Going back to my roots...

Research for my book...The red stain of clay is taking me back in time. Back to a time where I was young, and my Mother was so very young and her sisters with her. You see my Mother came from a very small mountain town in North Carolina. There have been Harrill's on that mountain for hundreds of years. They came from England and Scotland and settled at the bottom of the Blue Ridge, I'm thinking it must have looked a lot like home to these people so long ago. So here I sit, making notes in my journal. Memories, stories that have been told time after time, songs they used to sing while sitting and snapping beans. I smile. It was a good time in my life.

So close your eyes a minute and I'll take you back...

Imagine if you will a house on a hill. A wooden house with aged planks of wood that have turned gray and rigid with age. Wind and rain, sleet and snow have made the planks uneven, and only add to the charm. The house is narrow and wide, from having rooms added as they were needed. A long porch with a rickety railing hugs the front of the house and wraps around to the back. There are hand made rockers, wooden chairs and a wooden swing at one end. Your shoes click against the wood as you walk and the planks give a little under your weight. If you ran your hand along the railing it would be as smooth as a newborns bottom against your palm. Imagine sitting in the rocker, pushing yourself back and forth, the rhythm quiet and comforting.

Aunt Irene's flower garden sits in front of the crushed grass drive where the weight of tires have worn a path down into the red clay. To the right is a barn with two cantankerous mules and a silent cow. Bales of hay have been stacked above the barn and the door to the hayloft has been left open if only to entice young children to come up and play. There are hydrangea of the deepest darkest blue at least four foot tall with blooms as big as a cantaloupe. The smell of baking bread drifts on the air to mingle with the sweet smell of freshly plowed rich earth to make your mouth water. A butter churn sits near the open front door.

Now imagine three sisters...
Marjorie with hair of gold, the youngest with hazel eyes that set the boys to swooning, sits at her mothers feet. A basket of the brightest green beans you've ever seen in her lap. They aren't like green beans you get in a store. These are at least six inches long, they're fat and plump and make a popping sound when you break them.

Julia, with her beautiful dark hair and big brown eyes sits to her right and Betty whose blue eyes twinkle with laughter sits at her left. They're mother, her hair still untouched by time gleaming red in the dying light of the afternoon sun looks down and smiles at her daughters.

They are working because everyone on the farm works...but they are singing as well. They sing in harmony, smiles on their faces, stopping only to laugh or nudge one another when one stops snapping beans.

These women sing church hymn's, songs that move them. The Old Rugged Cross, On the Wings of a Snow white dove, and my favorite...If I Could Hear my Mother pray again...But the song that calls to them, tears at their heart and makes them stop working is "Barbara Allen" They stop and look at each other, join hands and begin.

Was in the merry month of May
When flowers were a bloomin',
Sweet William on his death-bed lay
For the love of Barbara Allen.

He sent his servant to the place
The place where she was dwellin
Said my master's sick, so very sick
and bids me call for Barbara Allen

Slowly, slowly she got up,
And slowly she went nigh him,
And all she said when she got there,
"Young man, I think you're dying."

"O yes, I'm sick and very low,
And death is on me dwellin',
No better shall I ever be
If I don't get Barbara Allen."

"Don't you remember the other day
When you were in the tavern,
you toasted all the ladies there
And slighted Barbara Allen?"

"O yes, O yes, I remember well
that we were in the tavern,
I toasted all the ladies there,
But gave my love to Barbara Allen."

He turned his pale face to the wall,
And death was on him dwellin'.
"Adieu, Adieu, my kind friends all,
Be kind to Barbara Allen."

As she was walkin' through the fields,
She heard the death bells knelling,
And every toll they seemed to say,
"Hard-hearted Barbara Allen."
She looked east, and she looked west,
She saw his corpse a-comin'.
"Lay him down, lay down the corpse,"
"And let me gaze upon him."

"O mother, mother make my bed,
O make it long and narrow,
Sweet William died for me today,
I'll die for him tomorrow."
Sweet William died on Saturday
And Barbara died on Sunday
Her mother died for love of both,
And was buried Easter Monday.

They buried him in the old church yard,
And Barbara there anigh him,
And out of his grave grew a red, red rose,
And out of hers, a briar.
They grew and grew in the old churchyard,
Till they couldn't grow no higher,
They wrapped and tied in a true love's knot.
The rose around the briar.

The women in my family have sung the Ballad of Barbara Allen for as long as they've been on American Soil. Our version of course is a little different, and I think I'm missing a verse, I'll have to go call my mother, for surely whe will know.

Tonight was a good night. Full of memories and grace...
I'll think I'll sign off on this one...