The Old Paths: Cousin Calculating

**This was originally published in November 2009 in my newspaper column “The Old Paths” in The Stokes News. Due to a website change several years ago, the publishing company broke all links to our old articles which were archived online. This was a tragic mistake and resulted in the loss of thousands of newspaper articles. Little by little, I am putting my old columns on this blog so that they can be preserved. Each column may be updated to reflect present times when transferred to this blog.**

A character in one of my favorite juvenile fiction books, Aunt Min from Goneaway Lake, made a poignant observation about cousins: “If cousins are the right kind, they’re best of all: kinder than sisters and brothers, and closer than friends.”  I couldn’t agree more.

When you grow up in Stokes County, NC, or perhaps any county for that matter, if you stay in that area until several generations have built up, you end up with a passel of cousins. I know I did. Papa Jack and Granny Smith (Jack and Irene “Reny” Richardson Smith) had seven children who in turn produced 17 grandchildren, of whom I was one.

13 of the 17 Smith cousins at Aunt Audrey Gillespie’s funeral on June 25, 2022. Two cousins have passed away, and two others were unavailable on this day. I am in purple.

Pa and Grandma Bray (Dal and Irene Moore Bray) only had four children, so the cousins were fewer, but I was still one of nine. Needless to say, I spent most of my growing up years entwined in a closely-woven network of cousins.

Eight of the nine Bray cousins in about 1984 down at Pa Bray’s on Christmas Eve. (One cousin had passed away during childhood.) I am in pink.

And the fun we had! Back then we didn’t stay inside much at all—no Gameboys or computer games to play and no videotapes or DVDs to watch. Green Acres wasn’t the place to be—outside was. Cousins went to the creek to catch minnows, helped Grandpa get up taters in the field, constructed houses in the woods with leaf boughs for roofs, rode ‘baccer stick horses (tobacco sticks, FYI) in Grandma’s yard and rode bikes down long dirt roads.

Six of the eight remaining Bray cousins in about 2014 at Christmas down at Pa Bray’s old house. I am in red.

Up at Granny Smith’s, cousin-time was sports time. We got up touch football games in the front yard on Piney Mountain Road or walked up to Great-uncle Elwood Richardson’s or Great-aunt Lola Brown’s driveway to shoot basketball. When the weather was rainy or too cold (I don’t know—was it EVER too cold for kids to play outside?!), we huddled up in the living room and played cards. “Uno” and “Skip-Bo” probably weren’t even invented yet, but gin rummy and speed never lost their charm for us cousins.

Three cousins up at Papa Jack and Granny Smith’s house in about 1972. (Second cousin Lee Richardson to the left, me in the middle, first cousin Artie Wiles to the right.)

Down at Grandma Bray’s, we were a little more primitive. We stayed in the woods or in the fields. We liked to torment each other, yet we would’ve died for each other. My cousins Tana and Mark Bray were four years older than me, so I was often the brunt of many jokes. Once they put me up in the old cherry tree out past the chicken houses and left me. I couldn’t have been more than four or five and sat there crying while they ran off laughing. Strange that I’m not mentally scarred to this day and even stranger that I love them both with a love so intense it almost aches.

One hot summer evening while Grandma and the aunts were up at the barn stringing ‘baccer, Tana decided to play a practical joke on them. She smeared ketchup all over my little six-year-old body and carried me in her arms up to the barn, screaming that I’d been hurt. The aunts came running, and Grandma nearly panicked. Tana’s been grown a long time now, but throughout her life, the aunts—some now gone on to Heaven—reminded her sternly of how she nearly gave them heart attacks. I’ll bet you and your cousins perpetrated some of the same shenanigans.

Five of the nine Bray grandchildren at first cousin Richard’s birthday party. I have on the striped shirt. Tana is the tall one.

Those same five Bray cousins all grown up in about 2009 at Christmas down at Pa Bray’s house, me again in the striped shirt, Tana still the tall one!

Now I realize that these children of my parents’ brothers and sisters are my first cousins. But after that, how to calculate cousin relationships gets cloudy. When my cousin Wes Harger had his first child Adam, I assumed Adam was my second cousin. Then when I birthed my first child Meghann, I figured she and Adam were third cousins.

Mama taught me in good Southern fashion that people of the same generation would be odd-numbered cousins—first, third, fifth and so on. (Yes, out in the country, we do keep up with cousins through about eighth cousins. For example, on my son Elijah’s travel baseball team one year, his teammates included his third cousin Josh Bray, his sixth cousin Nick Hundley, and his seventh cousins Keenan Denny and Josh Harless.)

I always called my cousin Colon Moore my third cousin, since his dad Bill and my dad Tom are first cousins. Recently Colon corrected me, saying that he and I are second cousins. Well, I had it figured that Bill and I are second cousins. But Colon assures me Bill is my first cousin once removed.

Now I’ve heard that term once or twice removed all my life but never knew quite what it meant. Still, I argued with my THIRD cousin Colon that he was wrong. We became so embroiled in the debate that wherever we were, we would ask random people to tell us who was wrong or right. At the King Chamber of Commerce Banquet one night years ago, we went all out. King City Councilwoman Terri Fowler agreed with me and even gave Colon the vertical index finger, horizontal thumb loser sign. Stokes County School Board Vice-Chair Yvonne Rutledge took Colon’s side.

I figured the battle would be over if I simply went to Stokes County Commissioner Stanley Smith to get the lowdown. He makes the most of both the old paths and the new—I mean, we’re talking about a man who lost his cell phone charger recently and found it in his combine. He claims to know 80 percent of the people in the county and the middle names of 65 percent of them.

Well, Commissioner Smith settled it for me. He very vocally took my side, much to the chagrin of Colon. I assumed it was over, but when I got home, I found that the premier genealogy sites on the Internet agree with Colon. Second cousin (gulp) Colon, I concede the battle to you. (But if I find evidence to support my theory, the battle is on once more!)

Colon Moore and I in early 2010—I say he is my third cousin; he says he is my second cousin.

Howe’er it works, I still say cousins are treasures. It saddens me tremendously that families are smaller these days. If parents produce the typical two children who in turn produce two children apiece, the total of four cousins is a far cry from our 17 Smith cousins. And if one of the two children moves to Kansas City for a better job and the other one relocates to be near his wife’s family in Boston, the grandparents are left in Quaker Gap, which means the cousins probably have a holiday-based, barely-know-each-other relationship. It’s simply another old path that is being lost in these modern times.

When I think on things for which I’m thankful, I must confess that my cousins are one of the blessings of my life. I can lay aside cherry tree trauma, smeared ketchup and cousin-calculation disagreements. Instead I will be thankful for our summers catching lightning bugs, our autumns jumping in leaf piles, our winters sledding in the pasture, and our springs playing baseball under the stately old oaks. Shared DNA, shared memories, shared old paths that I will never forget.

I am the littlest girl swimming with her first cousins in about 1967.

The Joy of the Journey

**This was originally published on Thursday, November 13, 2014, in my newspaper column, “The Old Paths,” in The Stokes News. Due to a website change a few years ago, the publishing company broke all links to our old articles which were archived online. This was a tragic mistake and resulted in the loss of thousands of newspaper articles. Little by little, I am putting my old columns on this blog so that they can be preserved. Each column may be updated to reflect present times when transferred to this blog.**

We humans always seem bent on getting somewhere. Rush, rush, hurry, hurry, get to where you’re going—eyes on the prize. Sometimes we focus so much on the goal that we take the journey for granted, not realizing that the joy is in the journey.

Before we know it, these present paths become the old paths. I think that often we are somewhat arrogant about life. We assume that “what is” will always be. Then when we come to our senses later, we mentally kick ourselves for not treasuring those old paths while we walked them.

Because they DO end. Times do change. Progress happens. And that’s okay. It’s the way of life. But the realization of the inevitability of change should make us appreciate the present more.

I remember the day Andy Griffith died. How I astounded myself by sobbing for a spell on that July day! Somehow the thought that I had never lived a day on Earth without Andy figuratively presiding as “Sheriff of Mayberry” hit me hard. A very pleasant era of my life seemed to have ended.

I sort of felt the same way last week when L.D. Sutphin passed away. I don’t remember a time in my life when he didn’t run the Cove Grill. That place has become iconic to Walnut Cove, hence rendering L.D. a sort of icon himself.

Many’s the time over the years I’ve walked into Cove Grill to get a cheeseburger on toast—all the way, of course. And I usually got a side order of L.D., too (whether or not I asked for it!)—his wit, his jokes, his genuineness.

One time he brought out his keyboard and wanted me to play “Amazing Grace.” Mind you, he didn’t ASK me to; he TOLD me to. The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass myself by struggling to remember the chords to that song in front of the other customers. But guess who ended up playing “Amazing Grace” in the Cove Grill? Yours truly. It’s a memory I smile at now.

When my Granny Smith was dying of cancer in the mid-1970s, she still loved to eat that trademark cheeseburger on toast from Cove Grill. My five kids grew up loving that same treat that nobody could make like L.D. (or his many children, grandchildren and relatives who worked there and learned from the best!).

Lately, I had taken to ordering the two-hot-dog special, including crinkle-cut fries and a big ol’ sweet tea. And I generally sent one of my kids into Cove Grill to get it. I’m regretting that now. It robbed me of some of the final times I could’ve enjoyed L.D. picking on me.

Yes, I’ll remember the picking and good-spirited teasing, but you know what will stick with me the most? The way he treated me after my first marriage ended. L.D. had been friends with my ex-husband, too, so I was nervous about seeing ye olde “Cove Grill Meister” after the split. Truth be told, I avoided the Cove Grill for a little while.

But one day the lure of those cheeseburgers won out, and I went back. My fears of judgment were in vain. L.D. greeted me just the same as always. He kindly told me he had heard the news and was sorry, then he went right on back to pleasantly passing the time of day with me while I stood there in the narrow space in front of the counter, waiting on my food.

I’ve heard it said that when you die, people won’t remember what you said and did as much as they’ll remember how you treated them and made them feel. Wisdom indeed.

Now that L.D. is gone, the good way he treated me and the multitudes of customers he served over his 40-year career at the Cove Grill are a part of the old paths. We come to expect what we’ve always known, and when it’s gone, we are somewhat taken aback.

L.D. in his happy place—Cove Grill!

That same universal truth hit me at the recent “Back in the Day” festival in Walnut Cove. When I saw the old tobacco buck with a vintage aluminum can holding the ball of twine, I was transported back to a time I had falsely assumed would never end.

Some of you, like me, remember how you spent your toddlerhood sleeping on a blanket under the barn shelter on early summer mornings while your parents primed “baccer.” You recall running on your little legs to catch a ride on the slide as the tractor came in from the field.

You girls might remember hanging around the barn, just itching to be whatever age they told you you had to be to hand leaves. (For me, it was nine.) Oh, the precision of making sure your tiny hand had three leaves in it, with the stems evened up at the top so that the stringer (a person back in the day—not a machine) could grab it and sling it over the stick.

Since that’s all I’d ever known, I thought that was the way it would always be. But by my teenagehood, the bucks were relegated to a back corner of the packhouse, and the barn area was filled with the mechanical hum of an electric stringer. We slapped armfuls of tobacco onto the conveyor belt—gone the precision of three-leaf handfuls. Stringing skills my mother and others had honed their entire lives were suddenly obsolete.

And then I was a mother myself, and my kids were asking, “What were Papa’s old tobacco sticks used for?”

Well, last Saturday, they got to see firsthand. They learned to hand leaves as my mother taught them right there in Walnut Cove’s Fowler Park. And crowds gathered around to watch, cameras in hand, videocameras rolling—some reliving the memories, others gaping at something they had never witnessed.

As for me? I was hit once more with the universal truth that while we’re in the moment, we tend to think the current way of life is permanent. And when we realize our error, we wish we could go back—even if just for a few minutes.

I’d like to spend just one more Saturday handing leaves to my mama down at Grandpa Bray’s old barn, chatting up a storm to Aunt Sylvia and the other gals. Then I’d like to ride over to the Cove Grill and get me a cheeseburger on toast from L.D. before getting ready for another Saturday night of softball at DeHart Field.

But I walk the paths of the present which will all too soon be old paths themselves, so I’d better enjoy this journey before it’s gone—making precious memories along the way.

****The Cove Grill shut down in 2019 due to coming road construction. It was finally torn down on Tuesday, August 3, 2021, to make way for the planned road. I can’t explain what it did to my old paths heart when I saw the site of one of my favorite eateries now a bulldozed vacant lot. There was a lot of Walnut Cove history in that building. I will confess having shed some sentimental tears over the loss of the Cove Grill.

Cove Grill being torn down on Aug. 3, 2021. (Photo credit: Amanda Brown Sutphin, L.D.’s daughter-in-law)

View from across the railroad tracks where Cove Grill has been a familiar site for many decades. (Photo credit: Tina Martin)

L.D. and the flowers he loved—in front of the Cove Grill! (Photo credit: Amanda Brown Sutphin)

I was overjoyed when I read this sign on the Cove Grill several years ago! I loved their fish sandwiches.

L.D.’s characteristic hat—still with the 919 area code that we haven’t had in many, MANY years! (Photo credit: Tina Martin)

Just looking at the menu there on the wall makes me hungry for some Cove Grill food! L.D.’s prices were very cheap.

I wish I had a two hot dog special that came with those awesome crinkle-cut fries and a sweet tea! You couldn’t beat the taste or the price!

The old Cove Grill “grill” is still in use at L.D.’s son’s house.

The Old Paths: Is Your Heat Running?

**This was originally published on Thursday, October 25, 2012, in my newspaper column, “The Old Paths,” in The Stokes News. Due to a website change a few years ago, the publishing company broke all links to our old articles which were archived online. This was a tragic mistake and resulted in the loss of thousands of newspaper articles. Little by little, I am putting my old columns on this blog so that they can be preserved. Each column may be updated to reflect present times when transferred to this blog.**

Sometimes you feel as lonely as a salmon in Belews Lake. You think you’re the only one who feels the way you do. You wonder if perhaps you are an oddball—a square peg trying to fit into a round-holed world.

Then something happens to prove you are not alone. Yes, you may be in the minority, but rejoice—there are others like you!

For example, I once thought I must be really weird to always reach past the first few slices of bread in the bag to get some middle pieces for my sandwich. When I confessed my idiosyncrasy on Facebook, numbers of folks chimed in excitedly that they did the same thing and had thought they were the only ones.

In my relatively new mode of admitting potentially embarrassing things (I don’t care as much what people think as I get older), I decided a couple of weeks ago to confess another oddity of my existence. I told my friends on Facebook that I find it challenging to see how long I can wait to turn on my heat in the autumn. (Mind you, I typed that post with hands that felt like ice on a colder-than-normal October morning!)

I like to tell myself that it’s because I am thrifty, but I wonder if it doesn’t go deeper than that. Perhaps it is indeed the challenge of the ordeal which makes me freeze for a while before turning that dial from AC to heat. (Disclaimer: I do not torture my children with the cold. They use a portable quartz infrared heater and stay cozy.)

I imagine that some of you are nodding right now or grinning as you think, “So it’s not just me!” No, I found out from Facebook comments that we are part of a large company.

My hubster—a thrifty, somewhat oddball soul like me—was the first to chime in. He said, “Let’s see if we can make it until November.”

Before long, a friend agreed, “We are covered to our eyeballs but no heat till November.” My cousin’s wife said she was determined not to turn on her heat just yet. A friend much farther north commented that she picks a specific time to turn on her heat and tries to stick to it. It might mean wearing socks to bed or throwing on another blanket, but doggone it, we’re going to hold out!

Three different friends told me it was “the principle of the thing,” leaving me to ponder just what the principle is. I have some ideas. Bear with me as I psychoanalyze you heat-postponers.

For some of us, like Angela, it’s a matter of conserving fossil fuels—a worthy principle indeed. If we all held out a little longer turning on the heat (or AC in the spring), we would save huge amounts of the fossil fuels we don’t want to use up.

Another principle also involves conservation—of our money! Don’t you love the lower power bills that come in spring and fall? There were times in my past that money was so tight it might mean buying fewer groceries if we ran the heat any more than was absolutely necessary. Even now with better financial conditions, my decision to once more be a stay-at-home mom means we must be very thrifty.

My daddy clings to yet another principle—that it’s a matter of building toughness of character. This is the man who would, in fun, make me bear him tickling my foot when I was a kid—telling me to set my mind that I could take it, that it would make me tough. It worked, and I’m grateful. Try tickling my foot; I won’t budge.

You say, “How silly.” No, not really. Such principles in seemingly “silly” things carry over into more important things. That “I can take it” stamina that Daddy helped build into my character propelled me through the births of my last three children with no medicine at all—a healthier situation for all involved.

It has helped me be able to go for 18 years (this coming December) without taking a pain reliever—yes, not even one Tylenol or Advil. This has to be good for my liver and overall health. America has become such a nation of convenience that we self-medicate at the merest hint of pain.

Daddy preaches that we have become a country of spoiled people who “can’t take it anymore.” He tells me how people on the old paths used to function just fine without AC. Now we virtually melt without it. It’s a matter of how we condition ourselves.

Some of my Facebook friends agree. A pastor friend of mine commented that she hasn’t used the heat yet either and tells her family that their bodies just need to make the adjustment to cold weather. My pal Jill believes the first cold spell “hits you the most, like a jolt, then your body starts adjusting.”

Conservation of fossil fuels, money savings, character training—have I named the principle that describes why YOU don’t run the heat until the last minute? (Yes, I know there are many of you like Tonya who says she doesn’t want to be uncomfortable in her own home or Chris who declares she isn’t interested in freezing to death! But bear with me as I address my minority group.)

I believe there is another principle at work here—the need to prove our toughness, not to be bested by the elements. This rationale is similar to my daddy’s principle of building character but is perhaps rooted more in pride. Yes, it was possibly my stubborn pride which made me suffer in a house where the thermostat has registered as low as 54 degrees several mornings recently.

This is the principle that comes into play when we turn the issue into a contest. Angela has a friend in Colorado who takes part in a delay-of-heat contest called “Freeze Your Buns OFF.” Holly tells how she and her boyfriend would have a competition “to see who could go the longest without turning on the heat.” (Once she won because she went to his house and turned on the heat. Talk about fierce competition!)

Whatever the reason, many of us in Stokes County have been uncomfortable here in mid-October as autumn hit us with the first cold temperatures of the season. And although warmer weather may resurface, don’t be fooled into thinking it will last.

Either bring out the flannel sheets, fuzzy socks and fleece hoodies and grit your teeth a little longer or turn that heat on! It’s a long time ‘til spring. . .

Paying Homage to Local Black Heroes

**This was originally published on Thursday, February 24, 2011, in my newspaper column, “The Old Paths,” in The Stokes News. Due to a website change a few years ago, the publishing company broke all links to our old articles which were archived online. This was a tragic mistake and resulted in the loss of thousands of newspaper articles. Little by little, I am putting my old columns on this blog so that they can be preserved. Each column may be updated to reflect present times when transferred to this blog.**

Mr. John L. Hairston, local black hero

Recently I read a quote by the actor Morgan Freeman that made me stop and think. He stated: “I don’t want a Black History Month. Black history is American history.” In theory, I agree with his statement. In reality, I do not.

In an ideal world, there would be no Black History Month. I, like Freeman, aspire to that type of world. However, we live in an imperfect world which makes Black History Month necessary if we are to learn of the historical accomplishments of a prominent minority in this country.

Another famous quotation by a distinguished black American is also indicative of the ideal world I dream of. Carter G. Woodson, an African-American scholar who founded the Journal of Negro History and is called “The Father of Black History,” said: “We should emphasize not Negro History, but the Negro in history. What we need is not a history of selected races or nations, but the history of the world void of national bias, race hate and religious prejudice.”

A world free from prejudice and racism? THAT’S where I want to live. Unfortunately, that address is still unknown. And thus, we must have a Black History Month.

What a great time this is to remind ourselves that American history isn’t just one hue. How wonderful it is to learn of great accomplishments by men and women of color—deeds and names that often are not in the textbooks. Black History Month has helped me to decorate my Wall of Heroes in multi-colors.

And sometimes those heroes are right here in our own backyard.

George Washington Carver—love him. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.—wow. Harriet Tubman—crazy about her. John L. Hairston—heart him. Rev. Greg Hairston—I tip my hat.

Oh. What? You don’t remember reading about the last two in your History 101 class? Well, that’s probably because they are homegrown heroes for us here in Walnut Cove, NC. They are featured in a book that gained national acclaim, The Hairstons, by Henry Wiencek, who, by the way, came from Boston to do a program at the Walnut Cove Colored School back on Sunday, March 13, 2011.

Henry Wiencek, author of The Hairstons

If you haven’t read this book, I highly recommend it. It examines the lineage of the Hairstons—now a huge clan all across the U.S. whose point of origin as a dynastic family is Stokes County, NC. The story is spellbinding; the book, well-written; and the information, priceless. Wiencek has no ties to the story—he is not black and he is not from the South. He just found the story a riveting one that needed telling.

A phenomenal book about the Hairston clan

If you don’t have time to read the entire book, I suggest reading at least Chapter 13—”The Liberation of Walnut Cove.” I have lived in and around Walnut Cove all of my life but was stunned that I had no knowledge of what happened in 1968, per Wiencek’s account.

Did you know there was a protest march in Walnut Cove in the midst of the ’60’s desegregation troubles? Did you realize there was a scaled-down version of a sit-in (stand-in) at Vernon’s Grill (now The Milk Bar) on Main Street, Walnut Cove? Before MLK Day 2011, I began reading Chapter 13 aloud to my children because I felt they needed to know what struggles were faced right here in their hometown. I had planned to read only a small segment of it, but they were so engrossed that they begged me to read the entire chapter. I gladly obliged.

When reluctant Stokes County was ordered to hop onto the forward train of desegregation, the decision was made to close the all-black London High School. The black community rose up to protest, turning out en masse at a public meeting with the school board. There their beloved and longtime London High principal, John L. Hairston, delivered a stirring speech. He urged the school board not to close the school but to integrate it.

His impassioned pleas, quite out of character for this soft-spoken man, seemed to have fallen on deaf ears.

Rather than concede defeat, the student council of London High chose to protest the decision. Greg Hairston, a senior at the school, and other student government leaders such as John L.’s daughter Mona, led a march down Main Street, Walnut Cove, amidst heckling and jeers from white bystanders.

As the group approached Vernon’s Grill, student leader Vincent Withers declared that he was thirsty and was going into the still-segregated restaurant to get a soda. Despite efforts to stop him, Withers entered after local deputies informed the owner that there was nothing legally they could do to prevent a black man from entering the front of the establishment rather than going to the back door per longstanding tradition. Withers entered, ordered and drank a soda before quietly exiting.

Walnut Cove changed forever that day.

Although segregation had been illegal since 1964, the movie theater, laundromat and town restaurant had never been integrated. But after that warm March day in 1968, desegregation slowly became the mode in the Cove. Soon, blacks didn’t have to sit in the balcony to watch movies anymore, and they could wash clothes at the laundromat.

I am privileged to have known two of these modern-day heroes. John L. Hairston, now deceased, was my principal for three years at London and visited my home a few times when my mother, a reading teacher at the school, had the faculty over for get-togethers. He and his precious wife, Ruth (my fifth-grade teacher), also stopped by with a gift when my baby brother was born. He was a man of such class and character that I get misty-eyed thinking of him. I can see his gentle eyes now and hear his kind, well-modulated voice.
(Here is a link to a news story about Mr. John L. Hairston’s legacy:

https://www.wxii12.com/article/local-pioneer-to-be-honored-for-role-in-school-integration-this-weekend/22700105 )

Mr. John L. Hairston in later years

Greg Hairston is now the pastor of Rising Star Baptist Church in the London community of Walnut Cove. I have been privileged to be in prayer meetings and church services with him. I never fail to be moved each year when I see him walk yet again down Main Street, Walnut Cove, during the MLK March.

Rev. Greg Hairston today

These are those who may never be written up in a history text for school children, but they have a place on the unwritten honor roll of black heroes. There are others who won’t even get a mention in a book like Wiencek’s—the Frank Daltons who coached integrated baseball teams when that wasn’t the popular way in Walnut Cove, the Malcolm Dixons who ran basketball camps to offer local children of all races opportunities to be active in worthwhile activities and escape the vicious cycle of drug abuse and poverty in this area, the David Hairstons who work tirelessly to make sure predominantly black communities are included in Walnut Cove and that the children have playgrounds and resources.

Today I pay homage to these unsung heroes who have labored to escape the old paths of racial discrimination and forge new highways for the brotherhood of mankind. And I will continue to agree with the immortal words of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.:

“I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality…. I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.”

David Hairston standing in the Walnut Tree neighborhood of Walnut Cove which he helped become annexed in the town through a long, hard fight

Malcolm Dixon working a table for Project Uth 360 Degrees, a nonprofit he established in Walnut Cove for local youth

Me (the blogger) with Frank Dalton who helped integrate Stokes County sports teams and who turned 91 this month (Aug. 2018)

Here is a link to a site which has a video about Mr. John L. Hairston and events to honor his legacy: https://theliliesproject.org/events/2018/4/13/celebrating-courage-50th-anniversary-of-march-from-london-to-vernons-grill

The Old Paths: Revival rising

**This was originally published on Thursday, April 28, 2016, in my newspaper column, “The Old Paths,” in The Stokes News. Due to a website change a few years ago, the publishing company broke all links to our old articles which were archived online. This was a tragic mistake and resulted in the loss of thousands of newspaper articles. Little by little, I am putting my old columns on this blog so that they can be preserved. Each column may be updated to reflect present times when transferred to this blog.**

Although it is obvious from my columns that I am a Christian, I try to stay away from too much discussion of religion in my writings for secular publications. I was advised to do so years ago when I was editor of The Stokes News, and I obeyed…..with only the occasional mention of “the Good Book” or “the Man upstairs” (couched in those generic terms to spare me any scolding from the higher-ups). I typically write about family, our Southern dialects, county events, nature.

Yes, I noticed that even big-city secular newspapers often have a regular religious columnist or a “Religion” section. The Washington Post even has a religion reporter. Nonetheless, I kept on writing columns that would not rankle the likes of my former publishers at Heartland Publications, being the good little girl that I am.

But today I am stepping outside the bounds of “good-little-girlism.”

Recently, there was something in the realm of religion going on across this country that is most definitely newsworthy. In fact, it is so newsworthy that secular newspapers were picking up the scoop. For instance, I read an account of these events in The Logan Banner, a newspaper owned by the same company that owns The Stokes News.

The event? Revival breaking out amongst youth in WV and KY schools. No, I’m not getting this confused with the movies “Woodlawn” and “Facing the Giants.” This isn’t a movie I’m talking about; it’s real life.

Teenagers were preaching in the halls of their high schools. Kids were repenting in the school gym during lunch period. Youth were congregating on football fields at night to pray.

Although I’m sure this youth revival was actually birthed through prayer long before the initial sparks flashed, one of the first catalysts for this fiery outbreak was a young man named Skyler Miller, a two-time leukemia survivor who decided to preach in the halls of West Virginia’s Logan High School on March 24, 2016.

The Logan Banner reported: “‘I had been praying for a long time that Jesus would send me into the hall to preach the gospel because I wanted to be fearless and bold for him just like the disciples and apostle Paul,’ Miller said. ‘About 20 minutes before I did it, he told me, ‘Today is the day, Skyler. Go be a light and let the broken know who I am.’”

Rather than mocking him, students began to sit down in the hall to listen to Miller. By the next day, Good Friday, he was preaching in the school gym on his lunch break.

Less than a month later, just a bit south at Mingo Central High School, the school’s prayer club announced that a revival service would be held in the school auditorium. By the next day, word got around that the auditorium would not hold the expected crowd, so the event was moved to the school’s football field.

It’s a really good thing they moved it because the Williamson Daily News reported that nearly 3,000 people showed up. (And folks, this is in a town as small as my hometown of Walnut Cove—population 1,400!) Pictures from the event went viral on the Internet—teenagers with their hands raised, tears pouring, on their knees, being baptized in an inflatable swimming pool in the end zone. I saw pictures of weeping, praying students at several schools in the WV/KY border regions—not just high schools, but also elementary and middle schools.

It was indeed reminiscent of the scene in the 2006 movie “Facing the Giants” where students are in prayer huddles on the football field, as well as the scene in the recent Sean Astin movie “Woodlawn” where students are praying in the school gym. The latter is, in fact, based on the true story of the revival that swept through Woodlawn High School in Birmingham, AL, in the mid-1970’s.

Why am I so interested in this revival phenomenon? Because in 1996, I dreamed of a great revival in the area of Southeastern Middle School in Walnut Cove, NC. It was the first of many dreams of a revival starting in Walnut Cove, a town I hated at the time. I was taken by surprise by these dreams and fought for a while against what I knew to be true—that I would not be able to escape my hometown and needed to stay in order to pray for the coming revival.

In October 2000, I attended a Christian youth conference in Charlotte, NC. I had been studying the great 1906 Azusa Street Revival in Los Angeles and was desperate to find a rare old book by Frank Bartleman, an eyewitness of that revival. Suddenly, I was approached by an older lady whom I did not know. She handed me that very book and said, “I got this for myself, but God told me to give it to you. You’re going to need it.” Talk about astounded!

I never saw that lady again.

Fast forward through 14 years of praying, hungering, thirsting for this revival in the town that I no longer detested but had fallen head over heels in love with. We arrive at late 2014 with me at a prayer meeting at the church I pastor, The Well. Enter another woman unknown to me. Since she came with a visiting friend from a church in Clemmons, NC, I assumed she was trustworthy.

After a time of prayer, I suddenly felt from God to go to this mystery lady and ask her to pray over me about Walnut Cove. I hesitated but finally yielded. Imagine my shock when she told me she had been waiting for me to come to her, and then laid her hands on my head and began to speak of Azusa Street and a revival coming to Walnut Cove. She spoke of things she could not have known in the natural.

But it is what she said next that hit me even harder: “This revival will be focused on youth.”

I had known that, to a degree, ever since that incredible Charlotte youth conference in 2000. This is why I organize annual youth rallies in Walnut Cove at Lions Park or in London Elementary School Gym. This is why I host youth Bible schools all summer long…..because I believe what swept through these small coal-mining towns of West Virginia and Kentucky is going to sweep through Walnut Cove as well.

Our youth are hungry for something more than traditional religion. They want a current move of God. They’ve searched long enough in drugs, alcohol, promiscuity. They want something real and lasting.

Yes, I’ll go back to writing about springtime and children and the old paths. But I just figured that if the Washington Post, The Logan Banner, the Williamson Daily News and others can touch on religion occasionally, so can I.

I feel revival rising…..

Forever and Ever, Amen

**This was originally published on Thursday, April 7, 2011, in my newspaper column, “The Old Paths,” in The Stokes News. Due to a website change a few years ago, the publishing company broke all links to our old articles which were archived online. This was a tragic mistake and resulted in the loss of thousands of newspaper articles. Little by little, I am putting my old columns on this blog so that they can be preserved. Each column may be updated to reflect present times when transferred to this blog.**

I’m catching my breath after a whirlwind weekend. Besides the typical weekend routine of church activities and ball practices for multiple kids, my sister, brother and I threw a 50th anniversary party for my parents. It was worth every ounce of energy expended.

A golden anniversary is a once-in-a-lifetime event. It should be celebrated and remembered. Fewer and fewer couples make it to that milestone in this day and age, and thus I spent much of the weekend pondering what makes a happy marriage.

I’m not talking about what makes a marriage last, because I’ve seen some miserable marriages that lasted several decades. I’m talking about what makes a marriage happy.

On Friday, I went to Ingles grocery store to buy the cake for my parents’ surprise party. I was rushing to get into line at my niece’s register, but an elderly couple made it there just before I did. Although I was in a supreme hurry, it turned out to be a blessing that I was behind this charming couple.

I heard the lady comment that she and her husband would celebrate 68 years of marriage this year. I stared unabashedly at her. “Did you say 68 years?” I interrupted in my never-met-a-stranger way.

She smiled a dimpled smile and said yes. I told her she didn’t look nearly old enough to have been married that long. She proudly told me, “I’ll be 87 my birthday.” My eyes bugged out as I told her truthfully that she looked about 15 years younger than that.

Then came an even bigger shocker. She told me they only dated for two weeks before getting married.

Huh?!

Don’t we tell our children they better get to know someone well before they make that vow? Don’t we teach them that marriage is a decision that must be well-thought out? How can you think out such a thing in two weeks?

This sparkling-eyed lady became even more animated as she told how she had met “Mr. Right.” She said that as soon as he walked into her office all those years ago, she thought he was the best-looking thing she had ever seen. They fell for each other on the spot, dated two weeks, tied the knot and aren’t far from 70 years together.

“When you see a good thing, you better grab it while you can,” she grinned like a mischievous little girl. Meanwhile, her tall husband, who also looked much younger than his years, stood to the side smiling tolerantly yet affectionately. He teased her a little, and you could tell those love fires were still burning.

Here is a marriage, like that of my parents, which has survived an amazing number of years, not with the bitter silence and withdrawn emotional state of many marriages, but with laughter and love. Too many times I’ve heard older couples say they don’t see a need for a 50th anniversary party because there’s nothing to celebrate. That pretty much tells you the sad state of their marriage.

Obviously, the secret to a happy marriage is not necessarily a long courtship with well-thought out plans.

I’ve heard that children whose parents have a happy marriage have a better chance of having the same thing. Statistics in the last decade have not proven this to be true. My brother and I were both the product of a happy home but ended up divorced. I take my share of the blame for the breakup of my marriage and will grieve over it, to a degree, for the rest of my life.

On the other hand, my good friend up in Sandy Ridge came from a broken home yet has been married happily for 30 years; so has his sister. Kurt Warner, who was one of my favorite pro football players, tells of growing up in a broken home with many trials and tribulations, yet his own marriage has endured happily for many years—a real testimony for a professional athlete.

I knew a couple in Mt. Airy who were blissfully married for well over 50 years when the husband died. The wife, usually a stoic woman, fell apart, wondering aloud how she was going to live without him because they had been so close. Yet two of their three children ended up divorced. This proves yet again that growing up with happily-married parents does not ensure marital bliss for someone, and vice-versa.

Although the precious lady I met in Ingles talked about her husband’s stunning good looks 68 years ago on the old paths, we all know that physical appearance fades. The most stunning woman will eventually wrinkle and go gray. Even Botox and Miss Clairol can’t completely fix the ravages of old age. The hottest man around will see his looks decline as his hair thins or falls out and his love handles develop love handles.

So physical appearance obviously isn’t the secret to a happy marriage.

Of course I believe a reliance on the Lord is a key, but I’ve seen many a Christian stick it out “for the sake of the children” while being absolutely miserable for the long haul.

Some of you are thinking, “People just need to be committed and keep their word!” I agree, but remember—the subject of this column is not what makes a marriage last, although I believe that is supremely important. It’s what makes a marriage happy.

Laughter surely plays a key. My daddy was telling us at Sunday dinner about the April Fool’s joke he played on my mama this year. He said he was cracking up the whole time she was falling for it, and she said that when he reminded her what day it was, they both just fell apart laughing. A couple who can laugh together like that after half a century has found a secret.

I’m convinced that finding someone you laugh often with is a treasure.

Kindness, thoughtfulness, forgiveness, loyalty, humility—all of these are keys to a happy marriage. I’m obviously no expert, but I want to be. No one wants a failed marriage.

To that adorable couple whose names I don’t even know, to my parents and all others who are making marriage work well—I tip my hat to you. Keep laughing and keep loving…..forever and ever…..Amen.

**I am posting this old column to my blog on May 24, 2017—a little over six years since I ran into that charming couple at the grocery store. For all of these years, I have wondered who they were. Today I found out. As I was looking for an obituary for a friend’s grandmother, I “happened” upon one for a sweet-looking lady named Laura Jane “Janie” Mills Willis. Her face struck me as one I had seen before, so I read the obituary of this supposed stranger. Turns out she wasn’t a stranger after all! She was my “mystery woman” of the serendipitous grocery store encounter! I am rejoicing to have found her at last, but I am sad that she is gone now. Janie died peacefully at her home at the age of 93. Her beloved husband died in 2014—three years after he stood smiling lovingly at her in the Ingles checkout line. They achieved that 70-year mark for marriage. Although they are now gone on to be with the Lord, their love story will continue to inspire me for the rest of my life. Meeting them that long-ago day was truly a divine encounter.** 

http://www.forbisanddick.com/obituaries/Laura-Jane-Willis/#!/Obituary

Laura Jane “Janie” Mills Willis

The Old Paths: One Day When the Glory Comes

**This was originally published on Thursday, January 22, 2015, in my newspaper column, “The Old Paths,” in The Stokes News. Due to a website change a few years ago, the publishing company broke all links to our old articles which were archived online. This was a tragic mistake and resulted in the loss of thousands of newspaper articles. Little by little, I am putting my old columns on this blog so that they can be preserved. Each column may be updated to reflect present times when transferred to this blog.**

Although my busy schedule doesn’t often allow moviegoing, I am a sucker for a cheap matinee. On rare occasions, I’ll choose to see the same movie again, but it has to be a doozy. I set a personal record with Facing the Giants and Pride and Prejudice—six times apiece in the theater. But normally I wait for the DVD.

Not so with Selma.

I started my Selma sequence with the hubster in early January 2015, then took four of my five kids to see it on the Friday before MLK Day to prepare them for that, and finally went with the fifth kid for the thrill of seeing it on MLK Day in a full theater. When my teary-eyed teenage son left the theater, he said, “Mama, everyone in America needs to watch that movie.”

I agree. If you could somehow edit out LBJ’s frequent cursing, you could even make it required watching for school children each January.

Selma is a movie that will make you think about preconceived notions—something we all need to do. So often we are locked into our iron stereotypes that first began to enchain us in our younger, more formative years. But typically, stereotypes are based on falsehoods whose fabric is actually more like gossamer-thin spiderwebs than the iron chains we perceive. They look scary, they are uncomfortable to deal with, but in the light of truth, they can easily be brushed aside. Selma indeed brushes aside some of those stereotypes.

The ultimate white racist would say “all black people are alike” and vice-versa for the black racist. It’s simply not true. Are we so simpleminded that we can’t see how ridiculous such thinking is? Where there was the young black man wanting to use violence against the militant whites in Selma, there was the somewhat older black man saying violence would accomplish nothing. Where there was the one black student leader practically idolizing Dr. King, there was another such black student criticizing the esteemed leader. All black people are alike? I think not.

Where there were vicious white people in the movie who used weapons to brutally attack the black protesters, there were other white people who watched the TV coverage of the violence and wept at the injustice. Where there were ignorant white people who taunted the nonviolent black marchers with heckling, middle fingers and overuse of that detestable “n” word, there were many other enlightened white people who thronged to Selma to march with Dr. King. All white people are alike? I think not.

People are people—some good, some bad and a whole lot in-between. Color of skin is meaningless in the reckoning of human hearts.

As a white woman, I’ve often heard Dr. King degraded by white people who point to his alleged indiscretions. In the movie, FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover called Dr. King a “moral degenerate.” And no, the Civil Rights leader is not painted as a saint in Selma; his wife Coretta calls him out on the issue of other women, and he does not deny it.

So does this mean we don’t listen to a thing he says because he was a flawed human being in some ways? Oh, and you’re not? And I’m not? He who is without sin stand up and lead the way for us. Oh, wait—that wouldn’t work, would it? We would be without leadership. We certainly exalt the Founding Fathers despite some of their indiscretions. We don’t throw out the Declaration of Independence because its primary author, Thomas Jefferson, may or may not have fathered children by a slave woman.

I feel a disturbance in the Force, as Obi-Wan Kenobi said in Star Wars. The Ferguson events from a few years ago and similar ones since then seem to be fueling the fire for racial issues to once again take the forefront 50 years after President Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act. If you are one of the ostriches with your head in the sand who keeps saying, “Oh, there’s no racial injustice anymore. That’s past. Things are all better”—I would ask you respectfully to come back to reality.

One thing we can do is to open up lines of communication and dispel ignorance through education and hands-on interaction. Dr. King once said: “Men often hate each other because they fear each other; they fear each other because they don’t know each other; they don’t know each other because they can not communicate; they can not communicate because they are separated.”

I read a news story of a black man who encountered the Ku Klux Klan. Rather than direct hatred toward them, he decided that if the white people in the KKK could just get to know him, they would like him and thus change their worldview. He went out of his way to befriend some of the members, and it worked. Some of them eventually left the KKK after getting to know the black man. They admitted to the news reporter that their generations-old ignorance of black people had bred distrust in them and that the distrust had led to hatred.

Tools like the movie Selma, Black History Month each February, community-wide events like the STOKES STOKED Youth Rally I organize in my hometown of Walnut Cove, N.C., every August (where it isn’t just the few token black people at a white-themed church service or a few token white people at a black-themed service but rather a true mixture of different worship styles)—these are opportunities to open up meaningful dialogue and dispel ignorant stereotypes.

It’s easy when you’re in the majority to purposely ignore and downplay the cries of the minority. From that vantage point, it’s convenient to point to the laws for equality that look good on the books. But when you’re a minority—whether black, Hispanic or perhaps a female in a male-dominated profession—it’s easy to see that there many legal loopholes that allow discrimination to still seep through.

Despite the fact that history has always been thus—even Jesus’ people, the Jews, have long been an oppressed minority—we cannot let up in this war for equality, understanding and consequently, LOVE. May those who fight for such justice become the true majority—a moral majority who believe that the war CAN be won.

As the theme song from Selma says:

“Now we right the wrongs in history

No one can win the war individually

It takes the wisdom of the elders and young people’s energy. . .

When the war is won, when it’s all said and done

We’ll cry glory, oh glory!”

 

The Old Paths: It’s Snowing in Pinnacle!

**This was originally published on Thursday, July 14, 2011, in my newspaper column, “The Old Paths,” in The Stokes News. Due to a website change a few years ago, the publishing company broke all links to our old articles which were archived online. This was a tragic mistake and resulted in the loss of thousands of newspaper articles. Little by little, I am putting my old columns on this blog so that they can be preserved. Each column may be updated to reflect present times when transferred to this blog.**

It’s snowing in Pinnacle. Those were magic words when I attended South Stokes High School. Even now I get a childlike, anticipatory feeling when I think about that phrase. Funny how some things become so etched in your psyche that years later they can still unconsciously elicit a certain response from you—like passing through the Mall and smelling a particular cologne which makes you suddenly remember your 11th grade summer romance and the boy who wore that scent. Or hearing a certain song on the radio that transports you back to junior high days when that song was in vogue.

“It’s snowing in Pinnacle” does that to me—brings back a feeling of being at South Stokes High School, laboring through the post-holiday January doldrums, seeing the school year stretch endlessly on with no break in sight—Easter vacation merely a dim mirage on the monotonous horizon.

Then suddenly the bell rings, you head for the lockers and someone whispers as you pass by, “It’s snowing in Pinnacle.” The involuntary response is immediate—a rush of adrenaline, increased heart rate, goofy smile to the lips, a new spring in the step. You want to dive into the collective pool of eager anticipation, so as you undo your combination lock, you turn to the member of your homeroom just next to you. “Did you hear it’s snowing in Pinnacle?”

Pretty soon the buzz is swarming through the crowded halls. You go to your next class, and the poor befuddled teacher wonders where the sudden hyperactivity came from. Everyone is joking and laughing, just waiting for the intercom to click on and the principal to say that school will soon be letting out. It was a given—snow in Pinnacle, early dismissal.

Sometimes people started the “snow in Pinnacle” rumor just to be funny, which wasn’t funny at all. Don’t mess with a bunch of bored high school students who have just completed two glorious weeks of Christmas vacation at home—sleeping late, watching TV and snacking on holiday goodies. Don’t tell them it’s snowing in Pinnacle unless you know for sure that winter weather is definitely in the area. You know what happened to the boy who cried wolf.

I distinctly remember the letdown on the occasions when we realized, “It’s not snowing in Pinnacle after all. You won’t be able to get out of that biology test in fourth period. You are stuck here for the long haul.”

But more often than not, the “snow in Pinnacle” rumor was true, and it was only a matter of time before the county office made that longed-for decision to close the schools for the rest of the day. As the Scarecrow says in The Wizard of Oz, “What joy, what rapture!”

You see, when snow was sighted in the northwest portion of Stokes County—namely Pinnacle—it didn’t matter if it was 70 degrees in Pine Hall or sunny in Walnut Cove. The powers that be had to make a decision based on the safety of each and every student, so the well-being of the Pinnacle students had to be considered even if the weather was clear in Germanton. There were times I went home early with nary a flake of snow where I lived in the far southeast corner of Stokes. I envied those lucky Pinnacle people who were probably sledding down their driveways, but I was still glad to be out of school nonetheless.

(When I write a column like this, I imagine the wrath of school officials who will say that I am encouraging children to dislike school. On the contrary, I personally loved school—so much so that I went on to teach it. But come on, people, admit it. Early dismissal for a weather-related purpose, as long as everyone stays safe on the roads, is an exciting thing for kids. Bear with me, and pretend you are 10 years old again!)

For years, I’ve randomly gone up to fellow South Stokes alumni, especially in the heat of summer, and said, “It’s snowing in Pinnacle.” Almost always I get a laugh and a comment that they, too, remember those magical words.

I’ve wondered for a long time just how far back this “snow in Pinnacle” thing goes. So, this past summer, I decided to take matters into my own hands by conducting an informal poll at Lion’s Park in Walnut Cove. I found people as far back as Class of ’72 who remembered the comment. I located some as young as Class of ’95 who chuckled along with me in remembrance. This distinctly South Stokes phenomenon spans many years.

I wonder if the North Stokes people had a similar phenomenon. And do the West Stokes folks have any such tradition? Is “It’s snowing in Pinnacle” still a relevant statement in the county schools today? When winter weather creeps in from Surry County to Pinnacle, I figure we still have to close all of the county schools, regardless of tropical weather in Sandy Ridge.

And so to all of you current Stokes County students, may your snow days be just enough to give you a needed break every now and then (but not so many as to tack on extra days in June), may your travels home after weather-related early dismissals be safe, and may you always feel those butterflies in your stomach the way I did when I heard the whisper, “It’s snowing in Pinnacle.”

Free Country, Ain’t It?

**This was originally published on Thursday, June 16, 2011, in my newspaper column, “The Old Paths,” in The Stokes News. Due to a website change a few years ago, the publishing company broke all links to our old articles which were archived online. This was a tragic mistake and resulted in the loss of thousands of newspaper articles. Little by little, I am putting my old columns on this blog so that they can be preserved. Each column may be updated to reflect present times when transferred to this blog.**

When someone tells me something I can’t do, I am sometimes tempted to spout off that familiar line many of us have used before: “Free country, ain’t it?!” (And yes, you have to use improper grammar to give it that defiant tone.)

Well, there were days back in 2011 that I wanted to shout out that defiant line.

You see, one of my heroes had been arrested. She wasn’t dealing drugs. She wasn’t driving while impaired or embezzling money. In fact, she’s one of the most God-fearing people I know.

Her crime? She had been compassionately and skillfully helping women in North Carolina have their babies at home. She had been by their side to support them, give them excellent medical attention, help them have their babies in an environment that was the only setting used for thousands of years—their own home.

“What’s so wrong with that?” you may ask. “Grandma had all of her kids at home.” Yes, your grandparents (and maybe some of my older readers!) probably delivered their babies in the comfort of their own beds. Thank God we still live in a free enough country that women are allowed to have their babies anywhere they like without fear of prosecution.

But North Carolina has a dilemma. Homebirth is legal, but having a midwife (one who operates independently without physician supervision) on hand to assist is illegal—not for the mother but for the midwife. Had my midwife friend been assisting with a homebirth in Virginia, it would have been legal for her. Such midwifery is also legal in Tennessee and South Carolina (our other bordering states). Yet North Carolina legislators have thus far refused to legalize this practice which is legal in 28 other states.

Let me clarify that Certified Nurse Midwives are allowed to attend homebirths in North Carolina IF they have a medical doctor willing to act as backup (sometimes a tough thing to find), but Certified Professional Midwives—who are also highly trained and usually very experienced—are not allowed to deliver babies at home.

I just don’t get it.

Before you jump on the bandwagon of saying all births need to be in the hospital for the safety of the mother and the child, I suggest you study the statistical evidence for midwifery in the U.S. Then get back to me.

When I am deciding on an issue, I study the statistical evidence, but I also like to talk to those who have been there, done that. Personal testimony is valid and crucial. So when it comes to the issue of having babies at home, let’s find someone who has been on both sides of the fence.

Hmmm, whom can we find? Oh. Okay. ME.

Yep, I’m coming out of the closet. I have had three children in the hospital and two at home in the very bed my parents bought for me when I was five years old.

Am I against hospital births? Absolutely not. I had some great experiences at the hospital—terrific nurses, a doctor I absolutely adored and relatively good care. I even loved the hospital food. So I’m not against hospital births.

I am, however, for the freedom to choose my birth experience.

As I alluded to earlier, I could pick up roots and move a few miles up the road to Stuart, VA, and have that freedom. But since 1983, homebirth midwifery by CPM’s has been illegal in North Carolina.

I chose my midwife as my pregnancy/delivery/postpartum healthcare provider in 1997. She was a Certified Professional Midwife with extensive education in the field she had felt called to enter. Her experience was massive, her resume impressive.

I heard glowing reports of her skills, although I am sure there were some patients who had bad experiences with her. Lest we think such negative occurrences are limited to midwifery, let us remember that malpractice suits against hospitals and OB-GYNs are big business these days. Nobody who assists with the birth of a baby is going to be immune from what sometimes happens in this fallen world—occasional tragedy—OR what we all face as fallible humans—someone who doesn’t like us or what we do.

But I had nothing but the best experiences with my midwife. She was there in my bedroom when sweet Abigail was born in 1998, and she made it in the nick of time when Malachi made an abrupt appearance in 2004. However, it was not just the actual delivery in which she specialized.

I got prenatal care such as I never got from a standard physician’s practice. Month after month, I made trip after trip to her office where she examined me extensively each time—carefully monitoring my uterine growth, blood pressure, sugar, protein and all of the other factors that must be considered in pregnancy. When she questioned the placement of the placenta, she even sent me for a sonogram.

She made a home visit several weeks before my due date to examine the birth setting and make sure everything was in order, such as me having a birth kit readily available. When labor began, she was Johnny-on-the-spot and never left my side.

As much as I loved my OB-GYN, I labored alone for the majority of my time with my first three children. The doctor came in a time or two for a brief check before finally staying as long as necessary when the nurses said I was ready for delivery. I totally understand that in a hospital, nurses and doctors have many other patients and cannot be attached to a pregnant woman’s side. I am not complaining. But that is one of the perks of midwifery—a steady, comforting presence that is constant, which tends to make for a less stressful delivery.

Had I been a high-risk case, my midwife would have been sensible and recommended that I deliver in a hospital. Midwifes are not stupid. They do not want babies or mothers to die. In the rare case of an unforeseen complication during labor, the midwife will call for medical transport to a hospital. Statistics prove that the typical midwife’s baby/mother loss record is lower than, or comparable to, that of the average OB-GYN.

Legislation has been introduced in Raleigh several times to legalize midwifery, but thus far, no cigar. The 2011 arrest of my midwife prompted friends of midwifery—including some OB-GYNs, thank God—to speak up once again in favor of this ageless method of birthing babies.

At the time of the 2011 arrest, I empathized with my midwife’s patients who were on the verge of delivery. My Abigail—expected on March 29, 1998—was already four days overdue when my midwife was arrested on April 2 of that year. My panic was not something a pregnant woman needs to experience. Thankfully, my midwife was released on April 4, in time for Abigail’s birth two days later.

Abigail is 18 now, and little Malachi recently turned 12. As I taught him about midwifery today, he was astounded to learn that general midwifery is illegal in our state when so many other states have legalized it and are seeing great success with it. He looked down at a picture of the beautiful and caring midwife who helped me give birth to him and then at a picture of me holding him in my bed just minutes after his birth. When he looked up at me after that, his eyes were full of fiery determination.

“Mom,” he said very solemnly, “when I grow up, if midwifery is still illegal here, I WILL take it to court and change the law.” I pray things turn around before then, but if not, I do not put it past my amazing son to find a way to successfully reverse this unfair law.

I worry that physicians who oppose legalizing midwifery are primarily looking at their personal financial picture or feeling that nasty spirit of control which can overtake any of us in any profession. If they argue that it is a case of safety, I will gladly put the statistics for OB-GYN practices and midwives side-by-side and say, “Case closed.”

My first child born in a hospital suffered respiratory distress and complications, due to negligence on the part of the OB-GYN (not my regular one who was on vacation), which resulted in long hospitalization and unnecessary expenditures. My second child—hospital-born—very nearly went through the same traumatic experience. My third child—again, birthed in a hospital—would have had a surgery performed on him accidentally had I not caught the error.

My point is that bad things can happen no matter where you give birth. I do not understand these women I have read about who knowingly chose homebirth, and then when something went wrong for them, blamed the midwife and began lobbying against homebirths. Should I lobby against all hospital births and say all OB-GYN’s should not deliver babies just because things went wrong with my hospital births? How ludicrous.

Since Eve, women on the old paths have been bearing their babies in the comforts of their own homes. Yes, there were losses, but midwifery healthcare has improved by leaps and bounds since those times. Why not let women have the birth experience that they choose—whether it be in a hospital or at home with a dedicated midwife by their side?

Free country, ain’t it?

Or is it?

To read more, check out:

https://www.carolinajournal.com/news-article/parents-ask-state-to-legalize-midwives/

The Old Paths: I Miss Mayberry

**This was originally published on Thursday, July 12, 2012, in my newspaper column, “The Old Paths,” in The Stokes News. Due to a website change a few years ago, the publishing company broke all links to our old articles which were archived online. This was a tragic mistake and resulted in the loss of thousands of newspaper articles. Little by little, I am putting my old columns on this blog so that they can be preserved. Each column is updated to reflect present times when transferred to this blog. I had blogged about this subject in July 2012, using some of the material from this column. However, much had been changed during the transition from the column to the blog, so I am now blogging the original newspaper column to preserve it for history’s sake.**

Summer always puts me in a nostalgic mood. (Yes, I know—I’m ALWAYS in a nostalgic mood but even moreso in summer.) I think it’s the fact that summer takes me back to the old paths of my childhood when days were longer, lazier and brighter somehow.

My childhood was the era of “The Andy Griffith Show,” long summer breaks from school, working hard but laughing a lot in the tobacco field, making homemade ice cream down in Grandpa Bray’s yard, listening to Uncle Sam pick the guitar while my daddy and his brothers sang “Uncle Pen” or “Let Me Be Your Salty Dog.”

It was Sunday afternoons under the shady old oaks while relatives sat in lawn chairs and talked about the weather, their ‘baccer, what all they had put up for the winter. It was swimming in the creek to stay cool on hot July days. It was  playing in the woods with the cousins ‘til Mama called us in.

I’m the littlest girl, wading in the creek….long, long ago…..

Those days are long gone. Summer vacation ends earlier in August now, I haven’t touched a tobacco leaf in a lot of years, Pa Bray is dead and the extended family only gets together down at his old farm a couple of times a year. Nobody has time to sit in the yard on Sundays—too many ballgames or practices. Indoor air conditioning has long replaced creeks as the cooling method of choice, and there are too many crazy people in the world today to let your kids hang out in the woods all day.

There is really only one constant still left from my childhood days—The Andy Griffith Show. I can turn on the TV every day at 5:30 p.m. and see faces from my childhood—Ange, Barn, Thelma Lou, Aunt Bee, Opie. That show aired years before I was even born and probably has been on the air somewhere every year since.

When I watch it, modern life ceases for me. I retreat to a black-and-white world where Barney advises me to “Nip it in the bud!”, Andy strums the guitar on the front porch, Opie shares his heart with “Paw” and Aunt Bee keeps them all well-fed.

But it isn’t all sunshine and flowers. Barney sometimes sneaks off to call Juanita down at the diner while poor Thelma Lou sits at home. Opie tells occasional lies and has to confess to Andy. Aunt Bee’s pickles taste like kerosene and sometimes she can’t seem to beat Clara Edwards at anything. Ernest T. Bass is ever chunking rocks through windows while Otis just keeps getting drunk.

Even the paradise of the fictional Mayberry has its occasional thorns—just like real life.

A couple of weeks ago, I watched old clips of Andy Griffith on YouTube and even posted a short one on my Facebook page. It was the familiar scene—Andy with his guitar on the porch with Barney by his side. Andy was singing “The Church in the Wildwood” with Barney adding the harmony.

The episode was called “Man in a Hurry.” The contrast was marked—Andy and Barney peacefully singing, Barney stretching lazily and saying, “Well, I think I’ll go home, take me a nap then head on over to Thelma Lou’s to watch some TV” (emphasis on the “T”), while the man in a hurry paced back and forth.

That same theme is often on my mind: how can we modern folks with cell phones, social networking, email, video games and more TV channels than you can shake a stick at slow down our lives to savor the simple things we recall from childhood?

…..Like catching lightning bugs and putting them in pop bottles instead of playing the Xbox. Sitting on the porch while the moon rises instead of watching “Criminal Minds.” Playing the piano for the family to gather ’round to sing instead of viewing the latest music videos on YouTube.

Truth be told, I’m too busy to do any of that.

But “The Andy Griffith Show” reminds me that life was probably better when we had the time, or rather TOOK the time, to do these things. Andy was a busy sheriff on call 24/7, but he managed to take Opie down to the fishing hole. (Whether or not they whistled while they walked is undetermined!) Sometimes he and Helen Crump spread a blanket on the grass and enjoyed a picnic.

There was a sense of community that few of us still experience. Neighbors visited. Men gathered down at Floyd’s to talk. Goober and Gomer were never too busy down at the garage to lend a helping hand.

“Wake up, Leslie! It’s a fictional town on a TV show!” you may say.

Is it? I seem to remember living a similar life when I was a kid. We had a community club where the neighbors had Rook tournaments and potluck dinners. Mama invited ladies over to quilt. The Bray cousins and I would wander through pastures, climb cherry trees, swim in Belews Creek before the lake existed.

So maybe that’s why we still watch a show created in 1960—a show with no real relevance now in many ways, a show that belongs to the days of yesteryear…..because it reminds us of so much that was good and that we wish could be again. And because the true values of the human heart haven’t changed much at all since 1960—love for family and friends, a need to be part of something meaningful, a yearning for simplicity.

Imagine my shock when I had been pondering these Mayberry-esque issues of life and then heard that Andy Griffith had passed away. It seemed unreal. How could Sheriff Taylor be gone? Shouldn’t Ange have lived to at least 120?

Before I knew it, I was unexpectedly bawling like a baby. I had had no idea Andy Griffith’s death could possibly make me cry.

But you know why I think it did? Not just because I loved Andy. But also because it seemed to be the end of an era. There had not been a minute of my life that Andy wasn’t figuratively sheriff of Mayberry.

Losing Barney, Aunt Bee and most recently Goober was sad, but losing Andy—the figurehead of the show—is much tougher. It somehow makes the Mayberry world he created retreat even farther into the shrouds of the past. It makes me feel more detached from childhood.

It’s been a long time since I really was a child, but “The Andy Griffith Show” makes me feel that young again. I’ll keep watching it as long as it’s in syndication. And I’ll remember…..and I’ll treasure it…..and I’ll keep wishing I could make my life that simple again.

I miss Mayberry.