After I read Ibsen’s 1879 play, A Doll s House, and watched the 1973 movie, directed by Joseph Losey and starring Jane Fonda as Nora and David Warner as Torvald, I created this sequel to the play that gave both Nora and Torvald what they deserved.
ACT 1
SCENE It is a small but tastefully furnished apartment. The furniture is sparse but adequate. The curtains at the window and the coverlets on the furniture are white, giving the room a clean and light appearance. A large bouquet of red and yellow tulips is on a table next to a bowl of chocolates. It is late afternoon in May. The doorbell rings; and NORA enters from a side room, her posture erect, her countenance one of poise and confidence. She crosses to the door and opens it, and CHRISTINE enters.
Christine. (as she embraces Nora) My dear Nora, I came as soon as I got your message. I trust you are well?
Nora. I am well, Christine; thank you for coming. And you and Nils, all is well with you and the children?
Christine. Quite well, thank you. But Nora, wherever have you been? We have been most distressed these last few months with no word. Have you seen the children and Torvald?
Nora. All in good time, dear Christine. Let us be seated and visit for a time. As for Torvald and the children, I shall see them this very day. I sent word for them to join me here this evening. Have you seen my children lately?
Christine. Yes, just yesterday. They are quite well and getting along in their studies. Of course, they have seemed a little sad these past six months. Nora, dear, how could you leave them without a word? And how have you existed? Are you sure that you are quite well?
Nora. I assure you I am fine, Christine. And it is time you should know of my doings since we last met. Do you remember the day I left, the day I learned that Dr. Rank had died?
Christine. Of course, Nora. I know how terribly fond of him you were. But to disappear so suddenly, dear, with only a brief note that you were going!
Nora. Yes, well, that morning of his death I received notice of a legal nature that needed attending to. Imagine my surprise to learn that Dr. Rank had left me quite a tidy sum of money. He was quite specific in his bequest as to how it should be used. In that regard, I think perhaps he knew me better than I knew myself. It was his wish that I should have something for myself, all my own, to remember him by, and that I should use the money in a way that I would not have used money from Torvald.
Christine. (beginning to weep) I am sorry, Nora dear. It’s just that I am so overwhelmed with relief that you are safe and home. We have been so worried. Torvald has been beside himself, and at the same time trying to be brave in front of the children. He gives them vague yet hopeful answers to their little questions. Have you no feeling for your children, Nora?
Nora. Indeed I do and it is for their benefit that I returned, else I may have stayed away indefinitely. The climate of southern Italy is quite agreeable to me.
Christine. Have you been there all this time?
Nora. Yes, I left the day I received the inheritance. I made my way to Taranto, at the very end of Italy, and there I stayed until nearly a month ago. Such a lovely place, Christine, filled with light, so warm and free. I swear I felt quite the native in no time.
.
Christine. (drying her eyes) Please do continue. I want to hear everything.
Nora. (getting up and striding about the room as she speaks) During the first few days after leaving Torvald and the children, I was filled with a strange exhilaration. I know I should have been frightened and unsure, but it was quite the opposite with me. Then, almost at the same time, the money came from Dr. Rank and it was as if a sign from heaven had been given. I felt that, if I didn’t leave right then, I might somehow lose my nerve. I was, after all, beginning to miss the children by that time.
Christine. (hopefully) So, you have come for the children?
Nora. (with a slight smile) Not at all. I have realized that I want to be near my children, in the same town as them. But Torvald would never let them go; they are too much a part of me. No, I wish to be near my children and see them of course, but I will never return to Torvald. That chapter of my life is closed forever, Christine.
Christine. You sound very sure of yourself. But are you quite so sure that Torvald will abide by your wishes?
Nora. Dear Christine, he has no other choice. Ours will be a cordial relationship; our only joint concern will be the welfare of the children. In time, I am quite sure he will become accustomed to it.
Christine. How will you fill your days?
Nora. My dear, you sound as though a husband and children, or rather, the lack thereof, should be the total ruin of a woman. I assure you I have every intention of filling my days completely. Indeed, I have already begun. I have secured employment for myself, for I intend to save the rest of what Dr. Rank so graciously bestowed upon me. All those years of saving and working diligently behind closed doors left me quite prepared to fend for myself. But tell me, Christine, are you happy with Nils?
Christine. (looking down furtively at her hands) Happy? No, I don’t think we are happy in the traditional sense of the word. Nils seems, well, grateful is the word I think. And I– –I am content to be with someone who needs me. And of course, his children are really very dear to me now.
Nora. Things change; that is the only constant in the world, my dear. I have embraced the changes in my life, and I intend to look no further backward than today. I have such hope, Christine, for there is a peace within me, a knowing of myself. I feel like one of these tulips. Can you understand? I was there all along, inside myself, waiting for something I don’t know, a spark, a little sunshine, understanding. I think we all need those things. And when we finally get them, it is as though something came along and forced us to grow, to blossom. I like the new me, and I don’t intend to return to the bulb that was the old me.
Christine. My dear, I think it is a brave thing you do, but it seems more than a little frightening. Are you quite sure of what you are doing?
Nora. I am most assured, dear friend. And now, if you will excuse me, I must make ready to receive the children. They should be arriving shortly.
Christine. (turning to Nora at the door) Can you be truly happy here alone?
Nora. I did not say I should be always alone. I have not closed my heart, quite the contrary. There may be romance in my life again; in fact, I’m counting on it. But it will not come from my past; that much is certain. There is no future in the past.
Nora and Christine embrace, Christine leaves, Nora closes the door and turning with a smile walks over to the table, picking up a piece of chocolate and popping it into her mouth, before disappearing through the side door.
On the evening of December 10, 2021, an EF4 tornado blasted through parts of western Kentucky. Not since the Great Ice Storm of 2009 has our area taken such a devastating hit. Those of us untouched by the tornado watched helplessly as weather authorities pleaded for residents in one town after another to take shelter. “This is a tornado emergency,” they implored people. “Get to your safe place NOW.” Unfortunately for many, their shelters couldn’t withstand the nearly 200 miles per hour winds. One week later and the death toll stands at 77. It is now the deadliest tornado in Kentucky history.
I stayed away from the affected sites for the first several days. Viewing or taking photos of someone else’s misfortune doesn’t sit well with me. I understand the media has to document the tragedy. Their photos are all I really need to see to understand the heartache people are going through. And people need to know what can happen so they can be better prepared for the future.
So, when I did venture out to see for myself, I headed to a secluded rural area that has long been a favorite–Land Between the Lakes. There’s a place there, a backroad really, that is seldom traveled. In summer the trees meet overhead so that it’s always shady and cool. There’s a stream that rarely dries up, and the spot is filled with ferns and birdsong. For me, there is no more peaceful place on earth. I have passed many afternoons in that tranquil spot. And though I have taken photos of it in spring and posted them to social media, I’m always careful not to reveal the location of “my” spot.
Imagine my shock when my worst fears were realized. Suddenly, around a bend, the road disappeared under an avalanche of tree trunks. The entire area is oddly light now–there are no trees left standing to block the sun. It is entirely open, laid waste. You can make out the rolling hills now, where before you could only see a few dozen yards into the thick undergrowth. I sat for a few minutes, then snapped some photos. It was eerily quiet. No birds, no sounds of anything moving under all those trees. How many wild animals died in this storm?
A favorite spot after the tornado went through
The same spot just a few weeks ago
With nothing to see but downed trees, and further access completely blocked, I decided to go down into the “Trace” to see where the tornado crossed LBL. I didn’t have to go far. Just south of the north station you begin to see debris and hear chain saws. There were many utility workers out clearing trees and working on power lines. For miles on either side of the tornado’s path, there is debris high up in the trees. Sometimes just a plastic bag, more often a twisted piece of corrugated metal or insulation.
I also saw something unexpected. The shoreline of Kentucky Lake is piled high with all manner of floating trash. Parts of a dock, wood from homes and businesses, styrofoam, and many other things that were unidentifiable bob up and down in the water. God only knows how much debris that couldn’t float is now at the bottom of the lake.
I pulled over to take a couple of photos. A man stood by his truck watching the repairs. He told me his daughter lives in Dawson Springs–another town, like Mayfield, that took a direct hit. She’s okay, though her house is gone. The man (I didn’t get his name) said she told him her neighbor found a hand and part of a leg on his property. She said the leg and hand were obviously not from the same person.
“How awful,” was all I could manage to say. He said property owners were being told to get on their four-wheelers and look all over their property for missing persons. To search the woods, in the tops of trees, and even in the ponds. I just shook my head. The things ordinary people were being asked to do, the things they were seeing, would likely scar them for life. And just how, I wondered, are they going to find people, animals, or lost belongings under all those trees? There are probably things under those piles that will remain lost for a long, long time.
I started to leave but the man had one last horrible story. He said he knew a farmer that had a herd of Black Angus cattle. He had divided the herd before Friday, putting some in one pasture and some in another. The tornado blew all the cattle from both pastures into a spot nearly a mile away. They were found together in that one place–all dead of course. We forget sometimes that it wasn’t only humans affected by the storm.
I thought about everything I had seen and heard during my very brief time at the spot where the tornado crossed LBL. Then I tried to imagine the 225 continuous miles of that destruction. I couldn’t do it. There’s just too much. But I do know this: Just as we recovered from that awful ice storm we will recover from this. There will be scars on the land and scars on the people–both physically and mentally.
To this day I still get nervous if there’s any mention of ice in our forecast. And there are places I hike in LBL where downed trees from the ice storm remain. And now it will be so with tornado watches and warnings. They were always scary. Now they will be downright terrifying.
In time the trauma will pass. We will mourn our dead, rebuild as best we can, and prepare for the next storm.
I sat with Grandpa on the concrete porch steps, looking across the street toward the train tracks. A single track snaked through our little town bordering the Cumberland River; close enough that we could hear the rumble of an approaching train from a mile off. When it was but a few blocks away we saw dark smoke belching up above the tree line. In another minute the first of three engines thundered into view from behind the old barbecue joint. The very ground vibrated from it. We sat in silence, awed by its roaring power, and watched it pass.
After it was gone I turned to Grandpa and said, “Grandpa, how big was that train?”
Grandpa said, “You mean how many cars? I don’t know but you should just count them next time.”
“Grandpa, I can’t count that high.” Even though I was eight years old math had proved a struggle for me.
Grandpa just looked at me and smiled. There was no condemnation or surprise at my ignorance on his face. “Of course you can,” he said. “When the next train comes we’ll count them together.”
As it turned out another train didn’t come through for a couple of hours. By that time Grandpa had left, off to work on a bridge somewhere, or a tobacco field, or anywhere else he could find work. I had waited patiently for a while, but two hours is a long time for a young boy.
My attention turned to the wild ducklings we had rescued from the spring floods. They floated around in a foot tub and cheeped incessantly. I loved to pick them up and cuddle them against my face. We kept hoping the mother mallard would show up to claim them, so we left them near the water that spring. But she never came. The ducklings wouldn’t eat, so they died one by one. One day the tub was empty.
Grandpa came back a few days later, with Grandma in tow. She was there to help Mom with her laundry. Mom had her hands full with three young children, the youngest a toddler. She appreciated Grandma’s strong hands.
Grandma pulled the old Maytag wringer washer out onto the back porch and ran an extension cord to it. Then she added the clothes and hot water. When the clothes were clean she pulled the hose from the side of the machine and let the water run down our gravel driveway. This was the fun part for me. I would race ahead of the water and dam it up with rocks to watch it find its way around them and begin a new stream.
After the water was drained it was time to wring out the clothes. We were told to stand clear but my little brother was particularly hard-headed. He watched as shirts and underwear disappeared into one side of the wringer and emerged on the other. Apparently the temptation was just too great for him. As soon as Grandma’s back was turned he put his finger into the wringer.
What happened next was a lot of screaming and yelling and general mayhem. Grandma popped the release of the wringer and freed my brother’s arm, which to me looked as flat as cardboard. I thought for sure they would have to cut it off. But six-year-olds are resilient. Within a day or two his arm was almost as good as new, just a little sore and bruised.
After the arm-wringing incident, my brother was shuffled off to lie down and I was told to go somewhere and play. I joined Grandpa on the porch where he sat rolling a cigarette from a tin of Prince Albert tobacco. After a few minutes, we heard the stout horn of an approaching train.
“Can we count?” I looked up at Grandpa hopefully. He was licking the length of the cigarette and twisting its ends.
“You start,” he said. “Go as high as you can.”
When the train roared into view I began with the diesel engines. One, two, three. Easy enough. I could count to 20 with no problem. But after that I always got confused.
“Twenty…twenty…, what comes next Grandpa?”
“You start over,” said Grandpa, “until you get to thirty. Twenty and one, twenty and two, twenty and three. You know?”
Fortunately the train was moving slowly through town. I picked up right after twenty with the “twenty and one” just like Grandpa said.
“Now just don’t say the ‘and’ part. Just twenty-one. Not twenty AND one.”
“So, I dropped the and, which meant I was counting! 21, 22, 23. After that I only had to remember that 30 came next, then 40. Near the end of the train I reached 100.
“What comes after 100, Grandpa?”
“You start over. It’s one hundred and one. Then one hundred and two, just like that.”
And I did! What a revelation. Counting wasn’t so hard after all.
And that’s how I learned to count to 100 and above. It’s also how I came to know that the average train length going through the tiny town of Kuttawa, Kentucky in 1962 was 115 cars, including the engines and caboose.
For most of us the painful memories of January, 2009 are indelible. It was the worst weather catastrophe to hit our area (so far) in the 21st century. I won’t go into a long story here about what it was like. I’ll let my photos tell the story. Besides, most people in Western Kentucky have their own horror stories.
But I will just say this. It wasn’t just the inconvenience of not having power. Or not being able to charge a cell phone. Of having to boil water–or worse, not having any water at all.
It wasn’t just the fact that you had to drive to another county to get food, gasoline, or kerosene for heaters and lamps. It wasn’t the run on batteries, or putting up with relatives huddled on your couches. It wasn’t the fact that we had no power for 19 days (at least at our house), or had no hot showers.
It wasn’t even the canned food heated on a kerosene stove or an outdoor grill. Or the expense of buying a generator only to watch it blow up after an hour.
No, it wasn’t any of that when you get right down to it. It was this: People died. Animals died. And we lost–at one estimate–300,000 mature trees in Kentucky alone.
300,000 trees. It’s almost unbelievable. And yet, for those of us who will never, EVER forget the eery sound of trees breaking and crashing in the night, it’s entirely believable.
I recall my first hike in Land Between the Lakes after the ice storm. It was March. All the hiking and biking trails were covered with fallen trees and limbs. You couldn’t go more than a few feet without encountering a large tree knocked over in its prime. Most of them never recovered, of course. To this day you can see evidence all around of the devastation that was the Ice Storm of 2009. May we never have another.
Kentucky’s Historic Ice Storm Ten Year Anniversary – We lost so many trees
First up, the Kingstons. Grandpa and Grandma Kingston had 12 children. One of them was my dad, of course. I was fortunate to interact with all his brothers and sisters when I was growing up, some more than others. They were spread out from Kuttawa and Eddyville, to Louisville and Indianapolis. In later years some “came home” to Kuttawa, where I was fortunate enough to get to know them better, even though by then I was living in Virginia and only saw them during visits home. Beginning with the oldest, here are some memories. Pardon me if I get the birth order wrong, and forgive me also for including only the “blood” relatives. If I included all the aunts and uncles by marriage I would still be writing this.
Edna–The first of the 12 Kingston children, Edna was for me a beacon for what was possible. When I was just a child she showed an interest in me, always asking about my grades and complimenting me every chance she got. Edna is a person who likes to see all of her family and friends do well. Always attractively dressed, makeup and hair intact, she would chew gum and crack jokes. Edna loves to laugh. She had one of the first Ford Mustangs, which we kids gawked at in awe. When I was still a teen, Edna invited me to come to Louisville for a visit. I made the drive up and right away Edna wanted to take me to the mall and buy me some clothes. We went in one shop, but we couldn’t find a shirt with sleeves to fit my gangly long arms. Apparently Edna didn’t like the snooty look of the salesperson, for she looked at her and said, “We usually have all his clothes tailor-made.” And putting her arm around me she steered me away with a wink. She had my back and it felt good. The next summer Edna and I piled into my VW bug and drove to Clearwater, Florida, to visit some wealthy friends she had made during her successful real estate career. We spent days out on the Gulf of Mexico in their cruiser. What a fantastic time it was. We never had a harsh word or argument. On the way back through Georgia we stopped near Macon at a fruit stand. A little old black man wearing a straw hat was selling peaches. Edna asked him if the peaches were grown in Georgia, and I’ll never forget the way he looked at her and answered, “Yassum, these here peaches wuz raised in Gawja, they wuz picked in Gawja, and iffen you buy ’em they’s gonna be sold in Gawja.” We still laugh about that today. Edna began calling me “Wadie” when I was very young, and still does so today. Always cheerful, always fun, her arms and fingers covered in jewelry, Edna is one in a million.
J.B.–J.B. Kingston, whom Grandma often referred to as “Jake,” lived on a small farm down the road from us on Panther Creek. It was J.B. who hung a goat from a branch one 4th of July weekend, slitting its throat, which drained into a bucket below. That memory, plus another one of Grandpa Kingston and I herding a cow down to meet J.B.’s bull are two of my earliest (and pervasive) memories. From my youngest years I recall J.B. driving by our house on the way to church, which they seldom missed. Later that afternoon we would sometimes join him and his family for lunch at Grandma’s. Always shaved and smartly dressed, his hair slicked back and combed, he and Grandpa would talk farm as they ate. I remember J.B. as a good father and a decent man. He is missed.
Tony–Tony was a big guy with a thick head of dark hair and a beautiful smile. I saw him only at holidays during my younger years, then when I was a teen he moved back to Kuttawa, settling onto a small farm. Tony seemed to me to be an authoritative type of person–decisive, direct and business-minded. He bought and sold property all over and enjoyed doing it. He was living in the Orlando area when Edna and I visited him during our Clearwater vacation. I was impressed with his house and especially that he had a pool. In his later years I saw Tony far too seldom. I lived here and there, as did he, and our paths just didn’t cross. I’m sorry for that.
Ginny–I cannot recall my Aunt Ginny without immediately remembering her laugh. She was perhaps the most joyful of them all. She loved telling jokes almost as much as hearing one. Ginny was one of those “life of the party” types. You couldn’t help but enjoy yourself around her, but a more down-to-earth person never existed. She never put on airs, didn’t give a hoot about being fashionable, and in general believed in letting her hair down. Ginny was the type of person who, when you saw her pull in your driveway, immediately made your day better. Once she came down to our house and we got up a game of baseball. She got so excited when she got a hit and ran “the bases,” which were pieces of cardboard that slid dangerously underfoot on the grass. Another time we all piled in the car and went to Opryland and had a glorious time. I think it’s telling that I don’t have a single picture of Ginny when she didn’t have the biggest grin on her face. What a wonderful legacy to leave.
Holly Jane–Holly was perhaps the most glamorous woman I knew the entire time I was growing up. It is impossible to describe her appearance without using terms like “blue eye shadow,” “gold and silver lame,” “platinum bouffant hairdo,” “clanging bracelets, high heels and sunglasses.” When she breezed in, Hollywood was in the house. (Think Jayne Mansfield.) Like Ginny, Holly liked to cut up and have a good time, but was a bit more reserved. I always liked when the aunts and uncles visited from Indiana, especially Holly. The way she interacted with her brothers and sisters showed the love and closeness the family had growing up. It was always there with her. To her, family was so important.
Billy–Billy was to handsome what Holly was to glamorous. It’s just my opinion, but either one of them could have been in movies. Billy was blessed with the hair, skin, eyes, teeth, bone structure–you name it. I was envious as hell of his looks (still am). Billy also has lived here, there and everywhere. I can’t keep up with all his moves. Like Tony, he has bought and sold properties all over. In the early years Billy lived behind us on Panther Creek. Then he took the family and left. The cousins became acclimated to far-off places, so that I don’t see them anymore. But Billy is back in west Kentucky and loving it. He’s active. He and I like to talk gardening whenever we see each other. (He’s still handsome, too. Some guys have all the luck.)
Lena–Lena lived close enough to us that we saw a lot of her when I was growing up. Before we moved to Panther Creek we lived in “Old” Kuttawa. I remember when I was five and Lena visited at Christmas. I have this vivid mental image of her standing in our kitchen, with a Pepsi bottle in one hand, cigarette in another, laughing uproariously. My next memory is on Panther Creek, me sitting on the edge of a plant bed near her home. Lena showed me how to gently pull the tobacco seedlings out, so as not to break them. Then she put me on a setter and sat beside me, patiently showing me how to put the plants into the machine. Another jokester who liked to cut up, Lena loved being social. I wish I had a dollar for every game she has bowled in her life. When I was staying at Mom and Dad’s in the 90’s, she loved to visit on cold winter nights and play games. During the summer she always stopped to admire my landscaping efforts, on the way up the road to see her “grandbabies.” Mom has told me when she and Dad were struggling to make ends meet in Indianapolis, in the early years, of the times Lena was there to be with her and comfort her. I was just a baby then, and don’t remember, but my own memories of Lena are enough. One in a million? More like one in a billion.
Eddy–Eddy was another handsome Kingston boy. He was a young 20-something when he stayed with our family for a spell. Then he joined the army and we didn’t see much of him for years, though we did visit him in North Carolina. I recall how he sat for hours at a time on furlough, spit-shining those black boots until you could see yourself in them. With a buzz cut and perfect grooming, he could have been a G.I. poster boy. Eddie was a steady man, not given to extremes. I remember how he would help me with my homework in high school. Once we had an argument about the meaning of “bum steer.” (He was right, I was wrong.) Eddie bought a brand spanking new GTO, the reddest of reds with white leather interior, bucket seats, stick shift, just a dream car. The day he bought it he told me to get in and we flew around “the loop.” What a thrill. Eddy moved away to North Carolina and I visited him once on my way through the state. Other than that I didn’t seem him much before he passed. I hope I thanked him for helping me with my homework, and for that ride in the GTO.
Johnny–When I think of Johnny (Margie’s twin), my first thought is how much he loves kids. Even today it’s practically all he talks about. Whenever I see him he wants to tell me how well his are doing. When I was little Johnny was always eager to take me along wherever he went. I remember he had an old car with push-button gears. He and dad were going out with a flashlight, hunting possums or something. It was pitch black outside, but he said, “Come go with us, Wade.” So I got in the back and we hit some back roads and it was storming to beat all get out. We got on one old back road and was soon stuck in the mud. Johnny pushed the “reverse” button, then the “drive” button, then reverse, then drive, and rocked back and forth trying to get us out of the mud. In the end Dad had to get out and push until we got out of that hole. Johnny is one of those people who always knows you when he sees you and wants to catch up. When I picture him, to this day I see him in a blue uniform shirt with the white patch with his name on it, from the time he worked at the bread company in Paducah. I think of all her children, Johnny looked the most like Grandma.
Margie–When I was five I started first grade. Mom was pregnant and about to give birth to my sister, and Margie came to stay with us. She was still a teenager. She dressed me and fed me when Mom wasn’t up to it, and on that first day of school she did something else. I left school because it was hot and I couldn’t reach the water fountain. (Or so I said.) I came home and went directly into the kitchen, where we always kept a pitcher of cold water. I was standing in the door of the fridge when I heard Margie behind me. “What are you doing home! Don’t you know the whole school is calling here looking for you! Your momma can’t be upset right now!” And she picked up a stick and switched the back of my legs all the way back to school. We laughed about that for years. When we moved to Panther Creek Margie was staying at Grandma’s. Sometimes when I visited she would be sitting at her dressing table, makeup and perfume spread out. She had beautiful light brown hair and a petite figure. Sort of a young Jodie Foster. And fortunately for many of us, she inherited Grandma’s baking skills. Man, oh man. Most of my aunts (and uncles) are good cooks, but Margie never met a cake or pie she couldn’t master. Invariably, at holidays, if someone asked, “Who made this wonderful dessert?”, the answer would be “Margie.” Sweet, gentle Margie. I miss her.
Kinny–Kinny was the youngest of Grandma’s brood, and still living at home when we moved in near them on Panther Creek. Skinny, with blonde hair, my earliest memories are of him riding past our house on the tractor. He helped Grandpa with the tobacco, hay, corn or whatever else was growing. I moved away to Virginia in 1978. A couple of years later I got a phone call from Kinny. He had become a truck driver and was in Roanoke. Would I meet him for breakfast? He was sitting in a Waffle House less than a mile from me. I met him and we had breakfast together. He may have been lonely and missing home. I know it certainly meant a lot to me that he took the time to call and visit, the only aunt or uncle to ever do so. Kinny is another of the kids with a good sense of humor, which he is still blessed with.
And now, for Mom’s brothers and sisters, my Hammons aunts and uncles:
Maggie Hammons Ausenbaugh with little sister, Mary Lou
Maggie–Maggie was the eldest of Grandma Hammons’ children (Mom was the youngest). A deeply spiritual woman, Maggie was pastor of her own church for years. It was Maggie who drew us along with her to visit churches all over west Kentucky and southern Illinois. I remember visiting Maggie before she left Between the Rivers. She kept such a neat house, with shiny pine walls and little nick-knacks that would never survive our rowdy household. After she was forced to leave BTR she settled near “old” Eddyville, making a lovely home in a hollow that was like a little Eden to me. On the one side of a creek was her home, then you could walk across a wooden bridge to a small frame house under big shade trees. It was like something out of a fairy tale. She always had some kind of wild animal she had rescued, and there were ducks, chickens, or a goose or two, as well as other farm animals. She would sit for hours and help her husband string his trout lines, and could quote the gospel like no other. She had a Bible passage ready for any situation. Gentle, sweet, but fiery in her spiritual rhetoric, she had a tendency to make short, clipped, emphatic pronouncements when speaking. Maggie also had a vitality about her. When she had heart bypass surgery we visited her in a Nashville hospital. It was the day after surgery. Maggie was sitting up in the hospital bed asking when she could go home. Hearty stock. An amazing woman.
Louie–For all the years I knew him Louie lived with his family in Alton, Illinois. They visited us, we visited them. Louie was another of that generation who believed in good grooming. The man’s reddish-blonde hair was always in place; he was neatly shaved and smelling of cologne. His clothes were clean, pressed, and his shoes held an added surprise. He almost always carried a large amount of cash in them. Once he was visiting us and sent someone to the store to get something. I laughed when he took off a shoe and extracted a wad of 100-dollar bills. (Louie hid money in other places. After he died his family found several thousand dollars in an old, inoperable riding mower, in a shed back of their house.) It was always a pleasure when Louie visited because he would be driving the latest model of car. We would each get to take a ride in it and check it out. He was always asking us kids to come and stay the summer with them in St. Louis. One year I took him up on it, though I only spent a week. He was a kind and generous host. I was in the hospital room with Louie when he died, and that was a hard thing.
Louie Hammons
Dewie–I don’t remember Dewie, though Mom has a few photos of him. He drowned in Alabama while working on a barge in 1956. Some say he fell off, others insist he was pushed. We will never know. I tell the story in my book about my grandmothers, so I won’t retell it here. I know that his untimely passing grieved my grandparents for the rest of their lives.
Willie–Willie, with his thinning reddish hair, blue eyes and rakish sense of humor, was perhaps the most likable of all Mom’s brothers. Willie was lean, with whipcord muscles from chopping firewood. And I cannot to this day picture him without rolled up sleeves into which cigarettes had been tucked. He, like me, was a voracious reader. Whenever I visited him he would have stacks and stacks of paperback books (some of them risqué) and he would let me borrow them. It was through Willie (don’t tell Mom) that I first read about actual sex, though it was probably tame by today’s standards. He had a guitar, which he would strum and play, and he was pretty good at it, too. I could listen for hours. And when he wasn’t singing you could hear him whistling somewhere.
George–George was perhaps the most sensitive of Mom’s brothers. Though mostly upbeat, he could be moody at times. Like Willie, he also sang and played guitar, but he was a self-taught artist as well. He could sit and draw a deer or bunny for us kids, or anything else we asked for. He was the best gardener–with gigantic tomatoes. How he got anything to grow in those rocks of Pea Ridge I’ll never understand, but he drew forth squash, melons, and many other vegetables. He tended the chickens and always had a dog or two around. I always felt that had George gotten a better education he would have been very successful. He had that type of inquisitive mind and varied interests.
Willie Hammons holding Wade Kingston
Bedford–Bedford always went by his nickname, “Rabbit.” Rabbit was the brother nearest to Mom in age, so they grew up as the closest. In his later years he visited her often, driving some old jalopy with his little white terrier in the seat beside him. He was a small man who probably never weighed more than 120 pounds his entire life. Rabbit liked people but preferred living alone with his dog. He had a terrific sense of humor, and could be very funny. I still imitate the way he said “shit” when irritated, which came out like “shee-yut”. I can hear him say it as I write this. He loved us kids. I almost never called home what Mom didn’t say “Rabbit was asking about you.” He would even get angry and rail at any perceived slight or hardship we kids had endured. But in his heart, Rabbit was a gentle soul, much-loved by us all and sorely missed.
George Hammons in uniform
What a blessing to have had so many wonderful aunts and uncles. I love them all.
Knoth’s Amazing Barbecue Followed Me Around the South
It was always there. On the 4th of July, Memorial Day, family reunions—even Thanksgiving and Christmas. We had other food on those occasions, but a genuine hickory-smoked shoulder from Knoth’s was the prized chunk of goodness on the table. The one that made us go “ah.”
Pork Barbecue Sandwich
We eagerly gathered around when it was brought in—still wrapped in the white butcher’s paper—hot from the pit. We stood smiling with buns open on our plates. It’s no exaggeration to say we salivated as the paper was unwrapped, finally revealing the crusty brown skin and that Heavenly aroma.
Some wanted a fatty part, some wanted crispy crust, and some only lean. I wanted some of it all. I would grab the tongs and tear off a tender piece of moist pink, then stick some crispy skin and hot fatty parts on top. Drench it all over with half mild sauce and half hot. Mmm, unbeatable.
The following was taken from a tape my father, Russell Kingston, made for me several years ago. He shares some of his experiences growing up, as well as his time as a prisoner of war in North Korea. I would like to point out a couple of things up front: One, these are not all of his P.O.W. stories. Some are just too disturbing to include here. There are times I wish I hadn’t heard them myself. Two, Dad jumps around a lot in his telling. I could tell when listening to the tapes that he became emotional and had to switch back to the farm years, or something else more comforting. The words are his, just as he spoke them, with no changes.
I’m happy to add that, as of this writing, Dad is very much alive and doing well. –Wade Kingston
Young Russell Kingston with catfish
This is Russell Kingston. I’m gonna tell a few things of my life history. I was born 12/21/31 to John and Gola McKinney Kingston. I have lived on a farm all of my life, my childhood, and when I became a teenager I decided I would go in the army, which I did. I joined the army May 11, 1950, went to Ft. Knox, taken seven or eight or ten weeks training and I was sent home for 18 days delay in route. I went to Chicago, transferred from that train to another and went to Seattle, Washington and stayed there for a day or a day and a half, caught a plane and went to Tokyo, Japan. I spent one afternoon, one night and part of one morning in Tokyo. Caught a train and went to Sasebo (Nagasaki), Japan. From Sasebo I caught a ship which they said was Japan’s second-best ship and when I woke up the next morning I was in Pusan, South Korea and when we got off the ship, they told us to take a look at our enemy, which there were prisoners lined up on the railroad as far as you could see—North Koreans, so they issued us more ammunition and told us to go to our outfits. I asked them where was I going and they said “You are going to the First Cavalry, Eight Regiment, K Company,” and I said, “Where is it?” and they said “Somewhere between here and the 38th Parallel.” I said, “How will I get there?” And this officer said, “Well, soldier you have two feet don’t you?” I said, “Yes, sir.” And he said, “Well, use them.” Continue reading “Russell Kingston–From Farm Boy To Prisoner of War”
I would like to thank Helen Roulston. She has been a teacher, a mentor and an inspiration.
She has also been a terrific editor and a loyal friend.
Prologue
I grew up in rural western Kentucky of the 1950’s and 60’s. We didn’t have much money, but we had a lot of family. As a child I loved every member of our family, none more than my grandmothers.
I learned from my grandfathers by working beside them. From Grandpa Kingston I learned how to farm everything from corn to tobacco. And though I’m no Abe Lincoln, Grandpa Hammons taught me to swing an ax like I meant it. My grandfathers worked hard to provide for their families, and they had difficult years. We tried to be understanding when they were short-tempered. In truth, they could sometimes be grumpy old men.
My grandmothers were different. In many ways their lives were more difficult than their husbands.’ They shared all the hard work with the added burden of childbirth. But they still managed to be warm and loving women. Grandchildren were greeted with a smile and a hug; their persistent questions were patiently answered. Most of what I know of our family history and country life I learned from my grandmothers. Continue reading “Kentucky Wonders”
I remember 40 years ago today, though it began like any other.
It was a beautiful, sunny day in Murray, Kentucky, on May 27, 1977. I lived on Main Street, above Owen Food Market, one block from Murray State University. Just before noon I began a walk across campus. I had gotten as far as 15th and Olive when a new (and loud) Mustang Cobra pulled up alongside me. My good friend, Tilford Gaines, called out to me from behind the wheel. “Hey!”
I leaned down and saw Tilford’s excited face. “What’s up, Tilford?”
“I’ve been looking for you. Man, you have got to come with me right now!” he said, eyes gleaming.
“What for?” (I had learned to be wary of those Delta Sigs.)
“You’ll see. I promise, you will love it. You will thank me. Just get in the car.” I had rarely seen Tilford this worked up. And he wasn’t given to hyperbole, so I figured it must be something special. Plus, it wasn’t like my walk across an empty campus was all that exciting. With the college students gone MSU was a lonely spot. So, I agreed and folded my skinny, 6’4″ inch frame into the passenger side. Tilford took off down Olive Street like they were giving away free food somewhere.
What follows is an account of growing up on “Pea Ridge,” near “Old” Eddyville, Kentucky, by my mother, Mary Lou (Hammons) Kingston. The original town of Eddyville is gone now–a victim of the Army Corps of Engineers and the newly formed Lake Barkley in the 1960’s. Many refer to it now as “Old” Eddyville, though it is no longer there. The new town of Eddyville was created a few miles away, and natives still refer to it as “New” Eddyville.
How this story came about: In the 1970’s my grandmother (Mary Lou’s mother), Esther Hammons, asked me to record her life story. I got busy with this and that and didn’t do it, and I’ve always regretted it. But I was determined that I would get my own mother and father’s stories down while they were still willing to do so. And that I have done. I gave them a tape recorder and cassettes and let them record their memories at their leisure.
So, for Mother’s Day 2017 here is an account from a tape my mother (Mary Lou Hammons Kingston) made for me some years back. It recounts her early years on Pea Ridge. She was born in the heart of the Great Depression, and life was difficult. I did the best I could with spelling people’s names, but you can pretty much bet there are mistakes. The words and phrases are Mom’s. I edited only for clarity. –Wade
Mary Lou Hammons on Pea Ridge, about 1944
Growing Up on Pea Ridge and Old Eddyville
–by Mary Lou Hammons Kingston
“I was born on Pea Ridge, Kentucky, outside of Old Eddyville on the tenth month, the 26th day of 1935. My sister told me that it was a cold afternoon and daddy told her to take the five boys and go around to a uncle’s house and stay there until he come and got them. My sister said that she knew what was going on and she said that my mother really had a hard time and that the doctor got on to my dad and told him that there was to not be any more children, because I think momma almost died and she did have a sister that lived around the road that died from childbirth. And from there I can remember uhh…I remember one day some women coming to our house. I was real little. And they said …they told momma that they wanted to put me in the cradle row at church and momma said “okay” and I remember they fixed up some kind of paper. I think it’s some kind of certificate and it stayed over at the house for ever so long.
Then I remembered, uh, going to school…starting my first day of school and I remember uh…we’d always had outside toilets everywhere I went and the kinfolks and all and I remember going to school and I told the teacher I wanted to go to the bathroom and somebody told me where the bathroom was and there was all them porcelain potties and I didn’t know what they was for. So I came back out of the bathroom and when another girl went in about my size and I seen her scoot up on one and use it, well then I scooted up on one and used it. I knew what it was for then. (laughs) Continue reading “Growing Up on Pea Ridge and Old Eddyville”
It’s delicious! Snow ice cream is also fun to make–especially for the kiddies.
When I was very young, back in the 20th century, my grandma would make snow cream whenever we had a “big” snow, meaning one that was big enough to scoop up in her tin pan.
It’s easy to make:
Esther’s Snow Cream (Snow Ice Cream)
Ingredients:
1 dish pan of snow (about a gallon)
1 cup granulated sugar
2 cups milk (or evaporated milk like Granny used)
1 tablespoon of vanilla
Directions:
Gather the cleanest snow you can. (Watch out for the yellow snow!) It’s usually best to get it right after a heavy snowfall.
Stir in sugar, vanilla, and just enough milk until it’s the right consistency. Add a little at a time so you don’t end up with snow soup.
My love for Griswold cast iron cookware began about 30 years ago. For the longest time I had only the one 6″ skillet. Gradually, it dawned on me that of all my cookware, the Griswold skillet was the one I would grab again and again to cook with.
That first Griswold skillet was seasoned perfectly, so nothing stuck to it. And of course, no other cookware conducts heat as evenly as good cast iron. Whether cooking with gas or electric, I soon learned that all types of Griswold cast iron could be depended on for even cooking. And whether a batch of spaghetti sauce or a large Dutch oven of chili, sticking was never a problem.
Alas, the Griswold Manufacturing Company–an American manufacturer of cast iron home products founded in Erie, Pennsylvania–is no more. It began in 1865 and finally closed in 1957. The company had a world-wide reputation for its high-quality cast iron cookware, which today are collector’s items. A quick search on eBay shows that Griswold items, particular the more desirable or rare ones, can sell for hundreds of dollars each.
Searches at yard sales, flea markets, and such netted me a couple of nice Griswold pieces. But even at estate auctions, people know the value of it and will bid it up. (Unlike many formerly-owned cooking items, the well-seasoned cast iron that has been previously used is prized). It may be difficult to find additional pieces for a reasonable cost. Some say Wagner cast iron is just as good, but I have to disagree. Continue reading “Loving My Griswold Cast Iron Cookware”
My dad–Russell Kingston–was one of the longest-held prisoners of war during the Korean Conflict, which lasted from 1950 until 1953. The conflict (it was never a declared war) lasted for only three years, yet dad was a P.O.W. for 33 months. Dad has shared many stories of his time in the camp with me. As you can imagine, most of them were harrowing. Here is one of his many memories of that time in the North Korean camp.
“…In the meantime, while I was there (in the camp), I had malaria fever twice. I had my tonsils removed by the Chinese in a little makeshift hospital they had. I had one tooth pulled with no Novocain, and I won’t even say how many times I was forced labor, this, that, and the other, because I don’t even know whether people would believe that I done forced labor or not.
When I had malaria for the second time, they carried me up to this little ole Chinese building. They left me in there three or four days. Then they gave me a little shot in the arm, which was–I don’t know–probably sugar water or something like that, I don’t know.
To show you some of the hardships, uh, it was early spring and it was still kinda cool. Well, I got to feeling better and I got up and I walked outside and the sun was shining on the side of this building. So, I walked over to the side where the sun was shining, and when I walked over to the side of the building there was a G.I. standing there with no clothes on whatsoever. And I said, “Buddy, what’s wrong with you?” Continue reading “P.O.W. Stories – The One with the Nurse and the Two Needles”
Are you tired of the lettuce/tomato/salad dressing routine? You know you should eat healthy salads, but you are sick to death of the boring monotony of most concoctions?
Prepare to be amazed–to have your taste buds rocked. This simple summer salad will virtually explode with flavor in your mouth. I guarantee it.
Take advantage of summer’s bounty–and the awesomeness of fresh tomatoes. Not only delicious, salads of course have the added benefit of being good for you.
Give it a try. I know you’ll love it.
Below are the ingredients for one serving.
Ingredients
10 or 12 fresh cherry tomatoes. (or chunks of regular tomatoes)
1 thin slice of onion–broken into bite size pieces
2 tablespoons of aromatic cheese crumbles–(I prefer Maytag blue or Roquefort, but any blue cheese will suffice. DO NOT skip this ingredient).
1 clove of garlic, finely chopped
3 green olives, sliced
4 walnut halves, broken into small pieces
2 tablespoons of good, high quality olive oil (you can get by with 1 tablespoon)
salt and pepper to taste (easy on the salt as blue cheese and olives are salty)
Simply mix everything in a bowl and eat! Too delicious to describe. Honest.
I just returned from spending several weeks in Tampa, Florida. The weather was hot, of course. July and August are hot everywhere.
It was also extremely humid and stormy. Of the 48 days I was there, it stormed on 44 of them, sometimes several times in one day. With all that heat and humidity, of course you get some rather splendid tropical vegetation. Here are some of the photos I took.
I just returned from a long stay in Florida, where of course I had to try several versions of delightfully cool Key Lime Pie. Key limes are also known as Mexican or West Indian limes. If you can’t find them in your area, substitute bottled Key lime juice. This recipe is modified from the classic one found on many condensed milk and Key lime juice labels. There’s more lime juice in it!
Key Lime Pie Recipe
Makes 8 servings
For crust
1 1/4 cups graham cracker crumbs from 9 (2 1/4-inch by 4 3/4-inch) crackers
2 tablespoons sugar
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
For filling
1 (14-ounce) can sweetened condensed milk
4 large egg yolks
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons fresh or bottled Key lime juice
For topping
3/4 cup chilled heavy cream
Make crust:
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Stir together graham cracker crumbs, sugar, and butter in a bowl with a fork until combined well, then press mixture evenly onto bottom and up side of a 9-inch (4-cup) glass pie plate.
Bake crust in middle of oven 10 minutes and cool in pie plate on a rack. Leave oven on.
Make filling and bake pie:
Whisk together condensed milk and yolks in a bowl until combined well. Add juice and whisk until combined well (mixture will thicken slightly).
Pour filling into crust and bake in middle of oven 15 minutes. Cool pie completely on rack (filling will set as it cools), then chill, covered, at least 8 hours.
Make topping:
Just before serving, beat cream in a bowl with an electric mixer until it just holds stiff peaks. Serve pie topped with cream.
The miracle of you is that you shouldn’t even be here. Not if you consider the odds.
I had an excellent statistics teacher at Murray State University. A couple of them, in fact. One of the first things he did was show us the folly of playing the lottery. He patiently explained the basics of statistical mathematics so that we understood completely how small our chances of winning the big prize is. And how casinos use long odds to build massive amounts of wealth. As he put it, and as we all inherently know, “The house always wins.” And that’s true. The house always wins, even when it loses. (Because a huge payout inevitably garners publicity, which draws even more poor schmucks in to play the wheels of fortune.)
The odds of winning the lottery, or in Vegas, are usually calculated to be somewhere in the millions. Often it’s compared to the odds of getting struck by lightning. But consider this: the odds that you are alive here on this planet are so large as to be almost incalculable.
Let’s go back 250 years in our example. (The further back you go, the higher the odds that you would never have been born).
First, you have to consider the odds that one of your ancestors would survive, much less procreate. Then you have to figure out the odds that they would conceive of a child. (It’s one in several million for each try). Then the odds that their child would survive. Then you have to figure out the odds that their child would survive and procreate and the offspring live, etc. and on and on. All the way down to you, continuously, in an unbroken or uninterrupted line.
If you go back 10 generations (250 years) the chance of you being born at all is at most1 divided by 6 x 10100 or 1 in 6,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000.
I don’t even know what you call that number. Maybe bazinga-trillion? Whatever it is, the odds put your chance of being here at essentially ZERO. (Even lower as you go further back in time.)
I’m sure you have read all your life about how we are miracles of creation. This proves it.
If I had a time machine there are many places in the past I would like to visit.
According to scientists, time travel is theoretically possible, but only if we move forward in time, and only for very small increments.
Still, it’s fun to think about the places one could visit if traveling backwards was an option. Let’s play a game. Let’s assume we had a time machine and that we could travel backwards in time to any location and at any point in history.
The bottoms gets a nice, even brown crunch to them
Best homemade chocolate chip cookie
The insides are moist and chewy
I have finally made what I think is the best homemade chocolate chip cookie. At least for me.
If you follow this recipe, just be sure to read it all the way through first. It’s not all that complicated, but it isn’t the same as the one on the chocolate chip packages.
What I like most about them is that they aren’t fat and cake-like. They lie flat and stay kind of gooey inside–like the ones you can get in a roll.
Note the addition of Cream of Tartar. That will help give the cookies that wrinkled appearance on the top.
Also, nuts are optional, but I STRONGLY suggest you include them, particularly English walnuts.
