My upmost apologies for not
sticking to the schedule created at the start of this blog. Due to the sudden
death of my grandfather, my attention has had to be elsewhere. Regardless,
during my absence, I have not stopped planning new articles and topics. This
one struck me the day I drove to the hospice house to see my granddad. I drove
past many of the places he took me as a child. One that will forever remain
infamous is The Allison Tree. It was a local produce and garden shop nestled on
one of those back roads I had always thought was our secret. Besides sharing
the same name, the shop had some macabre history. The store is built on the
site where the old town hanging tree used to be. Criminals were taken directly
from the jailhouse only two miles away to carry out their verdict. Even the
logo displayed the iconic tree with a noose and horse. It was here my granddad
instilled my love of old fashioned and local. I heard stories of one-room schoolhouses,
hog farms, and old Appalachian ghost stories.
“Back in my day,” as he would
begin every story, it was custom to see sides of meat and bacon hanging from
the ceiling, and shelves of tin cans containing lard so big my seven-year-old
self could not carry. Dried beans were kept in half –sized wooden barrels.
Everything you wanted to buy would be by the pound. My favorite of all of the
tasty morsels was the hoop cheese. Yes readers, Appalachian hoop cheese. Also
known as farmer’s cheese, only the left over dairy milk is used. Salt and cream
is left out during the process. If you were lucky, you would have two types to
choose from. The red kind or black kind, in reference to what color wax casing
the cheese had. The red kind, which was my favorite, had been aged longer than
the cheese in the black rind. Traditionally, you would see the huge wheel or
hoop of cheese on display on the counter beside the butchers block. With exact precision,
the clerk could cut whatever amount you desired to the ounce. I believe I only
witnessed this practice two or three times before health regulations required better
storage. Now you can find chunks of the cheese individually vacuum packed. Not
as impressive, in my opinion.
The second item on our shopping
list was ground cherries. These dainty fruits date back in the Americas during
the time of the Puritans. (If you insist on calling them pilgrims, fine. Just
keep in mind they were Puritans who just happened to make a pilgrimage and
founded the Plymouth Colonies.) The fruit bares multiple names such cape
gooseberries and Inca berries. They are part of the nightshade family like
tomatoes and tomatillos. Once you peel back the husk leaf exterior, a cherry
sized fruit remains and is immediately ready for eating.
Wait…did I say nightshade family?
Yes, yes I did. Although the
fruit and its cousins are related to the same family as Deadly Nightshade, they
are perfectly acceptable for eating. Do not attempt to eat the stems, stalks,
or leaves as they can make you sick.
But I digress. Being the complex
thinker my granddad was, after buying two or three baskets of ground cherries,
he set to growing them in his garden. Once we had harvested and dried the seeds
we had our own growing by the next spring.
Memories like this help ease that
troublesome transition of grief. It’s almost impossible to cry when I have so
many memories to smile about. Deep in my soul I am thankful for having the
opportunity to call this man my grandfather. His words, stories, and lessons
will forever be a part of who I am and what I strive for to build my future. My
lesson for you today is your own history is never that far away. I fervently
suggest you go ask your grandparents about some of these things. They have stories
that do not need to be lost.
"Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees."
~Thomas Johnathon Jackson
And as always …eat your history.
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