Monkeys before Bird Nests

Let's be perfectly clear about the obvious first; I have not (to date) been a crafty person in my adult life. In fact, I have been quite critical of those who have the need to own a glue gun and gleefully use it. Today, I'm surrendering to the power of the Internet and sites that encourage such madness. I am offering up my apologies to my friend Leigh Anne because I've called her a "closet crafter" for years. I have become crafty and committed to only one form of design, but I believe I'm genetically inclined to be that way.

Considering we lived no where near Georgia, I still find myself amazed what my papaw Steve could do with a pocket knife and a peach seed. For the moment, focus on the knife and not so much the seed.

It is from his hard working hands that I think I've developed my enjoyment of cobbling out a bronze nest of turquoise eggs. Did you know my papaw Steve? Well, kick back and let me just tell you about the plum peculiar hobby of my favorite person to ever buy me a Clancy's cheeseburger. Look at our photograph. See my face? That's what pure joy looks like.

My mom's dad, Steve Turner, was a whittler by nature. He could carve fishing bait, clothes pins, and walking canes out of a stout yet cooperative piece of cedar. It is important to note he was not a public whittler, nor did he socialize and whittle. He once told me that when men whittled in a group, politics or God were bound to come up in conversation, and someone might get stuck. You need to note that "stuck" meant "stabbed." He said it just made more sense to whittle in the privacy of his own back yard, and if he got to thinkin' about politics or God, he'd just talk to the dog....or God himself. He'd start out the day whittling into the dew covered grass at his back patio swing, and by supper time, Spiffy (collie) would be lying in a fresh bed of cedar shavings right at my papaw's feet. That patio, my papaw, and the dog smelled like they had wollered in Pine Sol every night, and every morning during pretty weather, they'd go through the same process again but not on Sundays.

Papaw Steve taught me everything a girl needed to know about tools whether they be sharp or not. He taught me early that if I opened a pocket knife, I had to be the one to close it or bad luck would come. If I handed someone an open knife, I had to hold the blade and hand them the handle. Doing so prevented me from handing my knife to someone I didn't trust because they'd "stick me" and run off with my good knife. I know all the Case brand codes at the base of the blades and how to read the dots and X's. I know to clean a knife blade with oil and never water. I know that knives to be used with fishin' are supposed to be inexpensive because even the expensive ones don't float and they will end up wet one way or another. Water and knife blades don't mix well. Trust me; I know my knives.

When I got old enough to notice he had quit whittlin' on just cedar, I realized he was carving peach seeds. I never even remembered him being a big fan of eating peaches. Best I can figure, my WoWo must have made a lot of cobbler because my papaw carved every drop of the Georgia out of hundreds of peach seeds in my lifetime. His design was not the same as J. Fred Muggs from the Today Show. J. Fred Muggs was a monkey that looked a little like Curious George. My papaw's monkeys didn't look like J. Fred or Curious George. In fact, I never really thought they looked much like monkeys at all. I don't know if he ate all those peaches either. I just can't imagine him being patient enough to eat all those peaches, and I know he sure wouldn't have wasted them. My poor WoWo must have canned enough peaches to feed all of the the junction once he started this monkey business.

His intention was for folks to look at the monkey from the side. When you gazed upon the clear coated, freshly carved peach seed, you were supposed to see the profile of a humped up monkey. Its head was facing straight ahead, and its tail was wrapped under its hind quarters. Its arms were bent to the sides, and sometimes its facial features were emotional expressions. Some monkeys smiled. Some didn't. I stared at those monkeys for years, and I never saw the monkey. I saw a delicately carved peach seed, but I just never saw the monkey.

As his passion for monkey carving became more time consuming, my papaw started getting quite a barrel of little monkeys. He'd have piles of them, and after a while, the monkeys started making the trips "to town." [Do kids go "to town" anymore? Just wondering.] Papaw would load up his pockets with the usual contents: watch, knife, change purse, wallet, and a hand full of monkeys. He'd go to town to pay the light bill, pay taxes, or see Dr. Moore. At every stop, someone employed by the designated business was given a monkey, and one person even dipped her monkey in gold. Really. 14 karat gold!

Before too long, those monkeys started showing up all over Middlesboro. Dr. Moore had several. Trent Walters had a couple. Sheila Silcox from Engle's Market had one. Mamaw Gulley had a few. The list went on and on. The list of those who were given a monkey spoke volumes about my papaw's appreciation for not just character but being a character, too. He gave me several...some were even glued to cedar blocks to make them pieces of art that were free standing. There's a monkey on a log that sits right above my mom's piano right now. For the life of me, I can't tell it's a monkey.

And, now, I've reached the age where I have found my own form of whittlin', and I'm afraid folks can't tell what I'm making either.

My WoWo (Mom's mom) loved blue birds. She had several little trinkets around the house that portrayed blue birds as plump, innocent creatures of nature. You and I both know that true blue birds, or blue jays, are mean as dang it and have no mercy on any of God's creatures. There was one framed picture displayed in her kitchen that summarized her love of all blue birds. She had a photo of three little blue birds all on a branch and claimed that each blue bird represented my cousins and me...together we make three. Thank God that's still present tense.

My mother is, as a result of my WoWo's adoration for blue birds, very sentimental about blue birds. Mom is in denial that the blue jays are wicked, mean, and nasty, too. For Christmas, I tried to find Mom some sort of blue bird gift, and I didn't find a blue bird, but I found blue eggs in a bird nest. The necklace cost a fortune, and the more I looked at it, the more I thought, "I could do that cheaper." I'm one of these dangerous people who knows a little bit about a lot of stuff. I had spent enough time in a barn and in a pawn shop to know how to cobble up that nest of blue eggs on a string for Mom. I began digging through the Internet to find materials, and it didn't take me too long to find what I determined to be - maybe - appropriate.

After my dear friend, Mr. UPS, stopped by for a visit, I dug through what's left of my little tool box my dad gave me after I moved to Tazewell, and I found pliers and clippers and other necessary items for jewelry making. I nearly used up the entire spool of bronze, but after several hours of "whittlin'" I finally made one wad of wire that looked a little bit like a nest and in the center I had wrestled in one egg. I was exhausted. 'Tis pathetic yet true...worn smooth out. Every time I wiggled a wire, a darn cat would jump at it like being burst from a rocket. I had to lock myself in the bedroom to finish the work, and now the nests are made but the stupid cats have almost dug up what's left of this pitiful carpet trying to get to that wiggling wire. To create art requires sacrifice; I suppose! Now, that's funny; I don't care who you are.

Easter has come and gone and Mother's Day is approaching, and folks have decided that the little wads of wire I'm making do look like Momma Bird Nests, so they're placing orders, and I'm filling them as fast as my hands can spin bronze into the wee hours of the morning. As I sit on the corner of my bed and bite my tongue while I twist and spin that wire over, under, and through each passage, I think about my papaw and his peach seeds. I now understand that it doesn't matter if what he made looks like a "dough-ed monkey" (substitution for "d" word) or not. He liked it; other people loved it, and that combination made him happy.

I could use some big word like "cathartic" to explain why I like making bird nests, but that's way too fancy for me. I think I like the nests simply because I've finally stopped running and stopped to breathe for the first time in a long time. Time falls off the clock like water off a duck's back when I'm making nests. When I work through one nest and on to another one, I have no worries, no anxiety, and no sense of negative. I just have a little nest in my hands, and I'm making it for a Momma Bird I know and care about. Sometimes I'm making it as a gift from me or someone else, and that's even more fun because of the element of surprise.

There is no fear of me ever giving Tiffany & Co. a run for the blue boxes in jewelry design. I don't even really like to use the word jewelry to describe what I'm making. I just take 30 minutes and twist and turn metal and beads while I watch a little nest of happy form in the palms of my hands. To me, the final product looks like a bird nest.

Maybe I need to take another look at those monkeys above Mom's piano.

Easter with Bebe.

Long before Strasburg for Children became available within driving distance of Middlesboro, I had three options for an Easter frock: Ann's Fashions in Middlesboro, the Yum Yum Tree in Halls, and my mamaw Addie's sewing machine. For the first several years of my life, my Easter dress was made from fabric my mamaw found at the flea market and pieced together (better than Dolly's coat of many colors) to make a dress frilly enough to be southern and appropriate enough to honor the Easter holiday. The best part about Mamaw making my dress was the fact I never had to try it on in a store. I could ride my bike down the road to her house, try it on, and head right back to the mud puddle I left in the first place. I watch television shows about Fashion Weeks in New York and Milan, and I shake my head in humor. If the world's top designers want a real challenge, bring them to Appalachia and ask them to design Easter dresses to please a Southern Baptist momma. Designing Pippa Middleton's wedding dress (should she ever need one) would be a lot easier.


My Easter dresses were never allowed to be red. As I got older, my mother shared this scripture with me from Matthew 27:

28And they stripped him, and put on him a scarlet robe.
It didn't take a lot of time for me to start understanding that my Easter adventures with Mom were an opportunity for her to teach me the true meaning of the holiday.

As I got older, I learned of a magical place where a castle stood. Well, not technically a castle, but close. This magical land was called Asheville, and once upon a time, a family named Vanderbilt lived there. Their house was the type that fairy tales were made of, and they called the castle Biltmore. Not too far from Biltmore, after winter had passed and the crocus began to peek through the grass, hundreds of dresses would burst into spring in every possible color with the perfect pleating, bows, ruffles, and gathers. Those dresses were designed by Ruth, and her last name must have been, "of Carolina."

When my mom could stand a road trip with me long enough to go over the river and through the woods in our little green Maverick, we'd travel to see the works of Ruth of Carolina, and I would wait for hours while Mom delicately removed each and every dress in my size from the rack to examine its poofiness potential.

It's at this point that I need to explain something to you. You need to know that my mom wasn't searching for a dress for her daughter to make me look any cuter than I already was. My mom and I were on a pilgrimage of sorts because Bebe Campbell was looking for a dress to honor the day the stone was rolled away.

Whether the dress came from North Carolina, Knoxville, or Middlesboro, the quest was always an opportunity for teaching me more about our faith and the importance of Easter. Every single piece of my "Easter Ensemble" had a spiritual purpose. Why did I "need" a new dress at Easter? I didn't need it, but I needed to learn the lesson attached to clean, white cloth at Easter:

Matthew 27

59 And when Joseph had taken the body, he wrapped it in a clean linen cloth,
60 And laid it in his own new tomb, which he had hewn out in the rock: and he rolled a great stone to the door of the sepulchre, and departed.

My little purse. Every year, I had a tiny little satin purse to match my Easter dress. Sometimes the purse would be covered in lace and pearls. Sometimes it would be simple and smooth. I loved having a satin purse because it felt like my favorite silk pillow, which I was never allowed to take to church but surely wish I could have. My papaw Steve played the major role with my little Easter purse. That should shock none of you. Each Easter, he'd give me a plastic sandwich bag filled with 30 quarters and secured at the top with a bread tie to take to the offering as my "30 Pieces of Silver." Why you ask? Because....

Matthew 26:14-16 (KJV)
Then one of the twelve, called Judas Iscariot, went unto the chief priests, And said unto them, What will ye give me, and I will deliver him unto you? And they covenanted with him for thirty pieces of silver. And from that time he sought opportunity to betray him.

And, based on what I've read, thirty pieces of silver was the price, the lowest price you could pay, for a slave according to the Old Testament (Exodus 21:32). Which, as I've gotten older, makes the story of 30 pieces of silver mean even more to me.

So, let's see here, dress? Check. Purse? Check. 30 pieces of silver? Check.

You know, those little purses were tiny, and I had to keep a death grip on them to make sure my papaw's silver didn't fall out. I guess he knew that and that's why he always put the coins in a bag with a bread tie closure. He was always watching out for my best interest.

Shoes. Shoes. Shoes. You don't wear white shoes after Labor Day, but you may wear white shoes on and after Easter. Again, modern designers who argue that southern tradition should do their research. If you want to know where the "white at Easter" rule comes from, read this,

Matthew 28

2And, behold, there was a great earthquake: for the angel of the Lord descended from heaven, and came and rolled back the stone from the door, and sat upon it.
3His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow:

My mom took me to Premiere Shoe Store up in the Junction to buy my Easter shoes. When you walked in Premiere, there was a big red goose in a coin operated machine on the right. If you put a quarter in the machine, the red goose would hatch a golden egg for you. Inside the egg, there were all sorts of goodies: gum, rings, and stickers. The deal was I had to be cooperative during shoe shopping in order to get my golden egg. Mom and I would wander through the aisles of Buster Brown and Stride Rite. Someone would measure my foot to make sure the pending white patent leather purchase would have enough growth room to last from Easter until the Sunday before Labor Day. After measurement, I had to try on both shoes with my new ruffled bobby socks that Mom had in her purse. Sometimes, chilly weather required I wear tights, and that was always a disappointment. Ruffled socks were way more fun. I remember carefully stepping up and down those dark, heavy wooden floors while Mom inspected my trot. If the patent leather was shiny enough, if I didn't walk like a Clydesdale in them, and if there was absolutely no heel on them what so ever, I was allowed to take the Mary Jane style shoes home....with a golden egg.

Why all the fuss about Easter shoes? My momma's daughter was going to appear in church on Easter Sunday with new shoes to keep me firm in my foundation of faith which was still a work in progress as a little girl.

Hair bows. The hair bow industry has grown into something that almost scares me. I am so very thankful that so many options weren't available for my long locks back when No More Tangles was as high tech as my hair product ever got. Most Easters, I had a hair bow to match my dress. The bow was a simple piece of twisted yarn or satin, and Mom used it to finish off either one pony tail or two. Sounds so sweet and innocent. Sweet and innocent stopped with the shoes.

Since I had long, stringy hair that stretched almost down to my buttocks, Mom HAD to get the situation under control for Easter. The Easter enemy lived in the hallway closet. The enemy lived in a shoe box. It stayed under the cover of darkness for 364 days a year, but the night before Easter, that box came out and I tried to hide under the bed, in the basement, and even under the car outside. You 40-somethings know what was in that box. The pink sponge rollers. The color is so misleading. Such a lovely shade of pink. Bright. Cheerful. Festive. They're as wicked as the Big Bad Wolf in Grandma's clothing.

I don't care what tradition says about the Easter Bunny. Here's the only Easter Bunny story you need to know.

I'm sure technology didn't allow for the actual sponge part way back when the Easter Bunny thing got started, but I'm sure there was a similar torture device. After a daughter had her head scrubbed until absolutely no flake, no dirt, nor fleck of dust was to be found, she had to sit still and let it dry straight by the fire. In order to bribe said girl to sit still, the desperate mother came up with the idea of the Easter Bunny. So, with thoughts of candies, colored eggs, and a yoyo or jump rope, the silly girl sat still. A little brother walked by while the girl's hair was drying, and heard the tale, so he got sucked into the Easter Bunny broo-haa-haa. Fair is fair. Dad shaved brother's head, perhaps. After the girl's hair dried, the rollers surfaced from a hidden location, too. Each section of hair was evenly divided. With great care and the strength of a giant, the mother pulled each section straight as an arrow and rolled it up so tightly on the girl's head that the follicles beneath the rollers were wet because they, too, were weeping in pain. With each roller, the girl probably protested, and the mother threatened her with the Easter Bunny. By the time the entire hair rolling escapade ended, the girl was out of tears, had no feeling between her ears, and just lay down for the night in pure exhaustion. Her mother probably just searched around the house for a few goodies to leave as compensation for the inflicted pain....must have had plenty of eggs in the hen house is all I know. That's how I think we got the Easter Bunny. Moving on..

I spent many Easter Eves cringing in pink sponge rollers. Every time I dared to start to complaining of hair pain before bedtime, here's what my mom would tell me from Matthew 27:

26Then released he Barabbas unto them: and when he had scourged Jesus, he delivered him to be crucified.27Then the soldiers of the governor took Jesus into the common hall, and gathered unto him the whole band of soldiers.
28And they stripped him, and put on him a scarlet robe.
29And when they had platted a crown of thorns, they put it upon his head, and a reed in his right hand: and they bowed the knee before him, and mocked him, saying, Hail, King of the Jews!
30And they spit upon him, and took the reed, and smote him on the head.
31And after that they had mocked him, they took the robe off from him, and put his own raiment on him, and led him away to crucify him.

And after she explained that scripture in words my childlike mind could understand, I knew I could wear those pink sponge rollers if Jesus wore a crown of thorns. And I snuggled up to my silk pillow and drifted off to sleep knowing what the morning would bring

We didn't have chickens, but if we would have, they would have still been asleep when we got up way before anything that cackled or crowed on Easter.

Mom always let me take the pink sponge rollers out of my hair, and that made me feel so grown up. I'd sit on a stool in the kitchen and unroll the masses of hair while she perfected each strand. The rollers would go back in the box NOT TO BE SEEN for another year. I would sit down and watch Cas Walker, Jay Bazel & Miz Mull while Mom got everything but her dress ready for church. She kept her bathrobe on while I got ready because there was always potential for bloodshed, and A.D. Campbell's wasn't open on Easter morning for her to get a replacement dress.

First, ruffle bottom bloomers were a fashion must. They were our "little secret." Had I shown them in public, she would have whipped the ruffles flat. I was always careful to conceal them, but I was proud to wear them, too. After the bloomers, came the slip. The slip had always had a skirt that was fluffy with layers, but not so many as to make me look like I should have been clogging in Silver Dollar City. After the slip, she carefully took my dress and pulled it over my head, which was actually numb by this point because the blood had stopped flowing to my hair follicles at some point in the night. She patiently raised the zipper, closed the buttons, and tied the bows. No detail left unattended.

She took me to her organ stool where I sat so she could put my ruffled bobby socks on and make sure the seams were perfectly straight across my toes. Afterward she would delicately remove my little white patent leather shoes from the box and slide them on my feet. She knew exactly how snuggly the buckle had to be tightened. It was at this point I started squeezing my hands in delight because the whole ensemble was coming together and it was almost time to go to church. I hopped off that organ bench and my whole dress bounced with me. The curls were perfect. One dash of spit on a hankie and my face was spotless. My fingernails were free from dirt. And then my mom disappeared to finish dressing herself while I rejoined the Cas Walker crew in the den. I was to sit on the little wooden chair from Junction School and not wiggle because Mom had cleaned it for me the night before. I had to sit on it to avoid fuzzies, stray hairs, and dust attaching to my dress. Anxiously I waited while I listened to what would be on sale at Cas Walker Market the following week.

"Let's go, Danda Bug." I turned off the television, hopped the stoop from the den to the dining room, and saw the most beautiful woman of God standing before me. He dress was never as fancy as mine. Usually, she bought a spring suit which had a jacket that could serve a dual purpose at work. Our colors usually matched though, and her shoes were prettier than anything Cinderella ever dreamed to have. Her nails were painted to match my dress, and she held my little hand as we walked around the kitchen counter.

No need for breakfast on Easter...too much risk of spillage. The refrigerator, however, was a key component to our Easter tradition. Again, I gripped my little fat hands together so tightly in anxious anticipation. From the refrigerator, she pulled two boxes that frosted over as they came into the warm air of our home. From the tiniest box, she pulled a bundle of little bitty pink roses adorned with yet another perfect bow. I stood perfectly still while she leaned down to put my Easter corsage on my dress as its most beloved final touch. I tiptoed toward the bathroom so I could admire it in a mirror while she put the orchid Dad had sent her on her jacket lapel.

Beside the front door lay my pink Bible I'd had since birth and my little purse. You'd think that would be the what I grabbed first, but no, I grabbed my momma's hand. With the other, I got my belongings and off to East Cumberland we went in our green Maverick. We stopped at my mamaw's to pose with her purple creeping "flocks" of flowers for a few photos. Afterward, we made our way off Balmoral and toward the light that is now at the end of the tunnel. We parked on the side of Ethel's house, went in the back door, and we trudged up the stairs to Sunday school. After Sunday School, my seat depended on the instrument Mom would play. If she played the piano, I sat with Wilma Ely. If she played the organ, I sat with Gigi or Helen and Elisha Greene. But no matter what instrument she played, when she stopped playing, I sat with my momma!

And I forgot to even look to see if the Easter Bunny had come back at home...

Matthew 28 says,

19Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost:
20Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen.

God chose me to be the daughter of one of His greatest teachers. She has observed all things whatsoever He has commanded her to do, and she continues to do this with every breath she takes in her classroom, during her piano lessons, in her church and especially in her home.

Mom, this is my Easter gift to you.
Proverbs 22:6
6Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.

Love,
Danda Bug