A long time ago a group of mountain folks left North Georgia to work in a cotton mill in Atlanta.  They took their crafts, remedies, recipes and customs with them.  Joyce Brookshire’s song writing help sustain hearts that yearned for home.

"I Crave Your Protection"

North Georgia Mountains by Joyce Brookshire

“Tomorrow I’ll be back home in my Georgia.   Where the wild dogwood trees, their beauty unfold.  I’ve missed it so bad, in my heart there’s a yearning for the simple existence that I used to know.   

"Beauty Unfolds"

North Georgia Mountains, I crave your protection, from a world that’s gone mad with power and greed. Let me live in your valleys surrounded by forests and give of your quiet for the rest that I need.

Tomorrow I’ll be back home in my Georgia, where the faces I’ll see are ones I have known.  And the voices I hear will all be familiar. A sound sweet as music to one who’s come home.

Tomorrow I’ll be back home in my Georgia. I’ll breathe the fresh air by the cool mountain stream.  In the land of my youth, I’ll seek my redemption, for a past of indifference and a wasting of dreams.”…. Joyce Brookshire. ( Her music is available on Amazon)

 ”I swapped a double barrelled shotgun last used in a wife ‘r death wedding for this, but I’d not trade a good plow mule for a field full of tractors.  They pack down more than’s turned.”…Mr. Ellis

Hear Barbara Taylor Woodall on WPPR-FM

Candice Felice interviewed It’s Not My Mountain Anymore author Barbara Taylor Woodall for the October 11. 2011 edition of “Community Life in Northeast Georgia” on WPPR-FM 88.3 in Demorest, Georgia. You can enjoy this insightful conversation by clicking on the link below.

Barbara Woodall on WPPR Oct 11 2011

 Appalachians share a common love for the mountains.  Virginia Watts said, “The mountains give me a sense of protection from city distractions. I experience a moving awe in my soul here. A purer atmosphere and the wonderful people are the secret of the mountains. They contribute greatly to my life and security. I can depend on them to embrace me, understand me, lend helping hands, or just leave me alone to be who I am.

Our ancestors once owned thousands of mountainous acres. Over the years the land was divided and sold to outsiders who put chains or gates across the property. Now, my generation owns very small parcels of ancestral land. Few mountain families have enough land to divide equally anymore among children and grandchildren. They have a greater challenge to go to college and earn land here if this is where they chose to stay.  But, wherever younger generations put down roots, the God of the mountain lives within hearts all over the world. My hope is that they build on values we were taught and try to live by.

I cherish memories. When I was no older than six, Mother allowed me to hold a small paring knife on lazy summer evenings as the entire family gathered around tubs of soft golden peaches that would become winter desserts. As ripened peach slices collected in kitchen bowls, rich conversation planted orchards inside our minds like the soft velvet on each peach.

I hope the mountains themselves remain without more houses poked into their bleeding sides. I hope the younger generation can roam trails soaked in inspiration as time marches on.”

Snowfall created and vast  fun park for my brother, Ernest and me. He is two years older and like a burr under a horse saddle.  Mama said, “Poison ivy will never bother that boy. I do declare he sugars his oatmeal with gun powder every morning”  Demons seemed to dance in his brown eyes underneath a home crew-cut (hair-cut). A twisted hickory switch stayed within arm’s reach, but had little effect.  Mama whipped Ernest like “pattin” for a dance.  He had A.D.H.D..XYZ…plumb off the page, squirming like a maggot in hot ashes unable to be still.

One cold winter afternoon Mama began to discern weather signs. The chimney smoke settled close to the ground and the fire was making ”trompin” sounds like boots swishing deep snow. Raising a cup of water to her mouth, she said,  “I can taste snow in th’ spring water. The stock was laying down this morning around the barn. Yes sir, a doozy of a snowstorm is a’comin’.   If we can’t make it to the outhouse, we’ll just have to pee in the gun barrel and shoot it out the window.”   We laughed as clouds gathered and excitement swelled.  Sure enough that night, large snowflakes descended from heaven, covering our world with blankets of white purity.  It settled on every branch, twig, and limb.  Small noses withdrew from windowpanes in morning’s light to go gather  snow from locust fence posts.  We hoped Mama would make us delicious snow cream from the wells high  above the earth.  What excitement to chase snowflakes!  I could feel the whiteness of nature’s breath as we caught flakes on the palm of our hands and tongue.

After a few rounds of snowball fights and a couple of snow angels, a glimpse of something pink caught my attention.

I drew near to investigate. To my horror, my only baby doll, “Nancy Louise”, the one Santa brought just a month ago was lying face down in the cold snow and NAKED! Quiekly, I grabbed the doll by bare feet. Her soft hair was now a crew cut! A full, black beard and mustache were drawn with a fire coal on her rosy face, I guess that was the first sex change to come to the mountains!

Ernest took refuge in the house, watching and snickering from the frosted window as he warmed by the fire.  I entered the house flinging kindling corncobs from the porch at him.  Ernest just laughed making bad matters worse.  He said, “I hope she gets sick and dies!”  In a fury I lunged into him, shoving him backwards, seating him squarely down on the blazing back stick in the fireplace.  Sudden sounds of straight chairs crashed to the floor vibrated through the room as Dad and Sister Betty pulled Ernest to safety.  Smoke from blazing britches filled the house. Luckily, he was wearing long johns and was not injured. Once the fire was extinguished on my brother, Dad started one on me.

  The barn was a mainstay on mountain homesteads, housing more than tools and feed.  A multitude of memories rests on old gray boards.  One rainy day my brother and I climbed the wall ladder looking for hen nests, but a fodder fight was more tempting in the barn loft.  Fodder was winter feed for our animals. After Dad discovered the damage, he went to the creek bank to break a red alder switch to lay lash.

Another time, we used his huge black umbrella as a parachute. Needless to say we broke it and crashed into soft hay bales.  Mama was always in the shadows during correction times. I could hear her say,  “All right Jim, that’s enough.  ‘Th next lick will be mine.”

Below the barn loft was a gear room consisting of harnesses and trace chains, buckles and cinches and eyes, bridles and bits. It was also a place to doctor sick or hurt animals and a refuge to doze while fresh rain drummed a rusty tin roof. I think God smells like fresh rain.