The Grandmother Connection
May 30, 2023
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Back To Home The June 2022 weekend we moved into Oakhaven, temperatures soared in the 100’s, and the pace of my life seemed to be
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Discovering Oakhaven: An Artist’s Journey Home
Christie Chandler
Coming Soon
Oakhaven will be featured as one of 14 historic homes on the Eufaula Pilgrimage tour, March 31-April 2nd 2023.
www.eufaulapilgrimage.comOakhaven will be featured in the September/October 2022 issue of the State’s lifestyle periodical, Alabama Magazine. Christie’s “Initiation” chapter from the book will be showcased as an article, along with a series of photographs of the home’s restorations, art, and decor.
www.Alabama-magazine.comSynopsis
Discovering Oakhaven is a non-fiction historical narrative about the author and her husband leaving the suburbs and returning to their Southern roots in rural Alabama. The two have lived in four countries between them, but have felt the call to return to the land and become a part of a community. The setting takes place at Oakhaven, an 1870’s post-bellum home on 100 acres named for Colonel Hiram Hawkins. Seeking a simpler lifestyle, the couple learns how to grow their own food without pesticides, blend with the environment, and practice their respective art forms inspired by the countryside. The book highlights the author’s journey of self-reclamation driven by a deep longing for ‘home’ and a desire to find meaning in relationship with community, family, and Nature.
The writing will also encompass research into the past of Oakhaven and its small town of Eufaula, Alabama. The author will interview locals from all walks of life to better understand what makes living in small towns special and the challenges these communities face to survive in the face of looming globalism. Speaking with entrepreneurs, farmers, homesteaders, and everyday workers, the author hopes to understand strategies to make living local successful. Taking a neutral “walk a mile in someone else’s shoes” approach, the author seeks to better understand the social issues of the past and present. Using local historical events as a starting point, the writing will weave uplifting current accounts of black and white community leaders to understand what strengthens and heals families across racial lines. Anecdotes and interviews will offer insights to not only uncover Oakhaven’s history, but also shed light on the complex emotional burdens carried by the cultural traditions of the South.
Showcasing her thoughts in an autoethnographic journal style context, the author invites the reader to see the world through an artist’s eyes. With carefully considered reflections about the world observed around her, the author approaches her subject with tenderness and a desire to learn through listening. Through intuitive problem solving and relationship building, her writing hypothesizes that the sharing of stories opens the door to healing, and that open dialogue develops empathy and uncovers common ground. The artist-author intuits that small communities are set up to take the lead in this approach, because there is already a level of closeness and trust inherent in places where families have known each other for generations. In this kind of setting, the illusion of difference wears a much thinner veil. The author posits that creating a balanced and meaningful life first begins within the heart of the individual, then radiates out to the nuclear family, small communities, and ultimately the world at large. Despite our differences, everyone wants a place where they truly belong.
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Sample Writing
Chapter 1 - Initiation
Chapter 5 - Snuffy’s Cabin
Chapter 11 - Good Grief
Chapter 15 - Grandmother Wisdom
Chapter 1 - Initiation
The Initiation
Stepping onto the land for the first time in May of 2020, we knew Oakhaven was special. So many places in the world have their history covered up under layers of concrete and ambition, but out here in rural Alabama, the stories of the people are alive in the soil. We felt it. The towering oaks, magnolias, and pecan trees were heavy with thick, leafy branches as it was almost June. The pear and lemon trees were beginning to bear fruit, and in the distance, we could just see the pond at the base of several sloping hills. The house had stood unoccupied for years, but hadn’t yet fallen into disrepair. It was stately but not ornate, a balance of 1870’s Italianate style and farmhouse function. Entering the front door, my husband, Neil, and I both felt we had been transported back to our grandparents’ generation, when time was marked by seasons, and families lived in harmony with the land. Our connection to this place was instant, and we knew by the end of the day it would be our home.
Neil and I were both born in Alabama – Birmingham and Dothan respectively – but our lives had taken very indirect routes around the globe to bring us back to this part of the world. His interest in martial arts led him to study with a grandmaster in the mountains of Japan. Later, a career in the military opened a door to even more adventures in South America and the Middle East. I, on the other hand, had lived abroad in Europe and Africa, studying art and raising children. We met later in life, and found our way back home together. They say that life eventually comes full circle, and for us that is happening on a farm in Eufaula, Alabama.
Oakhaven has been home to three families over the past 150 years. Colonel Hiram Hawkins and his wife Louisiana headed south after his regiment in Kentucky surrendered at the end of the Civil War. They relocated to Eufaula with his mother and built the house, living there until Colonel Hawkins was the last to pass in 1914. For some time after his death, the house was vacant and fell into disrepair. An historical article reports that in the early 1930’s, when Mr. and Mrs. Donald Comer purchased the home, much of the rare wrought iron had been scattered across the yard. They added wings at either end of the house, each with a bathroom and a bedroom, and a back porch that spanned the width of the house. For decades, the Comers kept Oakhaven as a family retreat until it was sold in 1990 to Don and Myra Corsino of Montgomery. The Corsino’s modernized the home, adding heating and air conditioning, as well as planting fruit trees and keeping the grounds in immaculate condition. Oakhaven was listed for sale again in 2010 and sat vacant again for 10 years before we found it. In August of 2020, we became the fourth owners, and it was once again in need of a major restoration.
Out in the country, the absence of people is heard in the silence and seen in the darkness. When the moon and stars disappear behind clouds, the black night becomes one thing and takes up all the negative space. It’s surprising to learn how living remotely brings life back to simple truths that are millennia old. Living on the land makes me understand how traditional roles make sense. In the city, a woman feels confident in the order of things, but in reality, she is heavily dependent on systems to organize life and play the role of the protector. Out here on the farm, my illusions of control were shattered in one weekend. Not only did I experience the need to feel safe, but also the sheer workload ahead of us made me realize my reliance on my husband’s physical strength. Add to that the fury caused by rousing a long-dormant septic system from its sleep, and I had to surrender my feminist card. Dependence is a difficult thing for the modern woman to admit, but there is something profound in this kind of partnership with each other and with the land.
We were excited to spend our first weekend in the empty house before restorations began. During the day, we would take walks and sit in different parts of the property. The views in every direction were intoxicating to us. On more than one occasion, I’ve been moved to tears by something I can’t quite put into words. The feeling hits me at the spirit level. My attention skips from pine groves to sweeping skies to tiny wild daffodils. Reorienting to the land and to open spaces is like travelling to a foreign country. The senses are alive and awake to everything that feels unfamiliar. Over the course of two days, I spotted a black widow spider, the remains of a timber rattler, and caught sight of a family of wild boar in the front yard. At sunset, the coyotes performed their chaotic evening serenade just over the ridge. For the first time in my life, I felt what it was like to live among the untamed. It was both thrilling and unsettling at the same time.
If Oakhaven is our Eden, then paradise will sooner or later reveal a snake. That first night in the house, I decided to take a shower and wash our two little dogs at the same time. The three of us piled into the tub. I was shocked at how dirty the dogs were. The water turned a filthy brown and made its way toward my knees. Next, I heard a guttural belch from the toilet. The sink chimed in. I yelled for Neil, who appeared with a plunger, and heroically began pumping, first the shower, then the toilet, and then the sink. After several minutes, the swampy water receded back down the drain and we were saved. I buried the thought that anything more than dirt had come out of the pipes. It had probably been years since anyone had taken a shower in that house. My mind flashed to the bathtub scene from the movie, “The Money Pit”, and I felt sick to my stomach. The three of us emerged from behind the shower curtain, dirtier than when we entered. Tired, we dried off and headed for the blow up mattress.
Fall was approaching, so the nights began to offer some reprieve from the heat. Little did I know that the slight change in temperature would have such a dramatic effect on the house. At night, when we settled onto the air mattress with the dogs at our feet, the house came alive. Loud bangs and groans of what sounded like metal ships hitting icebergs pierced the contrasting silence. As I lie awake, I heard the scratching of an animal under the floor. By morning, the air had leaked out of the mattress and the four of us woke up in a life-size taco. Groggy and irritable, we sat in our beach chairs in the kitchen. Just as I was about to take my first sip of life-giving coffee, Neil turned to me and said, “I think we have a poltergeist”.
Of course, he was only kidding, right? Ghosts don’t actually exist. Everyone jokes that an old house has a ghost or two, that’s part of the charm. But on the off-chance ghosts are real, I rationalized, has anyone ever been murdered by a ghost? Neil proceeded to tell me that at some point in the middle of the night, he heard not only what sounded like footsteps, but also the crashing of dishes in the kitchen. He had jumped up, pistol drawn, and searched the house, including the dirt floor crawlspace underneath, but found nothing. When he shared this story, I got angry. It’s hard to sell a haunted house. We were stuck with it. I yelled out to no one, “Get used to us, we’re not going anywhere!”. Then I looked at Neil with a mean face and told him never to say that again.
If this line of thinking sounds irrational, please know it happened pre-coffee. I did come back to my senses, and after a little research online, I read about the settling noises old houses make during the change of seasons. A new friend and fellow historic homeowner assured me that this was normal. As a matter of fact, she told me old homes that had been vacant for a while had the most to say when new owners moved in. She reassured me that the house would settle down once it got to know us and learned our habits and patterns.
Once she explained this to me, the way I saw our house shifted. We were less homeowners and more caretakers now. Oakhaven had its own personality, formed by a history full of families with stories that had accumulated into the walls and floors. Everyone says that old houses are special because of their character and the quality of their materials. I think they are special because they are archives of memory, silent witnesses to the passage of time. Over the course of this first weekend, Oakhaven had initiated us as stewards. Now it is our turn to add a chapter to its story. For all my concerns about safety and being out in the middle of nowhere, I couldn’t wait to come back again. The unknowns of country life were beginning to take the shape of adventure in my mind. With these realizations, I began to settle in to a kind of peace that only comes from a deep knowing. We had finally found a home to belong to.
Chapter 5 - Snuffy’s Cabin
If you can imagine a cabin that could be summed up by its name, then picture what a character named “Snuffy” would look like. If you’re at least in your 40’s, you may remember a cartoon in the Sunday funny papers called ‘Snuffy Smith’. The comic strip became popular in the 1920’s and featured the adventures of a bodacious hillbilly from the town of Hootin’ Holler, and his wife Loweezy, and their two children, Tater and Jughaid. When I first saw it, Snuffy’s cabin reminded me of a disheveled old man who’d been hitting the booze too hard. He wears a crooked old leather hat that’s stained with sweat, and suspenders over red long john underwear. Brown tobacco juice runs down his chin, and he smells terrible. My husband, on the other hand, would probably see him in a favorable light, maybe as a strong pioneer who was once a skilled hunter, but lost his wife and just let himself go. Let’s chalk that up to one of the many differences between men and women. Either way, you get the picture. Snuffy’s sits at the edge of the front field and faces the 5 remaining trees of an old pecan grove. As we drove up, we first saw its red tin roof from far across the field. When we got out of the car to see it for the first time, our real estate agent introduced it to us as “Snuffy’s Cabin” and the name stuck. When I first saw it, I wanted to burn it down. But Neil loved it and saw its potential as the ultimate man cave.
Log cabins are the quintessential symbol of the American Frontier. Their gnarled log sides and chinked mortar conjure images from the times of Davy Crockett, Abraham Lincoln, and Andrew Jackson. They are the embodiment of the rugged determination of the pioneer spirit, and have been memorialized as part of Americana by Western films. They are impressive because of what it takes to build one by hand. This home would’ve been made from 25-50 tall trees, each weighing 300-500 pounds. After chopping and sawing the trees, mules would then have to drag the logs to the homesite. The men would have first planed off the bark to remove the insects and moss. Then they would then notch the ends for a close fit at the corners, lifting them overhead into place. Gaps between the logs were filled with chink, which is a mixture of mud, clay, animal hair, and sand. The chink kept out the critters and the weather and allowed room for the house to settle.
There are two sections of Snuffy’s joined by a slack wooden porch, one side much older than the other. The original part of the log house has a box notch construction, which make me think of something like Lincoln log toys. Once Neil cleaned it out, I was excited to see it. The doors are cut wide and low, and it has a heavy, solid feel. It’s dark, there are no windows, but power was added at some point so we can turn on the lights to see. It’s only feature is a brick fireplace. The cream-colored chink makes the walls look striped, and they have a slight musty smell. When I walk from one side of the room to the other, the slope reminds me of a fun house and makes me a little dizzy. The pitched metal roof is much newer than the structure itself, and the high ceiling gives the illusion that it’s larger than it actually was for the original family. The door from the living room leads to another room, which I assume was a bedroom or kitchen, and it’s been painted a bright bird’s egg blue, even the logs.
The two parts of the house aren’t connected, except by the outside porch. That first day we went to look at it, I carefully minded the rotten planks, and opened the door to the screened porch that leads to the other side. That familiar “creeeeak” of the metal spring followed by the “slap!” of the door slamming resonates with me on a deep level. New homes don’t do that. By the front door there’s a sign that says “No Girlz Allowed”. I took the sign at its word. That was the end of the tour for me, as I decided not to go in, but Neil told me all about it later. In the kitchen, he said, there was a long table for at least 10 or 12. There were so many liquor bottles on it, there wasn’t room for a plate. Across to the other side to the right, there is one large bedroom with 3 beds. He also told me there was closet-sized bathroom with one of those plastic showers that looks like it had melted into the corner. Those are the highlights. Evidently the smell was so bad, it took his breath away. There were mounted deer heads on the wall whose fur had been eaten off. Neil had his work cut out for him.
Before I write this paragraph, I want you to know we’ve happily stayed in the newer side of Snuffy’s many times, and so have our family members and friends. We repainted the inside ourselves in 4 days, including the floors. The curtains were cleaned, and we have all new bedding. Now that you know that, let me tell you what kind of man I married and what he did. I think he’s the rugged frontier version of Snuffy, the one who can do hard things and do them well.
If I was to rename Snuffy’s that first day, I would have called it the (F)Rat House because it completely belonged to them. “Nasty” is a word my mother would use to describe its condition. It had been a hunter’s retreat for a while and was once cared for, but it had sat empty and unused for years. Do you know what happens to a house on the edge of a field that doesn’t get regular pest control treatments? Total takeover.
The first thing Neil did was to rip up all the urine-soaked carpet by hand and take it out to the dump. He told me there was so much rat poop that…. and I stopped him right there. I didn’t need to know. It took him days to do that. Next, he put out rat poison. If you don’t know about rat poison, let me tell you, because we have been doing this a year as I’m writing this. Rat poison doesn’t kill the rats immediately, it makes them thirsty, and the idea is that they will leave the house to go look for water and die out in the woods. But these rats didn’t do that. About a month later, on our next visit to Alabama, Neil went back over to Snuffy’s to check on the situation and see if there were any signs of them. The only clue was little fluffy balls of foam and cotton everywhere on the floor. His next step was to throw out the old couches. There were three of them. When Neil bent over to pick one up – by himself, I might add – he discovered where all the rats had gone to die: the couches.
I think that’s enough about rats for now. Suffice it to say, Neil got all three of those couches out to the yard by himself and lit them up in a kerosene fireball until only curly charred springs sat in a black circle. There is no way I would have done that. I would have definitely burned that house down, but he had the vision and the drive to pull it off. I have to say I was genuinely impressed. There was no service to call, no one to hire, he did the dirty work himself. He’s my Snuffy.
Chapter 11 - Good Grief
Good Grief
Tears
Tears shed with gratitude and love
Have a different quality.
Their content is of the Spirit.
Unlike their earthbound form,
Tears from the heart don’t fall.
They rise
Up through the treetops and into the clouds,
Where they are stored in the heavens.
Until finally, when heavy and bursting with potential,
They let go
And each one falls
Exactly where needed,
Bringing new life.
This is the part of the book where my heart bursts on the scene without warning. Telling a story is just like real life. The tenor and tone is set and humming along smoothly, and then BAM! Out of nowhere, tragedy strikes and the rhythm is broken. This chapter may not seem to fit with the others, but it was a turning point for me. It was the second chapter that I wrote, and it provided the inspiration I needed to commit to writing this book. Its abruptness is the truth of life, how it steps in and rearranges everything. And there is beauty in the interrupting.
A curious question has bubbled up into my consciousness as I passed into midlife some time ago: Is it possible to experience gentle grief? My first real experience with death was at 17 when I lost my grandfather to cancer. I remember when I heard the news, I took off running through the neighborhood in my flip-flops, tears streaming down my face. The pain was so raw, my body couldn’t contain it, and I had to physically run it out of my system. I had no frame of reference for this emotional freefall. I thought the intensity of it would swallow me whole, and I would die too. From that day on, I learned to keep a tight rein on my tears and trained myself only to cry on the inside. I got so good at it, I could visualize the tears as rain inside my skull. Over time, the tears just gave up and anger stepped in with its blustery bravado, if a feeling was allowed expression at all. And that is how I became emotionally blocked.
Thank heavens I have a husband and three children who wouldn’t let me lose myself to a slow and painful emotional death. As an artist, it’s like being buried alive! I have made strides the past few years and have become a better communicator, but I still hear from too many sources that I’m holding something back. The clock is ticking, and the question of gentle grief begins to resurface. I have come to terms with the fact that this magical ride eventually ends. But does it have to be so hard on the heart? Evidently, God thought my question was so important, He sent Death himself to deliver the answer.
We were visiting the farm for the weekend, less than two months away from our permanent move to Alabama. We had spent a couple of hours having coffee and watching the sunrise on the back porch. It’s funny how morning routines give the illusion that each day is just another day. But this Saturday in April, all our plans slid sideways. I was just outside with our two dogs, getting ready to go into town and Neil drove up in his truck. We talked for a minute and as he slowly started to drive away, we heard a yelp. Our little white dog, Lily, had been sitting under his tire and we didn’t see her there. She was limp on the ground, but it appeared that only her tail had been run over. Neil was distraught. My parents were with us that weekend, so I wrapped Lily in a towel and jumped in the car with my mother. We began the agonizing 30 minute ride to the closest country vet.
In an emergency, time is precious. I thought if we could just get to the vet, everything would be ok. She wasn’t bleeding except for her tail, and I pictured us all in our beds that night, with Lily’s tail bandaged, and us nervously laughing about a close call. As my mother kept her composure and drove the country roads as fast as she could, I noticed the muscles in my body tensing. Relax and release. My breathing was short. Deep breaths. I closed my eyes and prayed she would be ok. Every now and then she would whimper, and she eventually moved down into the floor in front of the passenger seat. I spoke softly to her.
Looking back now, I see I was able to stay present for her. I was able to keep my body regulated and release the feelings of panic that would shut me down. When we finally reached the vet, Lily was quiet and still. I wondered if the life was draining out of her. The vet examined her and took her in for x-rays. I had to walk outside and get some air.
Behind the vet’s office, there was a horse stabled. He didn’t look injured, but didn’t approach me either. He was a beautiful bay colored stallion. We looked into each other’s eyes across a pasture of purple wildflowers. His presence was one of still strength. I’ve worked with horses in therapeutic environments enough to know that they are some of the most empathic creatures on earth. Because they are herd animals of prey, their sensitivity to their environment has evolved to such a degree that they are incredible mirrors of the feelings of their human companions. When we sit on their backs, our bodies become extensions of theirs. The horses know if the rider is confident, nervous, angry, or sad. Whatever the person brings to the situation, the horse will reflect that back into the experience. You can’t fool a horse. As he looked at me, standing squarely, I doubted whether or not I could handle the wildness of living on the farm. The circle of life was laid so bare here. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t a part of reality anymore. The moment passed, and that familiar quiet voice said to me, “You were made for this life”.
My mother came out to get me, and I desperately tried to read her face for news. When we went back inside, he showed us the x-rays. Her little hip had been pulled out of joint and would need surgery to repair. The vet went on to say that the x-rays had uncovered other already present and unrelated health problems: an enlarged heart and huge hernia. He warned that the road to recovery would be an agonizing 8 weeks or longer, if she had the strength to recover at all.
My body began to physically respond to the news. Everything was spinning and I felt like I would drop to the floor. I sat down, took a few more deep breaths, and weighed the options. She was 12 years old. I had felt her change over the past year, and I knew she didn’t feel very well. As she laid on the table with her eyes closed, I sensed her weariness. I knew surgery would be hard on her, and watching her suffer would be worse. The answer came to me, and I knew it was time to let her go. I went outside one more time to call each of my children and let them know first. The tears erupted as I listened to my kids cry over the phone. I regained my composure and went back inside to hold her in my arms as they gave her the shot that gently took her life. I felt her slowly fade away. I have never experienced anything like that before.
I can try and describe for you how much this little white dog meant to me, but if you have a beloved pet, you understand the words will fall short and I will have to trust you will meet me where I am. Lily was born in London during our years of living abroad. She came into my life at the lowest point, when my first marriage of 20 years was falling apart. She gave me just enough joy to keep my head above water. She brought me to the trees at the park everyday, and they worked their magic. That was the first time I felt the healing power of trees. Lily’s cuteness factor was so high, she drew others to us like a magnet. Because of her, I met a series of people who eventually connected me with a counsellor named Jules. She and I spent a year and half revisiting my past, weaving unexpressed emotions back into those memories. What I had already broken into pieces, she helped me put back together – only stronger. I realized that without Lily, I would have never met Jules. She was an angel in a tiny fluffy body.
The ride back home was tough. I let the tears out a little bit more in front of my mother. That was new for me. My mother and I have always had a running joke that she can turn on the waterworks over a sappy commercial. Having already lost both her parents, she had already made her peace with grief and tears were nothing to be ashamed of. I held Lily in my lap for the long ride home, still swaddled in the same towel. The most curious thing was how her lifeless body felt. She seemed heavier, completely submitted to her fate. That animating spark of life had left, but she still had that same sweet expression on her face. As we made the long ride through the sunny countryside back to the farm, I began to dread what was coming next.
Neil and Lily had a very special relationship. I think she loved him more than me. My heart had already told me that she came to him to be released from life, and that it was just her time. When we got home, Neil had already built her a box and had painted her name on it. He was digging a grave for her under one of the oaks by my art studio, and burst into tears when I put her in his arms. Seeing him cry that way was almost too much, but then I decided there was something pure and innocent to it. Sometimes I just see the boy in him. I’m so thankful that despite all he’s been through in life, that childlike essence is alive and well.
Once she was buried, I finally felt it was time to let her go. I knew what to do. I made my way across the yard to that Circle of Eight Trees. With the canopies above me, and the roots below, I was covered on all sides. As I cried, I thought, “I am so grateful and honored to have had such a special being of light in my life. Thank you, Lily.” Looking up into the treetops, I let her go. And the tears finally came. I was so overwhelmed with joy, I actually laughed and cried at the same time! Then the words to the poem at the beginning of this chapter began to come to me. When I finished writing them down, I realized I had gotten the answer to my question. Gentle grief is possible. If I can stay fully present with my feelings and with my body, and allow myself at each moment to stay open and not close, I can make it through grief in small bits. The key is letting go in a state of gratitude! And the real surprise that is still unfolding is that the ripple effects of grieving in love bring blessings back to us beyond what we can measure.
As I write this, Lily has been gone for five days. I still feel her loss and miss her presence. But there have been little offshoots of miracles that have continued to follow. Her death broke my heart open. I realized there were parts of myself that still needed to be loved back to life. There were people I needed to forgive and ask for forgiveness. Lily’s death was exactly what I needed to show me what I couldn’t see. It was her last and greatest gift to me.
In just a few weeks, we will move to the farm full-time and leave suburban life behind. I don’t mind admitting that the events of this past weekend left me feeling scooped out from the inside. I still wonder if I can handle life out in the country. There are no gated communities or doctors offices five minutes away. The snakes, boars, coyotes, and bobcats are all still there waiting for me. But I can’t deny there is a new part of me that is coming to life. I now realize that I can’t have true joy without pain. I can’t experience lasting peace without the lessons that the chaotic natural world brings. Everything is coming together and starting to make sense. I can start this new chapter of my life fully released from the past. I know I haven’t mastered my fear of Death by a long shot, but I now know we can be gently held and guided through the complex maze of our emotions when we allow love to lead the way. Please believe me when I say that we will get the help we need in life’s most difficult moments if we just stay present and dare to feel. Learning to see with spiritual eyes makes all the difference. Life is made so much more precious because we are aware that there is an end to it. And there is still so much more to learn.
This would be my last trip to Oakhaven before permanently moving there. It was hard to come back to Florida without Lily. We have planted white lilies beside the old concrete bench that sits under the oak tree where we buried her. She has done her job well, loving our family through some big changes, and she made it all the way here with us to the farm.
Chapter 15 - Grandmother Wisdom
Grandmother Wisdom
The June weekend we moved into Oakhaven, temperatures soared in the 100’s, and the pace of my life seemed to be heating up as well. In less than a week, I had hit two major life milestones (and stressors): I had moved my last child into her college dorm and helped Neil pack up our house and leave Florida for Alabama. We’ve been living here at the farm for a week now, and I feel like I’m waiting for the scattered parts of me to catch up so we can all settle down. We are in the final stages of unpacking, and just yesterday I came across something very special in the bottom of a box of family albums: a book of my grandmother’s handwritten poems.
When I was 17, I lost my grandfather. We were all devastated, but I saw my grandmother suffer most with the loss of her one true love. I wrote her a poem of encouragement in the front of a blank journal and gave it to her a year after his death. Years later, she surprised me when she gave it back full of her poems and family memories. Rediscovering it for the first time in many years, I reread what she’d written with fresh eyes. It was clear that family was everything to her, and that she lived to serve others. Her legacy to us was passed through her words, and the way she wrote made it clear she wanted us to know who she was. She shared her innermost thoughts and worries, her dreams and fears. Her character was built by her faith in God, and she felt a responsibility to live a life of high integrity as a model for us all.
A child of the Great Depression, Mildred Annette Weems was born on January 7, 1929. She grew up as one of eight children in Cedar Springs, Georgia, a tiny farming town near the intersection of Georgia, Alabama, and Florida. Typical of the times in this part of the world, her father was a sharecropper doing his best to scratch out a living from the land. Here, in her words, my grandmother describes her childhood:
I was born in 1929. We lived in a little bungalow way back in the fields.
We had to cross a branch with no bridge to reach the main road where we met the school bus and got our mail. The winters were hard. We walked two miles with scant clothing and frostbitten fingers and toes on frozen ground to meet the school bus. In summer we worked in the hot fields barefoot, often walking on the plants to relieve our feet from the burning sand. Sometimes I fainted from the heat. I hated picking cotton, bending our backs until they were numb with pain. We’d finally have to get on our knees to rest our backs. Then our knees would hurt. Life wasn’t all bad. When the wood was brought in for the big iron stove, and big buckets of water from the well, our work was over until Mama finished cooking a delicious home-grown meal.
Our toys were very simple, mostly homemade, but we had fun. On rainy days, we’d cut out paper dolls from the Sears and Roebuck catalogs. We played a lot of marbles and ballgames. We invented many games with homemade toys. We were all musically inclined and spent hours after supper singing acapella since we had no musical instruments. Our Christmases were wonderful whether our gifts were large or small. Mama’s fruitcakes were delicious. She and Daddy believed in plenty of food, and we worked hard to can and preserve it.
We raised our pork, beef, chickens, and eggs. Daddy used his smokehouse to preserve our pork. He salted part of it and smoked the rest with hickory. His sausages were mouth-watering. Mama canned the beef. She raised chickens to fry, to make chicken and dumplings, or chicken and dressing. On special occasions, we were allowed to rob the hens’ nests and meet the rolling store. The store operator would trade us whatever we selected within the price range for our eggs. That was a real treat for us. Many times we’d buy large gingerbread cookies called “stage planks” with pink icing on them.
Daddy made our syrup. He raised the cane, ground the juice, and cooked the syrup in a large kettle. He milked our cows, churned the cream into butter, and Mama put it into a mould to make a pretty design on it. We shucked and shelled our corn and had it ground for bread. Sometimes Mama made hominy with some of the corn. We grew our vegetables, too.
We often had neighbors, friends, or relatives spending the day with us. Mama sewed and cut hair for the neighborhood, free of charge. Quite often we had strangers stopping by, looking for a place to stay overnight. Daddy never turned them down.
I am thankful for my heritage. I feel I am a better person for having lived in that era.
The timing of hearing her voice again – with this message about what she called ‘The Good ‘Ole Days’- seems pertinent. Though she had told me a little bit about what it was like to grow up in the Depression, I really didn’t understand the workload she had to shoulder as a child. Families had to work together to survive, and they depended on their communities. My childhood in the 70’s and 80’s would’ve seemed like heaven to her. We only had chores on Saturdays, and most of my days were mine to plan. But I never enjoyed housework. I found it tedious and boring, and I resisted (and often resented) being asked to do laundry, clean the bathrooms, and vacuum. A simple task that I can do now in a few minutes seemed to drag on for hours when I was young. It has taken me a long time to discipline myself and see the beauty in order.
I always appreciated that even though my grandmother was a meticulous housekeeper, she never minded my messes when I came to visit. She said she would clean when I left, and that she was just happy I was there. She never valued her house’s appearance over visiting with the people she loved. She was balanced. With her words fresh in my mind yesterday, I began to clean my house with a question in mind: ‘Can I shift my attitude towards work away from something to hurry and finish to one of care and gratitude?’. Music has always been an instant mood shifter for me, so I put on native flute music and took my time, paying attention to the movements of my hands and arms, my breathing, and allowed myself to tend to details without any judgement of whether it was enjoyable or not. Just simple presence and a willingness to change my perspective shifted me into a state of flow, very similar to what I might experience when I make art. This is what the expression ‘Art is Life. Life is Art.’ must mean. We can transform the most menial of tasks into a work of art, and finish energized instead of depleted.
I laugh at the fact that she is still teaching me lessons long after her death. She is the reason I don’t fear old age because she modelled the power and influence a mature woman can wield when she shifts her focus from fading youth and embraces her Grandmother spirit. Grandmother energy is patient, loving, instructive, and astute. Her pace has slowed and become more deliberate, so she is a keen observer. While it is true that women over a certain age are often undervalued in Western society, a woman standing in her Grandmother strength doesn’t strive to meet the standards of another. She doesn’t fall for cheap tricks, and isn’t looking for a product to fill a void. Her eyes, face, and hands are the amalgamation of the physical traits of her ancestors, and she is the living expression of all who have come before her. Her wrinkles are a map of her life, and all those experiences have made her who she is. Those lines represent lessons learned, wisdom gained. The matriarch knows her worth because her base of power has shifted from her outer beauty to knowing who she truly is. She radiates the heart of a sage, and she is free.
My grandparents are the ones who taught me to love the land. I’m able to make this change at this point in my life because of their example. Finding this book of my grandmother’s poems as we begin this next phase of life was a gift with perfect timing. It feels like we’ve had a visit together, and she’s enjoying seeing me understand what she believed to be important. Sometimes I feel her presence near me when I hear the wistful song of the mourning dove. Not only do these birds mate for life, they help each other parent their babies and are loyal to their families above all else. When they coo, it reminds me of blowing into a glass bottle. Listening carefully, I can hear the subtle nuances of the bird’s breath as it moves through the throat and gradually dissipates back into silence. As I sit outside on the front steps, the dove’s call gently blows through my bones, and I am reminded that my grandmother and I are forever inseparable.
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Bio
Christie first experienced the electric buzz of self-expression in a 6th grade creative writing class. Little did she know she had found her passion, but it would not blossom until later in life. Though she grew up in the suburbs of Atlanta, she always had one foot in rural South Georgia where her family roots can be traced for generations back. After finishing Georgia Tech with a degree in Industrial Management, she married and gave the corporate world a try, but motherhood swept in and saved the day. She left the politics and long hours of the business world and devoted her time to her children. As life ran its course and brought opportunities, Christie moved with her family to Johannesburg, Paris, and London and lived abroad for 12 years. Once off the corporate track, inspiration was found in the places she lived and the people she met, and she began to rediscover her creative nature in mid-life. One figurative drawing class led to a photography class, which ultimately resulted in a Fine Arts degree from Central St. Martin’s in London. After the creative process completely reorganized her life, Christie came back to the US in 2013 to begin a fresh start as a visual artist. She most enjoys making large-scale mixed media paintings and realistic graphite drawings, but she has also painted large outdoor murals and contemporary installations. In 2015, she started a company called Arts Evolution in Jacksonville, FL that focused on promoting artists, public art, and charity work. After the pandemic hit in 2019, Christie and her husband began to rethink their lifestyle and bought a farm on 100 acres in rural Alabama, minutes from her South Georgia family origins. They are now building a life around art, nature, goats, regenerative farming, and living local. The farm and all its beauty has inspired Christie to finally add writing to the creative mix, and she has begun to document the process of reconnecting to the land and all its treasures as they are revealed to her. She is finding true freedom in all forms of self-expression, and hopes to help others do the same.
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