Peevish Pen

Ruminations on reading, writing, rural living, retirement, aging—and sometimes cats. And maybe a border collie or other critters.

© 2006-2018 All rights reserved

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Location: Rural Virginia, United States

I'm an elderly retired teacher who writes. Among my books are Ferradiddledumday (Appalachian version of the Rumpelstiltskin story), Stuck (middle grade paranormal novel), Patches on the Same Quilt (novel set in Franklin County, VA), Them That Go (an Appalachian novel), and several Kindle ebooks.

Saturday, December 09, 2017

Early Snow Pt. 2

The snow continued on and off all night. When I took Maggie out at 7 on Saturday morning, our world looked like this:

The front sidewalk was at least clear.  But the snow was deeper than last night—and it was still snowing.

The road looked clear, too.

Could a gimpy old woman and her elderly border collie be able to golf-cart out to feed the barn-cats? The driveway was clear, so we could go down it to the road if we had to.

Chloe was able to go out on cat-patrol. If a small cat could do her chores, maybe Maggie and I could do ours.

Having a basic grasp of physics ("Stuff slides down hill"), I figured I could go around the front of the house and turn down the hill in the side yard. This is how it looked when we were at the top of the hill (picture of snow on dogwood limbs taken while Maggie made a comfort stop): 

We carted past the dogwood and the big maple. The going down was pretty easy. Twiggy, Spotz, and Sherman were waiting for us, and they were soon fed. (Skippy had already been to the house to eat; Wilbur was no doubt holed up somewhere.)

While I fed and watered the cats, Maggie guarded the golf-cart and looked back at the way we'd come.

We left tracks from the big maple on down.

We proceeded toward the road, so we could get the newspaper before we went in. It was clear to the right . . 

. . . and to the left. The paperbox is to the left at the top of the road. No traffic was in sight, so we started up the road.

The snow hung heavy on the pasture fence across the road.

Hard to believe that a railroad—the old F&P—used to pass in front of the old Novelty depot across from my mailbox.

After getting the paper, we started up the driveway for home.

The snow-covered crape myrtles that I planted years ago provided a photo op.

So did the big oak tree.

I think Maggie was impatient because I was stopping so often. Taking pictures isn't part of our daily routine.

So, having accomplished what we set out to do, we headed for home.

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Friday, December 08, 2017

Early Snow

Snow was predicted to start this afternoon, but it started this morning. At first it was barely visible.

Then things picked up considerably. Here's the view around 1 PM when Maggie and golf-carted out to get the mail.

From the garage looking toward the mailbox.

Looking toward the pasture across the road.

A snow-covered Maggie.

Looking toward the house on our wa back.

Yes, there's a cat in the picture. Chloe likes snow.

Scraper blade attached to the tractor and ready to go.
It's supposed to snow throughout the night, so we'll likely end up with a lot more snow than you see here.

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Sunday, December 03, 2017

Another Martin Mystery

Who is Bessie Martin?

For the past few years, I've been trying to fill in the gaps in my Martin genealogy. I've blogged before about my Martin mysteries: in "Martin Mystery" ,I wondered who my great-great grandmother was: and in "Martin Mystery II", I shared what I'd discovered about Elizabeth Webb Martin, the third wife of John Reid Martin..

Meanwhile I'd been wondering about Elizabeth's daughter—my great-grandmother, I knew Mariah Lousia Martin, born in 1854 and the second wife of Henry Silas Smith, had died in 1913 at the Snith homeplace in Union Hall. I knew, from census records that she went by her nickname, Lula. I'd visited her grave several years ago and had a photo of her broken tombstone, but I had no pictures of her. 

Did any pictures of her exist? I found her death certificate on the Internet, but no pictures. She was 58 when she died of cancer. It's interesting that her husband's name on the certificate is his nickname, "Shuge."

I'd given up hope of finding a picture when a first cousin once-removed showed me the only picture of Lula that existed. She'd gotten it from her grandmother, who was Lula's grand-daughter. 

I recognize where the picture was taken—the porch of the old Smith homestead. Some pictures of the old homestead are in this 2010 blog-post: "Smith Sleuthing,", and some of the late Ralph Porterfields's memories of the place in the 1940s are in "Going Home to the Farm," Ralph was Lula's great-grandson. 

But another Martin mystery has arisen. In the same box as Lula's picture was a photo of a Bessie Martin. The photo was taken by F. H. Brown at the Danville Art Gallery in Danville, Virginia. An ad for the business appears in the April 21, 1893, issue of the Reidsville Review in Reidsville, NC and again in May 19, 1893: "Danville Art Gallery No. 236 Main Street is the Place to get your Pictures taken Before going elsewhere. . . ." Besides Brown, there were at least two other photographers, W.E. Eutsler and a man whose last name is Blunt. (At one time, an Internet site had late 1800s-1900 photos by them and others for sale.)

Who is Bessie Martin? Did she live in Danville or just go there to have her picture taken? How is she connected to my branch of the Martin family? to Lula Martin? Is Martin her maiden name or married name? 

So many questions. . . . 

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Monday, November 13, 2017

Understood Betsy

Recently I read Dorothy Canfield Fisher's novel, Understood Betsy, originally published by Century Books in 1916 and by Henry Holt & Company in 1917. Several free versions are available online.

One e-edition, posted online in various forms, is here: . Another edition is here: downloaded a digitized version from Google Books into my Google Play app on my iPad:

While the book was written for children, adults will also enjoy it. I did. It's a wonderful look back to a simpler time, and is rich in details of everyday life of a century ago.

The plot: Nine-year-old Elizabeth Ann, orphaned as a baby, has spent her life with her Great-Aunt Harriet and her Aunt Frances (Harriet's daughter) in a city somewhere in the Mid-West. When they took her in, they were glad that Elizabeth Ann's other relatives, The Putneys in Vermont, didn't get her. They didn't like the Putneys at all.

Chapter 1 shows their dedication to Elizabeth Ann:
There was certainly neither coldness nor hardness in the way Aunt Harriet and Aunt Frances treated Elizabeth Ann. They had really given themselves up to the new responsibility; especially Aunt Frances, who was very conscientious about everything. As soon as the baby came there to live, Aunt Frances stopped reading novels and magazines, and re-read one book after another which told her how to bring up children. And she joined a Mothers' Club which met once a week. And she took a correspondence course in mothercraft from a school in Chicago which teaches that business by mail. So you can see that by the time Elizabeth Ann was nine years old Aunt Frances must have known all that anybody can know about how to bring up children. And Elizabeth Ann got the benefit of it all.

She and her Aunt Frances were simply inseparable. Aunt Frances shared in all Elizabeth Ann's doings and even in all her thoughts. She was especially anxious to share all the little girl's thoughts, because she felt that the trouble with most children is that they are not understood, and she was determined that she would thoroughly understand Elizabeth Ann down to the bottom of her little mind. Aunt Frances (down in the bottom of her own mind) thought that her mother had never really understood her, and she meant to do better by Elizabeth Ann. She also loved the little girl with all her heart, and longed, above everything in the world, to protect her from all harm and to keep her happy and strong and well.

Aunt Frances did everything for Elizabeth Ann—dressing her, combing her hair, walking her to school and back, etc. Elizabeth Ann didn't even have to think for herself; Aunt Frances took care of that for the "sensitive, nervous little girl." When Harriet developes a serious cough, the doctor recommends treatment and Elizabeth Ann must stay with her Putney relatives for a while. It will, she's assured, only be temporary. A family friend accompanies her partway by train. When Elizabeth Ann arrives, her Uncle Henry meets her in a horse and buggy—and promptly hands her the reins. She's puzzzled at first, but soome figures things out. When she arrives at Uncle Henry and Aunt Abigail's house, she finds that she has to do a lot of things for herself—and her relatives call her Betsy, not Elizabeth Ann. What Betsy learns over the course of the year changes her considerably. And therein lies the story.

I loved the author's voice. While there's a lot more telling than there is showing, the author is a wonderfully intrusive narrator, commenting on things that—well—need commenting upon. Plus she does an admirable job of letting her readers see how different life was a century ago.

Dorothy Canfield Fisher is an interesting character in her own right. Biographical information about her is here: and here: The Dorothy Canfield Fisher Book Award honors excellence in children's literature.

Recently, however, there was a movement to get rid of the book award because of Dorothy Canfield Fisher's past involvement in the eugenics movement—"Author under scrutiny for long ago ties to eugenics"  provides some background.

From Molly Walsh's June 2017 article, "Vermont Considers Dumping Dorothy Canfield Fisher Over Ties to Eugenics Movement": "It's appropriate to revisit history and reexamine the lessons it might teach through a contemporary lens, said State Librarian Scott Murphy, who has the final say on whether to remove Fisher's name. But he said it's also important to view things in context and take a measured approach when it comes to removing honors in response to changing attitudes and understanding."

Many came to her defense: "Institutions, relatives, respond to Dorothy Canfield Fisher controversy
In his July 2017 Times-Argus commentary,"Don't scapegoat Fisher," Richard Gower defends her:
"That was then, and this is now. You can’t change history. You can only hope to learn from it. And, arguably, society has learned from many mistakes of the past and advanced because of them."

What needs to be understood about both the book and the controversy:
Re-examine the lessons of history from a contemporary lens.
You can't change history.
View things in context. 


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Monday, November 06, 2017

Asplundh Destruction

Lately AEP, the power company, has had Asplundh destroying trees along its right-of-way. Wherever there's a power line, the trees are not safe. This morning, Asplundh came to our road to do their destruction.

I heard them before I saw them. The noise was deafening. They were clearing part of the cow pasture across the road where the power line cuts through. You can see the pole to the left in the picture below.

There's a line of pines and cedars along the cow pasture, parallel to the fence. These evergreens provide both shade and a windbreak for the cows. But some, alas, are under the power line. Most of the trees are well below the line, they're just under it.

Asplundh isn't noted for doing a neat—or environmentally responsible—job. They just cut willy-nilly. It was bad enough when they only used chainsaws. Now they use a sawon the end of a long pole mounted to a truck.

First they sawed out the tree-tops which fell to the ground. Some fell on the fence, which wasn't in very good shape to begin with.

Later, they took chainsaws and leveled off the rest. They threw a lot of the trimmings into the pasture. Now the line of evergreens is gone. Note that you don't see any power lines over what they cut.

Then the big pole saw went back to do more damage. You never know when those trees will take a growth spurt and tangle themselves in the line that you can't see below because it's way over in the pasture.

I wonder if they'll go into the pasture to cut. There's a really big bull in residence who's protective of his territory. The photo below shows one place where the fence as down. The Asplundh crew went off to lunch without putting it back up.

A border collie inspects the damage.

Not a thing of beauty anymore.

A view from my deck of the machines of destruction.

A view from my deck a couple of months ago—when the trees along the pasture were green and beautiful. And still there.

Update: After lunch they returned and, er. cleaned up. We figured they'd chip up all the trimmings and haul them off. Hope—they just dumped them into the cow pasture. In a few weeks, this brushpile will be nice and dry. One cigarette flipped from a truck window, and—well you can figure what might happen.

They snapped a fence post and the wire was down. How did they fix it?

Here's how:

They propped up the snapped post with a piece of cedar they'd trimmed. Then they affixed the prop to a stump and the snapped post with barbed wire.

Notice that they left some barbed wire strands hanging loose. Surely their repair is good enough to contain the 1,500-pound bull that lives in the pasture.

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