That stream was always frigid, even on the hottest days in July and August, but Matt and Tosha never seemed to mind that. To this day I chuckle when I remember the time Manly carried Jonathan across that stream, carefully moving from one rock to the next. A slippery rock caught him off-guard, sending them both into the icy water. Opal's cabin was much like those described in Christy.
The holes in the screens were an invitation to every fly that hovered over the chicken yard, and that chicken yard came right up to the entrance to her log house. In fact, it was not uncommon for the chickens and roosters to perch on the porch just outside the door, sometimes finding their way right into the cabin. We would bring food to prepare over a campfire or on our camp stove, but most of our meals we ate with Opal; she always insisted.
Opal had two stoves in her kitchen—a wood-burning one by the door as you came into the cabin and an electric stove at the other end of the room where she cooked. In all those years, I only saw Opal cook at one temperature: Her handmade biscuits and mud pudding will always be a part of our memories, as will the curly strips of flypaper that hung suspended over the table, only slightly above eye level, as we sat there eating. The tacky surfaces were usually already well covered with flies, half of them still buzzing, with maybe enough room left on the sticky surface for the flies that we had just shooed off our food.
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After dinner, we would wash the dishes in water that had been carried up from the spring and heated in big pans on the wood-burning stove. Being in her presence and hearing the stories of the past was purely fascinating. Opal wore her customary hat when we went hiking and was never without a walking stick.
Lori Fitzenberger
Sometimes it was a favorite stick that she grabbed as we left her cabin or, as we entered the forest, she might select one from the fallen tree limbs along the path. In the national forest, she pointed out the Christmas fern and explained how it got its name. She talked about arbutus and other plants and their uses. On one memorable hike, we walked down across the field towards where her grandparents had lived, and she instructed me in the art of naturally repelling insects as she carefully selected plants and stuck the ends of them under her hat.
Opal talked about the past and history breathed life as we walked about together in the cove. Back in the 30s and 40s, many of the young men in the community traveled to surrounding states, especially North and South Carolina, to work in the mills while others went north to work in the factories or coal mines. Many of them sent their paychecks back home to help support the family they left behind. We found evidence of this as we explored long-deserted cabins.
In one we found boxes of clothes, some of which had been torn open and flung about the floor along with other old papers and letters. Among the documents were pay stubs from cotton mills in the Carolinas. Sometimes we went exploring on our own, taking long walks over to the next ridge or taking the steep trail down through Morgan Gap to where the railroad tracks followed the twists and turns of the French Broad River. It was there, years before, that Opal's father had caught the train at the West Myers whistle stop to ride into Newport with crops to barter for needed supplies.
The three miles down to the river were always much less challenging than the same three-mile climb on the way back. She even made sure her handprint and initials were permanently placed in the wet cement chinking on the backside of the new log outhouse. We all loved going to church with Opal. Sometimes Opal would let Jonathan or Heather help ring the church bell.
It was understood in the small congregation that nobody rang the church bell except Opal. After she became very ill and no longer had the strength, even then they would always ask her permission before letting someone else ring the bell. We could tell that she was well loved and respected by everyone in the community.
Instead, the Lord sent Catherine Marshall to write the story of her mother Leonora and the mission school.
Letters to Lori Prologue
Catherine started researching and writing Christy probably around the mids. In , she came with her mother and father to visit the mission. All the old church and school records Opal had saved fascinated Catherine.
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Some of these documents included bartering transactions between the families and the mission to pay the school's tuition. These were only some of the treasures consumed when the mission house burned. Wilford Metcalf and others in the community also furnished Catherine with information about the area. Opal later met and became friends with Catherine's sister and they corresponded. Opal let me read some of her letters. Opal treasured the book Christy , but far more than the fiction of Christy , she loved the true story of the mission.
In her copy of the book, on the pages listing the characters, Opal wrote the name of each local person she believed that character represented. She had made additional comments on other pages of her book, which I also copied. It was one of her greatest hopes that one day the book Christy would be made into a movie. That hope was most likely sparked, over the years, by visits from movie producers, photographers, and location managers who came to look over the cove where the story had taken place.
Some spent hours talking with Opal, and the photographers took numerous pictures of the area, Opal, and her grandsons.
Each year, as Opal got older, she talked more and more about having her family history written. She was concerned that the past would be forgotten, and the family and local history would become distorted. It was essential to Opal that her granddaughter Lori have an accurate copy of this history, and that she, in turn, would pass on to her children the stories and strong heritage of their ancestors. Even though I knew she wanted me to write her family history, I didn't volunteer to do so.
I felt much too inadequate to take on such a task.
Letters to Lori Archives - Making a Difference
After all, there were hundreds of people who had searched for and found the mission, as we had. Ronald Dearmin rated it did not like it Dec 07, Dana rated it really liked it Dec 25, Cherri Simon rated it really liked it Jan 09, Rita Powers rated it really liked it Feb 13, RaShell marked it as to-read Apr 03, Carman marked it as to-read Nov 07, Timber marked it as to-read Feb 15, Clare Marie marked it as to-read May 02, Anndee is currently reading it Jun 06, Heather marked it as to-read Jun 11, Hillary Mangrum added it Oct 15, Diane Perkins is currently reading it Jan 26, Kathryn is currently reading it Mar 07, Becky Slocum is currently reading it Mar 15, Darlene Paulson is currently reading it Mar 17, Carole Turner added it Jul 22, Kristina is currently reading it Nov 05, Melissa Jones is currently reading it Nov 10, I had a letter from her Monday.
She never mentioned your name this time. I have reveived this last week eighteen letters and post-cards. They have eight boarders now, and there is one dear old lady here. I guess she likes me pretty well for she has given me a nice white tie and forty-eight post cards. She thought perhaps I would like to send them away. Everyone is so good to me. Spear, our home doctor was out to see me Thursday and he told me first as soon as I could climb the mountain I could go home. If you go up the mountain again this summer and come down on this side you had better come while I am here.
You know better than to ask me if I ever thought of you now. I could not forget you. What do you suppose I think of nights where I go to bed and look into the heavens at the stars? Are my thoughts of you or some one else?
Letters to Charlie #12
You might be surprised if you knew how many times a day I took you for a walk. I am building air castles all the time. Someday I expect they will fall. Really Charlie I took your letters and post-cards with me. About every thing else I have is in Woodsville. What would I do without your picture? Am glad you get along alright with Mrs E.