Horse-drawn planters and an ancestor improvises

 

Once again, I’m going to share another of my husband’s family antiques. This item on the surface doesn’t look like an antique. But his great-great-grandfather made it and put it to practical use. Note the photo. What do you think it is? 

 

A rock. Yep. My kids joke about it. Everything Charley keeps has a story, even this rock.

Do you recall seeing the scenes as the open credits rolled on Little House on the Prairie? Pa is plowing his field with a horse-drawn, single blade plow. We see Ma in other scenes following behind, dropping seeds in the plowed rows, and perhaps one of the girls covered them over with dirt. A pretty tedious job.

Our ancestors were resourceful people. Farmers were constantly looking for ways to make their work go faster and easier. Even before tractors, other horse-drawn farming tools were invented. One of those was the planter. Designed to plant rows the width of a horse’s backside. (about 42 inches.) That allowed for horse-drawn tillers to work between the rows of mature crops, eliminating weeds. 

 

Henry Blair, an African-American, invented the first corn planter. He was the second African-American to receive a patent. (October 14, 1834.)

Here are a few later versions of planters.

 

 

An earlier version then Henry Blair's, invented by Jon Trommel.

The pictures you see here are not the same as the one my husband’s great-great-grandfather used. Even though many time saving farm implements were available, not all farmers could afford them.

I suspect Charley’s ancestor may have improvised. He hitched his horse to the planter. He sat on the seat behind the horse and dropped the seeds into the furrow. Here is where he used the rock. He threaded a rope through the hole and tied it to the back of the planter. The weight of the rock dragging behind broke up the clods as it pushed the soil over the seeds. Pretty clever. There may have been more rocks with holes, but Charley’s great-aunt only had the one. She’s the one who shared how her grandfather planted.

The limestone rock might have been from a nearby riverbed or left over from building a stone wall or home. Our ancestors tried not to waste anything. Modifying the rock served his purpose well. 

 

Following in that tradition, I found a new purpose for his forefather’s rock. I used it as a base underneath my lighthouse garden decoration. I wanted to capture the setting of a lighthouse on a hill guiding ships to safety. Perhaps not as practical as a farm implement, but I love it. 

Do you have any old-fashion farm tools? Do you display them or put them to use?

 

Cindy Ervin Huff is a multi-published writer. She has been featured in many periodicals over the last thirty years. Her historical romance Secrets & Charades won the Editor Choice, Maxwell Award and Serious Writer Medal. Her contemporary romance, New Duet released in 2018 placed second in the 2019 Serious Writer Awards and a finalist in the 2019 Selah Awards. Cindy is a member of ACFW, Mentor for Word Weavers. founding member of the Aurora, Illinois, chapter of Word Weavers and Christian Writer’s Guild alumni. She loves to encourage new writers on their journey. Cindy and her husband make their home in Aurora, Illinois. Visit her website: www.cindyervinhuff.com

 

Taming the west—one heart at a time.

 

Healing Heart

 

Lonnie Holt’s external scars remind him of his failures, his internal scars torment him. Genny Collins seeks safety at the ranch once owned by Lonnie’s uncle. When Lonnie and his brother arrive, sparks fly and distrust abounds. While Lonnie and Genny fight the love growing between them, his past haunts him, and her past pays them a visit. Prequel to upcoming release, Rescuing Her Heart.

 

The Mysterious Walker Sisters of Gatlinburg, TN

By Michelle Shocklee

My husband and I recently visited the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. Considering I'm a Rocky Mountain Girl -- born and raised in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with the Sangre de Cristos out my back window -- I must admit the Smokies are bee-u-ti-ful! Factor in glorious autumn colors, chilly weather, and a snuggly sweater, and I'm pretty much in paradise!

One of the most fascinating tidbits in the park, however, has nothing to do with the beauty or the changing leaves. It has to do with a family named Walker who called these mountains home in the 1800s and 1900s. When the government came knocking on their cabin door in the 1930s, with plans to create a national park that included their property, well, let's just say the Walkers weren't too keen on the idea.

Let me tell you a little tale about a dream, a cabin, and some mysterious sisters...

John Walker, father of the Walker sisters

During the Civil War, a young man named John Walker fought for the Union Army and was even captured and held prisoner. He survived, and after the war ended John married his sweetheart, Margaret Jane King, whose family came from Little Greenbrier, an area near present-day Gatlinburg, Tennessee. He purchased property from Margaret's father that already had a cabin on it, the original section built in the 1840s and the larger two-story section built by Mr. King in the 1850s.  Being a very industrious man, John built a barn, corn crib, smokehouse, pig pen, apple barn, and blacksmith shop. A spring-house situated on a nearby creek kept dairy products such as milk and butter cool throughout the year, as well as provided storage room for pickled root vegetables. John was also a skilled carpenter and crafted ladderback chairs, looms, tools, and a small cotton gin. He planted orchards that included more than 20 kinds of apples, as well as peaches, cherries, and plums. Chickens, sheep, goats, and hogs were all raised on the farm. 

In the midst of all this building and settling, Margaret gave birth to eleven children -- seven girls and four boys. All eleven children survived into adulthood, a feat not many families could boast back in those days. The boys grew up and left home, but only one sister--Sarah Caroline--married. The other six sisters remained unmarried "spinsters" and lived out their lives in their childhood mountain home. 

The seven Walker Sisters: Front L-R: Margaret, Louisa, Polly.
Back L-R: Hettie, Martha, Nancy, & Caroline.
Photo: Jim Shelton, 1909

John Walker was 80 years old when he passed away in 1921. His six unmarried daughters, as well as his youngest son Giles, inherited the property. One of the sisters, Nancy, died ten years later, and Giles deeded his share over to his remaining sisters. For the next 43 years, the five Walker sisters would make a name for themselves in the community--and in the public's eye--as hardworking, if not odd, mountain women. Instead of looking to modern-day conveniences, they did all the farm work themselves, including tending livestock as well as a huge garden that provided their food for years. They raised sheep and washed, carded, spun, and wove the wool into clothing. Cotton and flax were also grown on the farm, and the sisters produced their own textiles using the cotton gin their father had built.  Following in their mother Margaret's footsteps, the daughters also kept a herbal garden for mountain remedies, including horseradish, boneset, and peppermint for healing teas. Natural plants in the forests were collected, too. One of the sisters was quoted, saying, "Our land produces everything we need except sugar, soda, coffee, and salt."

Martha and Hettie on the porch; Louisa churning butter

But their little chunk of paradise was threatened when the US Government decided to create what is known today as the Smoky Mountain National Park. The states of Tennessee and North Carolina were given permission by Congress to begin raising money to purchase nearly a half million acres for the park, most of which was privately owned. Parcels of land collected from families and timber companies alike were bargained for, haggled over, and eventually purchased. Refusing to leave their 122-acre mountain home, the sisters held out until 1940. Once the park was officially dedicated, the sisters struck a bargain with the government: they received $4,750 for the land WITH the stipulation that they could live out their lives in their home.

Living in the national park, however, meant their daily practices of hunting and fishing, cutting wood, and grazing livestock were now prohibited. The sisters were forced to find a new lifestyle in order to survive. People from all over the country flocked to the park and visited what became known as "Five Sisters Cove". The Walkers welcomed the curious newcomers and saw them as an opportunity to sell handmade items such as children's toys, crocheted doilies, fried apple pies, and even Louisa's hand-written poems.The sisters were even featured in the Saturday Evening Post in April 1946, showcasing their mountain lifestyle to the rest of the country.

The Walker Sisters Cabin (notice the stone steps are still there!)

Over the next few years, the sisters began to die off. In 1951, with only two sisters remaining--Margaret, 80, and Louisa, 70-- they wrote a letter to the park superintendent asking that the "Visitors Welcome" sign be taken down. Margaret passed away in 1962 at the age of 92, and Louisa remained in the house alone until she died in July 1964.








Today, the homestead is a quiet place, tucked way back in the woods, a mile from the old Little Greenbrier school house that John Walker helped build in 1881. The old spring house greets you as you arrive, and I couldn't help but imagine all the butter, milk, and yummy garden goodies the sisters kept there over the years. John's corn crib is also still standing, and hubby and I were quite flummoxed over its design--no doors; only a small opening on the side to reach in and grab some corn that surely must have been loaded from a gap at the top of the far (covered) wall.

The old house, of course, was my favorite. We sat on the porch where the Walker family must have spent countless hours (as the picture above of the sisters reflects). Enjoying the solitude and quietness of the forest that surrounds it, I could certainly see why the sisters refused to sellout and move away. Home, they say, is where the heart is, and I believe the hearts of the Walker Sisters were very much at peace in this beautiful place.

John's corn crib

Old Little Greenbrier school house John helped build in 1881.
The school house also housed a church, and a small fenced graveyard
is off to the left.

Your turn: Have you been to the Great Smoky Mountain National Park? What was your favorite part?

Michelle Shocklee is the author of several historical novels, including Count the Nights by Stars, winner of the 2023 Christianity Today Book Award, and Under the Tulip Tree, a Christy Awards and Selah Awards finalist. Her work has been included in numerous Chicken Soup for the Soul books, magazines, and blogs. Married to her college sweetheart and the mother of two grown sons, she makes her home in Tennessee, not far from the historical sites she writes about. Visit her online at www.MichelleShocklee.com


APPALACHIAN SONG

Forever within the memories of my heart.
Always remember, you are perfectly loved.

Bertie Jenkins has spent forty years serving as a midwife for her community in the Great Smoky Mountains of East Tennessee. Out of all the mothers she’s tended, none affects her more than the young teenager who shows up on her doorstep, injured, afraid, and expecting, one warm June day in 1943. As Bertie and her four sisters tenderly nurture Songbird back to health, the bond between the childless midwife and the motherless teen grows strong. But soon Songbird is forced to make a heartbreaking decision that will tear this little family apart.

Thirty years later, the day after his father’s funeral, Walker Wylie is stunned to learn he was adopted as an infant. The famous country singer enlists the help of adoption advocate Reese Chandler in the hopes of learning why he was abandoned by his birth parents. With the only clue he has in hand, Walker and Reese head deep into the Appalachian Mountains to track down Bertie Jenkins, the midwife who holds the secrets to Walker’s past.

https://www.tyndale.com/p/appalachian-song/9781496472441

Sharecropping in the 20th Century

When I was a kid, I was fascinated with people who just picked up everything and moved to a new town or out of state. I was in awe of anyone who went abroad … like the missionaries who came to speak at our church. Having lived in a total of three places my entire life, all within about 6-7 miles apart, I’m still intrigued by others’ ability to just pick up and go.

In farming parts of the country in the 19^th and 20^th centuries, it wasn’t unusual for families to move at the drop of a hat. I remember Mama telling me about one of her uncles who had a whole passel of kids. They’d just up and move in the middle of the night. One day they’d be there, and the next, they’d be gone. A few months later, they might show up on some other farm a few miles away. 

Cleveland, Mississippi, sharecropper with children.

1930s Farm Security Administration photograph.

Courtesy, Mississippi Department of Archives and History

This would have been in the late 1950’s, 1960’s, long before I was born. (Okay, not THAT long before… ahem!) The old tarpaper shacks they lived in wasn’t much, and they wouldn’t have had much to move, but still, I can’t imagine just piling everything in a wagon (or an old beat-up jalopy of the day) and lightin’ a shuck, at least not without a good bit of thought beforehand.

They were sharecroppers. They didn’t own any land of their own, but would agree to work for a landowner in exchange for a place to live and a share of the crops grown or some other form of payment. Cash was hard to come by, so in some cases, payment might mean a cow, horse, wagon, or simply the profit from their share of crops. If the crops failed, everybody lost… and it was going to be a hard winter. It wasn’t unusual for sharecroppers and tenants to work all year just to feed their family. And even that was in scarce supply some years.

Tenants and sharecroppers were similar, but also different. Tenants usually paid the landowner rent money, had his own tools, plows, and horses/mules. Obviously, the landowner and the tenant farmer could come to any agreement they chose, but the most common was that the tenant farmer would reap all the profit from the land he farmed, but he was also taking on all the risk, usually buying seed, feed, fertilizer, etc. on credit.

Sharecropper family on wagon in Lee County, Mississippi.

1930s Farm Security Administration photograph.

Courtesy, Mississippi Department of Archives and History

Sharecroppers might have nothing more than a few changes of clothes and a bit of furniture. They depended on the landowner to supply everything needed to farm, and they received a percentage of the profit from the crops only after the crops were sold. If the crops failed, everybody lost… and it was going to be a hard winter.

There were good, honest, and fair landowners, and there were those who preyed on the poor. There were good, honest, hardworking tenants and sharecroppers and there were those who took advantage of their employer (the landowner). It was a beautiful thing when honest, hardworking farmers paired up and became successful together.

My father was one of the most hardworking men I ever knew. He pulled himself up by his bootstraps. He started out with nothing in the fifties. Married to my mother at 18, they were young (so young!), poor, and hungry, but they were hard workers. They had a couple of good experiences and a few not so good as sharecroppers.

My parents came in on the end of the tenant/sharecropper period in Mississippi. In the mid-20^th century, landowners took advantage of new technology and began replacing tenant farmers and sharecroppers with tractors, cultivators, disks, cotton pickers, harvesters, and pesticides.

Woman and child picking cotton in Lauderdale County, Mississippi.

1930s Farm Security Administration photograph.

Courtesy, Mississippi Department of Archives and History

Yes, it was a hard life, but life was hard on most everybody back then, and they didn’t really know any different. But even as hard as it was, my parents used their skills, determination and desire to succeed to make something of themselves. By the time I was born, they’d managed to purchase 40 acres of land, were in the process of clearing it and had started a Grade “C” dairy farm with a handful of Jersey cows. A few years later, they switched to Grade “A” milk. When Daddy passed away suddenly at the young age of 54, they had a thriving dairy farm and a herd of beef cattle.

He and my mom were truly part of the American Dream, made possible by sharecropping.

So, did you move around a lot as a kid? As an adult? Any sharecroppers here? Tenant farmers?

CBA Bestselling author PAM HILLMAN was born and raised on a dairy farm in Mississippi and spent her teenage years perched on the seat of a tractor raking hay. In those days, her daddy couldn't afford two cab tractors with air conditioning and a radio, so Pam drove an Allis Chalmers 110. Even when her daddy asked her if she wanted to bale hay, she told him she didn't mind raking. Raking hay doesn't take much thought so Pam spent her time working on her tan and making up stories in her head. Now, that's the kind of life every girl should dream of. www.pamhillman.com

After Freedom: How Slaves Searched for Family

By Michelle Shocklee

On January 1, 1863, President Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation as the nation approached its third year of bloody civil war. The proclamation declared "that all persons held as slaves" within the rebellious states "are, and henceforward shall be free." Yet freedom for most slaves wouldn't come for two more years when the war finally ended in April 1865, and another two months to Juneteenth, the day Union troops arrived in Texas with the proclamation.

While researching my historical novels set on a Texas cotton plantation, I read dozens and dozens of true accounts of what slavery was like. These slave narratives, collected in the 1930s by the Federal Writers Project, are a treasure trove of information about the life of a slave. I wrote about my research in a blog titled I Was Born in Slavery--a Slave's Oral History.  To read and even hear the slaves' own words (there are a few recordings included in the archives!) is truly amazing. 

One heartbreaking theme is found in nearly all the narratives, and that is missing family members. Slave owners regularly split up families, selling off fathers and mothers and children for various (despicable) reasons. Slave traders often transported slaves across state lines, leaving the slaves with no hope of ever seeing their loved ones again. 

Slave auction house in Atlanta, GA, 1864

After the war ended and slavery was abolished, the task of reuniting families was monumental. Records indicate the government began collecting names and pertinent information of the former slaves, creating a sort of data bank to help locate relatives. But without modern-day technology, the endeavor took years and was far from adequate considering the vast number of people searching for their families. At the beginning of the Civil War, there were nearly four million people in bondage in the United States. You can imagine how many of them faced the hopelessness of finding their loved ones. 

As the years passed, some former slaves took to the newspapers, placing ads with information about their missing family members, hoping against all odds that someone somewhere would see it and contact them. I found them very poignant, especially those with updates that include good news. I'll share a few here and let them speak for themselves:

DO YOU KNOW THEM?

Louisville, KY , October 1, 1895.
I desire to know the whereabouts of Edwin Childs, the husband of Lucy Childs. The latter was daughter of old man Carter Page before the war. She belonged to Franklin Guy. She had two brothers, one by the name of William Page, and Archie Page. Edwin Childs belonged to Dr Worthum before the war, and he always hired his own time. His sister Muzinda, and he worked in the tobacco factory together. Edwin Childs' wife, Lucy Childs, was sold to the Negro traders before the war by Franklin Guy. Franklin Guy had two sons, one was named Tommie Guy and the other Warner Guy. 

Oblige,
Bettie Johnson, Louisville, KY

FOUND HER RELATIVES.
Louisville, Ky , October 23, 1895
Mr. Mitchell,
I have heard from my father Edwin Childs. He lives in Washington City. He saw the advertisement in the Richmond Planet. I received the letter from him Tuesday. It has been 36 years since I last saw him. We were sold away from our father in the year of 1859. I received a letter from Philadelphia, Pa , concerning the same matter. My aunt Muzinda lives in Richmond, Va. Through your kindness was the cause of me finding my father and aunt.
From yours,
Bettie Johnson, Louisville, KY

Here is another: 

INFORMATION WANTED OF MY RELATION. My uncle's name is Howard Hightower, his wife's name, Martha Hightower; three sons, Henry, Daniel and John; daughters, Mary, Caroline and Harriet. I have found Henry and Mary, who are living in Greensboro, Ga. We all belonged to William Hightower as late as 1862 '63, and at his death we were divided. Some went to Alabama, Southwestern Georgia and some to Polk county, Ga., while some remained in Green county, Ga., all of us being natives of that county. Uncle's name, Andy Hightower. Aminia and Louisiana Hightower are sisters to Andy. I will inform my uncles and aunts that their mother is living in Greensboro; also two of her sons. Any information will be gladly received by S. M. HIGHTOWER.
Rockmount, Ga.

One must wonder how many families were actually reunited with loved ones, and how many never saw their relatives again. In my historical novel The Widow of Rose Hill, two former slaves, Moses and Harriet, deal with this difficult subject. Without giving away their story, I did my best to keep to the facts of the time period, showing the heartbreak, the challenge, and the difficult decisions so many former slaves had to make. 

Put yourself in their shoes: Had you lived in those days, how would you have gone about searching for your loved ones? How long would you have tried? Would you ever give up?

Michelle Shocklee is the award-winning author of The Planter's Daughter and The Widow of Rose Hill, historical sagas set on a Texas cotton plantation before and after the Civil War. Her historical novella set in the New Mexico Territory is included in The Mail-Order Brides Collection. Michelle and her husband of 32 years make their home in Tennessee. Connect with her at www.MichelleShocklee.com.





THE WIDOW OF ROSE HILL

Widowed during the war, Natalie Ellis finds herself

solely responsible for Rose Hill plantation. When Union troops arrive with a proclamation freeing the slaves, all seems lost. How can she run the plantation without slaves? In order to save her son’s inheritance she strikes a deal with the arrogant, albeit handsome, Colonel Maish. In exchange for use of her family’s property, the army will provide workers to bring in her cotton crop. But as her admiration for the colonel grows, a shocking secret is uncovered. Can she trust him with her heart and her young, fatherless son?

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B078CN65FH/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0

Treasured Family Heirlooms

by Pam Hillman

What is an heirloom?

Webster’s defines an heirloom as, “Something of special value handed down from one generation to another.”

As I ponder the meaning of heirlooms, I turn to the battered antique trunk at the foot of my bed. Its domed top and shiny brass accents shimmer in the late afternoon sunlight streaming through my bedroom window.

My husband bought the trunk at his great aunt’s estate sale several years ago. It is a beautiful old trunk. Battered, but sturdy, it cradles heirlooms handed down through five generations.

I flip the clasps open and lift the lid, letting the smell of old leather, musty books, and time gone by waft around me. For a moment, my gaze lingers on my treasures, old and new, before I reach for the baby clothes stacked on top.

I pull out dainty smocked suits that my children wore home from the hospital; a pair of tiny, hand crocheted booties; soft white and powdery blue blankets used to wrap my newborn sons in. Memories of those precious days parade through my head as I touch each object. I shake my head as I finger the baby clothes. It is hard to believe either of my young men were ever small enough to wear the tiny garments I hold in my hands.

Underneath a soft baby blanket, I spot a baseball glove, its brittle leather over thirty years old. The glove brings back memories of a brother whose life was cut way to short. Memories of the time he threw a baseball straight up in the air because I had decided I couldn’t miss it if the ball fell on me. I missed—and got a busted nose for my effort. But it really wasn’t my brother’s fault. The whole thing had been my idea.

As I dig deeper, the keepsakes grow older. I pick up a hymnal, dated 1907, a relic inherited from my husband’s great-great aunt. Its care-worn pages are a testimony to the many times Aunt Mary Ann lifted her voice in song. I can just see a dozen or so stout country women dressed in their Sunday best, hats perched just so, sturdy shoes dusty from their trek to church, lifting their voices in song. The song in my head fades away as the hymnal is placed carefully to the side.

In the bottom, I find a quilt. Not just an ordinary quilt—a special quilt—a quilt hand-stitched by my mother’s mother. I’m not sure how old it is. My mother doesn’t know, and Mamaw wouldn’t be able to tell us if she were alive.

I do know that it is old, and worn, the fabric stiff and shiny in places, the binding threadbare, the lining torn. It isn’t beautiful. Its pieces aren’t mirror images of each other, intent on showing off some delicate pattern. It’s a hodgepodge of color, shapes, and sizes. Some pieces of fabric are long and narrow, brown. Others tan, triangular. I spot a few pieces of dull green here and there. But even now, it has a thick sturdiness that guarantees a cozy night’s sleep on a frigid winter night.

As my fingers glide across the surface of the quilt, an image of my mother as a little girl, snuggling under the quilt, flashes like a movie clip before my eyes. As quickly as it appears, it’s gone. I sigh and lean over the edge of the trunk once again.

The afternoon shadows deepen as I examine each and every precious item in the trunk. I marvel at the black velvet pillbox hat with grosgrain ribbon Mamaw wore to church back in the 1940’s. I touch the cool metal of Papaw’s pocket watch, the stiff softness of his brown felt hat. The label inside says Adam, Fifth Avenue Quality, long oval, and I wonder how many hats he tried on, how long he stood in the store, before he picked just the right hat, just the right style, to suit him.

When I’m done, I carefully pack everything away, my trip down memory lane creating more and more memories, expanding, like sweet rolls set out to rise. I gaze out the window, enjoying a quiet afternoon reminiscing.

These heirlooms speak to me somewhere down deep inside. Their value is special, just like Webster declared. I knew the man who wore the hat, the woman who hand-stitched the quilt, and the young girl who grew up to be my mother. I have the memories to prove it.

And that’s what makes an heirloom special.

Do you have a special heirloom handed down from your parents or grandparents? We'd love to hear all about it!!!

CBA Bestselling author PAM HILLMAN was born and raised on a dairy farm in Mississippi and spent her teenage years perched on the seat of a tractor raking hay. In those days, her daddy couldn't afford two cab tractors with air conditioning and a radio, so Pam drove an Allis Chalmers 110. Even when her daddy asked her if she wanted to bale hay, she told him she didn't mind raking. Raking hay doesn't take much thought so Pam spent her time working on her tan and making up stories in her head. Now, that's the kind of life every girl should dream of. www.pamhillman.com

The Road to Magnolia Glen

I'm still celebrating the release of The Road to Magnolia Glen. :)
I'm a sponsor at the Christian Fiction Summer Reading Safari.
Read! Review! Win books! (It really is that easy!)
Click here to join the fun for the entire month of July!