them are things that we pass by or don't think about much, but they do make our world more beautiful and are often gestures of love. Many of them would not be taken seriously as art by art critics, but I do believe that they are art and that many of the objects you have seen here are made by people with creativity and inspiration running through their veins.

Someone recently recalled for me how many people of my parent's generation wore clothing made from flour sacks. I know that some people hated those clothes and didn't even want to talk about them in the 1980s and 1990s. But some other people do have a kinder view of the clothing and what it signified. These folks attach family stories and stories of love to their memories of flour sack clothing.

“THE FLOUR SACK” by Colleen B. Hubert

IN THAT LONG AGO TIME WHEN THINGS WERE SAVED,
WHEN ROADS WERE GRAVELED AND BARRELS WERE STAVED,
WHEN WORN-OUT CLOTHING WAS USED AS RAGS,
AND THERE WERE NO PLASTIC WRAP OR BAGS,
AND THE WELL AND THE PUMP WERE WAY OUT BACK,
A VERSITILE ITEM, WAS THE FLOUR SACK.

PILLSBURY'S BEST, MOTHER'S AND GOLD MEDAL, TOO
STAMPED THEIR NAMES PROUDLY IN PURPLE AND BLUE.
THE STRING SEWN ON TOP WAS PULLED AND KEPT;
THE FLOUR EMPTIED AND SPILLS WERE SWEPT.
THE BAG WAS FOLDED AND STORED IN A SACK
THAT DURABLE, PRACTICAL FLOUR SACK.

THE SACK COULD BE FILLED WITH FEATHERS AND DOWN,
FOR A PILLOW, OR T'WOULD MAKE A NICE SLEEPING GOWN.
IT COULD CARRY A BOOK AND BE A SCHOOL BAG,
OR BECOME A MAIL SACK SLUNG OVER A NAG.
IT MADE A VERY CONVENIENT PACK,
THAT ADAPTABLE, COTTON FLOUR SACK.

BLEACHED AND SEWN, IT WAS DUTIFULLY WORN
AS BIBS, DIAPERS, OR KERCHIEF ADORNED.
IT WAS MADE INTO SKIRTS, BLOUSES AND SLIPS.
AND MOM BRAIDED RUGS FROM ONE HUNDRED STRIPS
SHE MADE RUFFLED CURTAINS FOR THE HOUSE OR SHACK,
FROM THAT HUMBLE BUT TREASURED FLOUR SACK!

AS A STRAINER FOR MILK OR APPLE JUICE,
TO WAVE MEN IN, IT WAS A VERY GOOD USE,
AS A SLING FOR A SPRAINED WRIST OR A BREAK,
TO HELP MOTHER ROLL UP A JELLY CAKE,
AS A WINDOW SHADE OR TO STUFF A CRACK,
WE USED A STURDY, COMMON FLOUR SACK!

AS DISH TOWELS, EMBROIDERED OR NOT,
THEY COVERED UP DOUGH, HELPED PASS PANS SO HOT,
TIED UP DISHES FOR NEIGHBORS IN NEED,
AND FOR MEN OUT IN THE FIELD TO SEED.
THEY DRIED DISHES FROM PAN, NOT RACK
THAT ABSORBENT, HANDY FLOUR SACK!

WE POLISHED AND CLEANED STOVE AND TABLE,
SCOURED AND SCRUBBED FROM CELLAR TO GABLE,
WE DUSTED THE BUREAU AND OAK BED POST,
MADE COSTUMES FOR OCTOBER (A SCARY GHOST)
AND A PARACHUTE FOR A CAT NAMED JACK.
FROM THAT LOWLY, USEFUL OLD FLOUR SACK!

SO NOW MY FRIENDS, WHEN THEY ASK YOU
AS CURIOUS YOUNGSTERS OFTEN DO,
"BEFORE PLASTIC WRAP, ELMERS GLUE
AND PAPER TOWELS, WHAT DID YOU DO?"
TELL THEM LOUDLY AND WITH PRIDE DON'T LACK,
"GRANDMOTHER HAD THAT WONDERFUL FLOUR SACK!"

*Pictured- All of the dresses were made from Flour Sacks.

Appalachia, 1944

Coal miner, John Tom Blanton's residence, exterior (Tribbey, Kentucky) (1944)

Notes: Mr. Blanton with two of his four children on the porch of his home. Employed by Old King Mining Company. They are 9 miles from the nearest city, 1.5 miles from the nearest independent store. They do not have an automobile, bathroom facility or refrigeration. They do have a radio. Mr. Blanton earns $51.70 each week. He pays $12.00 each week for groceries, $5.00 for clothes and $3.50 for medical expenses.

Why do moms yell?

A friend of mine in Virginia posted this on her Facebook page last night. I know that she's a good mom, and I know that she gives great advice, so please pay attention. She got this post from 1000001 Useful Info. I don't know anything about them, but they seem like compassionate people. We used to say "Mama is always on stage," meaning that everyone watches a mama but very few people offer to help. Sometimes when you see a mama getting a little upset you might say something like "My, what a wonderful child you have!" or just offer a kind word or smile. Help her out.

Why do moms yell?
Because we’re overwhelmed.
Because no one’s listening.
Because our kids are about to get hurt. “Don’t put your hand in there!”
Because the mess keeps piling up, and we're the only ones cleaning nonstop.
We yell as our arms charge up and down into the air.
We scream as our voice accelerates and our cheeks flush.
And then after we do, we feel immense guilt, defeated, and like we want to break down into tears.
We don't want to get to that point. We hate when it happens. But it does more than we'd like to admit.

Are all moms angry, and that's why we yell? No, we don’t wake up this way.

We find ourselves losing it because this parenting thing is hard.
We lose it because we have so much anxiety and no outlet.
We lose it because we’re exhausted to the point where our brain is functioning at 10% battery, and we need more than a good night's sleep to recover. We need a break: because we’re tired of doing everything, of nobody listening, of not being appreciated.

But just because we lose it doesn’t make us bad parents. We’re just humans who care more than anything in this world about our children and the type of humans they'll become, all while wanting to keep them safe, that we get frustrated with them and mess up ourselves.

We don’t want them to be brats. So, sometimes we yell.
We don’t want them to hurt each other, and if they do that to each other, they must do that to other kids. So, sometimes we yell.
We care so much about them that we get run down from trying so hard all the time…
…so, of course, we lose it.

And you’re not alone in this constant battle of losing it and feeling bad. Every single parent struggles because we’re human, and parenting’s messy, so we aren’t going to stay calm every confrontation of the day.

So if this is you today,
give yourself grace,
apologize for losing it,
and try better next time.
You’re still a good mom.

: This Mama Doodles
: Living FULL
For more stories/posts like these follow us at: 1000001 Useful Info

The walks are getting harder and shorter but his passion is still as strong as ever.

He first walked this path when he was three years old with his Papa. He’s walked it dang near every day since. The walks are getting harder and shorter but his passion is still as strong as ever.

---Treff Watts at Appalachian Americans

These are some of the images that I look at for revival.

These are some photographs that I look at for revival, those times when I need to think through something and get some needed historical perspective or when I may be running low on gratitude. The top photo is of my mother's family, a dour and hardworking group of textile workers and preachers. Most of the other photographs are from Monongalia County, West Virginia in the early 1930s. I think that the sixth photo down has the first home that I ever owned in it. The photo before the last one is (I think) the last day at work for one of the Bethlehem steel plants in the 1980s or 1990s. Most of us know those looks and that body language. I wish that I knew who the girl in the final photograph is. The picture was taken in Kentucky in 1964, so I think that she is about my age now. I hope that she has had a great life and has many more happy years ahead of her.