Southerners and Snow

The South is not accustomed to snow storms.  My husband, a transplanted Yankee, loves to make the remark:  “Southerners do not know how to drive in the snow.” I do consider that a true statement!  I, myself, have been snowed in for several days, now, and dare not venture out in that winter wonderland of ice.  Instead, I have used this alone time to clean, tackle little projects, cook cornbread (in my great grandmother’s skillet) and vegetable soup, clean out the refrigerator and experiment cooking with leftovers! I do keep myself busy! Our home, situated on a cliff overlooking a river has a beautiful panoramic view, no matter the season, but I have learned via trial and error, that to try to drive over and through the ravines from that location in order to reach a “salted” road is hazardous and extremely detrimental to my health. Many years ago, our county was hit by an ice storm.  Power lines snapped, yet, we were expected to go into work.  So, I cranked up old “Bubba,” the ’89 Ford Ranger, and proceeded to drive down the shaded one mile gravel road that connects to a country paved road.  Everything was all right until I reached the top of the ravine that has an 80 foot drop down one side into a feeder stream to the river.  A solid covering of “black” ice temporarily daunted my reserve, but upon remembering my husband’s instructions, I put the truck into 4 wheel drive and began the descent.  About half way up the other side, Bubba began to slide, sideways (cattywampus-like) toward the edge of the 80 foot drop. Every time I tried to go forward, Bubba kept sliding backwards toward the edge of that cliff.    Thank you, Jesus, for cell phones!  However, no neighbors answered my desperate calls for help while I sat and slowly slid, but my husband, a trucker and certified CDL and HazMat driver, who was stuck miles away up in Ohio’s snow storm, gave me my next piece of important advice:  “Put the truck in park; pull the emergency break;  get out!”

First-footing

Like most Southern Scots during the depression years, Grampy Norris was highly superstituous; she believed in first-footing on New Year's Day, and it was strictly enforced in her home.  No one, especially females, was allowed to enter her home until my mother's brother, Uncle Ancel, arrived from Greensboro, N.C.  It was always my Uncle's duty to be the first to cross Grampy's threshhold on New Year's Day before the rest of the family was allowed to enter her home. Instead of a lump of coal, which was the old Scottish way, Uncle Ancel would enter the house bearing gifts of a Claxton fruit cake (which she had just given him for Christmas!) and a bottle of Wild Turkey for Norris, my grandfather!  As a young girl, I always thought it was so unfair to be forced to wait outside until my Uncle arrived, but my cousins, Linda Kay and Judy (Ancel's daughters), my younger brother, Lacy, and myself would find ways to entertain ourselves.  Grampy and Norris would cook the finest meal for New Year's Day.  My Mom would prepare the stuffed pork chops at home before taking them to Grampy's house for New Years, but the rest of the meal went something like this:  Collard greens (folded money) seasoned with ham and hot pepper (Norris grew several varieties of hot peppers by the back door steps); black-eyed peas (coins) seasoned with fatback and ham; rack of pork chops (wealth and prosperity) stuffed with cornbread dressing; rice (luck); cornbread in the black skillet (good health), tea (pure Southern) and a round Upside-Down Peach Cake (new beginnings).  The grandchildren knew it was our job to clean the table after these meals, and we would jump at the chance to clean up.  Why?  ...because the grownups were served a nice white wine, champagne or sherry with their meal, and as kids, we thought we were so smart and sneaky by sipping the left overs as we carried the plates into the kitchen! These traditions continue in our families today.  I still prepare the same New Year's dinner, and my brother takes logs of Claxton fruit cake to the parents of his friends!

About The Black Skillet

Mom always finds a way to surprise me. Her memory is not so sharp, at times, so when she lets go with an off-the-wall remark, I pay attention. By the way, this is my first attempt at blogging, so like my Mom's memory, there will be mistakes. Also, I've never journaled, and I'm hoping this attempt at blogging will help both my memory and ability to put thoughts into words! Getting back to Mom, she is 84 years old this Christmas, and her health is not so good - heart problems. As the family historian, I enjoy hearing stories about the family, and I'm always trying to trick Mom into remembering little stories about herself as a child which is not so easy since she claims that she doesn't like to "talk about it." Yesterday, some of the family spent time at a Christmas gathering at Mom's house, and while we were enjoying opening presents, talking about old times and present interests,  my daughter mentioned the china service my grandmother had left her.  We all praised the beauty of the rose china service, and I laughingly said that the only thing I had gotten when Grampy passed away was her black skillet which, by the way, makes excellent corn bread. Mom pipes up and distinctly says, "That was Grandma Kitsy's black skillet!" Now, I always remembered that black skillet in my grandmother's kitchen, but I never knew that it had originally belonged to her mother. This was great-grandmother Kitsy who survived the Reconstruction of the South, whose father served in the War between the States, and whose life I've always been curious about, but I never knew that black skillet belonged to her!  "Mom," I said, "I didn't know that. Why didn't you tell me?"  I just sat there - dumbfounded, caught offguard by Mom's statement. With just a tad of exasperation in her tone, Mom replied:  "You never asked me!"