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This story is dedicated to all Grandmothers

Grandmother’s Homestead, Chattels and Secrets

Grandmothers may come in all shapes and sizes, but what doesn’t change is their ability to love and cherish their families. Their love is strong, binding and forever. No one should ever grow up without experiencing the love and devotion of a caring grandparent. For this reason I lovingly dedicate this story to all the Grandmothers here, there and everywhere. Rest assured it was inspired by my own grandmother, Mrs. Jennie B. Acree Mason. Her complete story may not be true but most of it is. I think I can safely say that the stages of time described throughout the story will never be duplicated or relived again. It was a special period in our lives as well as that of our Grandmothers.

As you read feel free to insert your own thoughts or your Grandma’s name into the text. Many of the items and events described in this story may ring a bell somewhere in your own life or possibly that of your Grandmother.

Read on and enjoy Grandmother’s story about her Homestead, Chattels (belongings, possessions, things in general), Fireflies and even her secrets.

Please read and return this copy to the lobby area so it may be shared…

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Grandmothers

Homestead, Chattels & Secrets

Over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go. The horse

knows the way to carry the sleigh through white and drifted snow. That is the

little tune we sang as kids while we traveled to grandmother’s house. Our visit

didn’t have to be at Thanksgiving or Christmas time, as the little ditty seemed

appropriate for any visit we made to see our grandma.

Many years ago Daddy and our family traveled these same country roads just to

see and visit her, at least once or twice a year. Her hugs always made us feel so

special, like the whole world revolved around us and nothing else mattered.

Grandma’s love and affection remained with us even when we were apart.

As time moved forward so did our means of transportation. When the old poem

was written in 1844 old dobbins the horse knew how to carry the sleigh, but later

in the early 1940’s we used Daddy’s old 1936 Ford to make the journey. However,

the lyrics of this little tune still come to mind, even today, as we travel the small

one-lane country roads headed once again to Grandmother’s place.

Today we, Harry Curtiss my cousin and I, are once again making the same trip to

Grandma’s riding in the semi-comfort of his fairly new 1968 Chevrolet.

Considering that Harry is eighty-one, I volunteered to do the driving. I always say

you can’t be too safe; a day here or there could make a difference. Harry must

have agreed with me because he didn’t argue when I took the keys. That’s me I

am always thinking ahead and trying to play it safe.

It seemed as we traveled along that the road noise from the car tires kept

repeating the song about going to Grandmother’s house. It kept saying, over the

river and through the woods, etc.

Harry and I volunteered to visit the old family homestead of our recently

deceased grandmother, Jennie B. Acree Allen. Jennie B. was born in 1874 in the

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north central part of Kentucky and had spent most her entire life living within the

small confines of Owen County. I said we volunteered, but that was totally

untrue, we just happened to be the last living members of our Allen family tree

limb. Thus, we assumed the responsibility to tidy up the various items of personal

and business affairs that needed closure. The trip to the homestead gave us the

perfect opportunity to reflect on the past, at least the part we can still recall.

In 1819 Owen County was formed becoming the 63rd of the 120 counties that

encompass the Common Wealth of Kentucky. Its topography is described as

rolling to hilly, with deep productive soil suited for growing tobacco and corn, as

well as supporting its farm livestock. Harry and I can attest to the description of

rolling to hilly terrain. On some of the extremely winding and hilly roads you

virtually get the sensation that you are driving in circles.

Owen County is situated just north of Lexington, the state’s second largest city.

We began our trip today in the northern most part of the state near Covington.

Today’s sixty mile jaunt will take us south through Crittenden, Williamstown, and

Dry Ridge and on into the deeper recesses of Owen County. Our final destination

is the Allen family homestead which is situated off Swope Road just east of

Hesler, the closest small community to the farm.

The Allen family story is not much different than most of those fine American

families from Northern Kentucky as they struggled to feed their family and eke

out a meager living in this time of depression. Willie and Jennie Acree Allen were

tenant farmers. Their working arrangement was usually a hand shake agreement

with a larger landowner for them to tend to his farm as if it were their own. Part

of their job was to plant and care for the corn and tobacco, harvest the crops, cut

the hay and care for the numerous farm animals on the farm.

In exchange for their work the tenant family was permitted to live in the small

house provided by the landowner. Of course, the home was very small and plain

and always without electricity and indoor plumbing. Water came from the

outdoor well, or cistern, and was carried inside for cooking and other uses. Toilet

facilities consisted of a small one seat outhouse sitting in the back yard. Usually a

Sears catalog with some pages missing was lying on the seat. Most of the food

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they ate was grown on the farm. They usually had homegrown vegetables and

meat from the slaughtered animals. Their extra vegetables and fruit were canned

and stored in the root cellar, and extra meat smoked and preserved to help the

family survive the hard winters. The few dairy cows were milked twice daily and

the milk that was not drunk was used to make butter and other dairy products or

used for bartering material.

Other foods and staple or condiment type items were bartered from the local

huckster that passed along the old country road once a week. The huckster was

basically a small general store on wheels, traveling the small country rocky roads.

The driver would trade his goods to the farmer for their farm grown items. The

huckster was always interested in trading for home grown chestnuts or walnuts.

It was not unusual for Jennie to trade her fresh farm-laid eggs for sugar, flour,

spices, salt, or a kitchen utensil that she might need. If she decided to purchase a

bag of seed or flour, great time was spent in selecting the correct bag to buy. The

reasoning behind this was because Grandma would use the material from the

seed bag to make dresses and other clothing for the family. The bag was always

chosen with great care since they may be wearing it in a couple months. After

making their trades the huckster would head on down the road to the next farm.

Most tenant farmers were provided with small substandard housing and paid

either a small stipend or given a small percentage of the profits derived from the

sale of the crops or animals at year’s end. In either case, it was very hard family

work that seldom led to family wealth.

As the miles slowly ticked by we passed some Burma Shave advertisement signs

and soon a small white road sign next to those indicating that we would be

coming in to Hesler, Kentucky in two miles.

My kidneys were telling me they needed a break. I am sure Harry also welcomed

it when I stopped at a small service station fronting on the main street of Hesler.

The station sported a spiffy sign out front of a service attendant with a star on his

hat and uniform.

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During our pit-stop it seemed only natural that we spend a nickel to buy a Coca

Cola served in the small green bottle, similar to those we savored so many years

ago. For a second I thought of getting a Nehi Orange drink and then decided

against it. Maybe on the way home that would be my choice. As kids, we used to

compare coke bottles by turning them upside down to read the city name on the

bottom of the bottle. If we had been gambling I would have lost because Harry’s

bottle came from Cincinnati, Ohio while mine was from nearby Lexington, which

was only twenty or so miles away. I never was very lucky at gambling.

At one point in his life Harry and his parents had lived in Hesler, so I’m pretty sure

he had purchased many cokes from the same small Texaco filling station where

we stopped. I admired the Texaco Sky Chief Gasoline sign that bragged about

having stations serving all forty-eight states. Before we left we put our empty

bottles in the wooden twenty-four bottle coke case next to the coke machine. Too

bad there wasn’t a deposit we could claim on the used bottles. I could almost feel

the fatigue leaving my body after drinking that coke, just like the coke (relieves

fatigue) advertisement said it would.

As Harry and I headed out of Hesler we passed the small home surrounded by a

white picket fence that Harry lived in so many years ago. Surprisingly the white

clapboard exterior seemed in pretty good shape. We then settled in for the short

remaining part of our trip. Thirty minutes later we approached the old Swope

Road exit off the Hesler highway. Had we missed the exit we would have been in

Lexington within the hour, but we had a commitment to visit Grandma’s place so

we didn’t have time for mess ups.

Our memory might be failing in some ways but we knew it was time to keep our

eyes peeled. We’re now on Swope road which rides the ridge tops making its way

eastward. Before we know it Grandma’s place should pop into view, so get ready.

Years ago, as youngsters, we would all be yelling, “I saw it first, there’s Grandma’s

place, no you didn’t, and I saw it before you”. Who would be the judge and settle

the argument? As usual, Mother entered the argument and ruled that it was a tie.

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But, there it was, in real life, the real thing, Grandma’s place. It was just like Harry

and I both remembered it, except it seemed so much smaller now. Could it have

been that small years ago? No, surely it was bigger then and had gotten smaller

over time.

As I steered Harry’s Chevrolet into the large gate opening off Swope Road my

early image of the old homestead came back to me. The front yard grass was

overgrown and not mowed like it used to be. The small fruit tree we planted as a

reminder of Grandpa’s death had sprouted nicely and was now over thirty five

feet tall. Needless to say the three large oaks trees in the front yard had grown

even more and their shade canopy covered most of the remaining yard.

Each of the oaks still bares the remains of Grandpa Allen’s white wash residue

around the trunk area from the roots up to five feet off the ground. As children

we heard Grandpa explain that he did this to protect the trees from sunscald in

the winter and bug infestation in the spring. Sometimes Grandpa even put a

sticky substance like tar or grease on the trunk to deter insects from climbing up

the trunk and damaging the trees. In spite of Grandpa’s long absence, the trees

still confirm the love and care he gave those many years ago.

The front yard served as the perfect place where our grandparents came to enjoy

the rest of the day or evening. With all the daily chores completed and the

kitchen cleaned up after supper it was their time for relaxation. It also gave them

a quiet period to consider the day’s accomplishments and possibly plan

tomorrow’s activities.

Still sitting in the front yard were the two lawn chairs where Grandpa and

Grandma used to sit and enjoy the peacefulness of those summer evenings. As

the sun’s rays would disappear behind the hills, the crickets, cicadas and other

critters of the night would begin their evening chant. Then the dusk would

disappear and darkness would arrive, bringing with it the evening’s

entertainment.

If we kids were visiting, it was our favorite time of the evening. To the adults it

was just something that happened but it wasn’t really a big deal. The

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entertainment was the appearance of the fireflies (lightening bugs) and the

yellow, green or pale red light they emitted. They usually appeared in the evening

as dusk was ending and darkness began to settle in. The fireflies, also called soft

shelled beetles, would light up the entire front yard with their constant blinking.

The world offers many wonders to behold but few offer such enchantment as that

of the twinkle of the lightning bug/firefly.

On a warm summer night their presence is like handfuls of miniature stars being

tossed from the skies. Their flitting, darting, swooping and hovering movements

magically light up the country side and its various landscapes. On clear nights they

can be seen as far as the eye can see; even to the cow pasture down by the barn.

To the adults this phenomenon had become old hat, but to us kids it was a marvel

that never ended.

Being kids we didn’t have time to sit; we were too busy trying to catch some of

the lightening bugs in our small jar. Once in there we could enjoy their show

forever.

Grandpa said, “They were blinking to warn their friends of enemies and also to

attract a mate.” Grandpa was awfully smart for a man with only a third grade

education. Grandma always warned us to be careful so that we didn’t harm or kill

the fireflies that we caught. She made sure we poked holes in the jars lid so they

could get plenty of air to breathe. When we got ready for bed we placed the

small jars in our bedroom window so they could entertain us until we were

overtaken by sleep. It was a wonderful way to end a long and tiring day. Of

course, the next morning we would set the lightning bugs free so they could

return to their homes. Hopefully the same routine would play out tomorrow

night.

Having just arrived, standing next to the car gave us a good view of the old

homestead. It had only four rooms plus a small screened-in porch where

Grandma did her washing. The exterior desperately needed a new coat of white

paint. But to us it was still beautiful and made us remember that this is where our

dreams came from. It wasn’t a manor or stately home but it still represented our

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family’s life and dreams. I am sure Harry felt as I, we were proud of our small

homestead and what it meant to our family.

I smiled a little as I looked to the left rear side of the house and saw the small

outhouse (privy) with a picture of the moon carved in its door. If I remember

correctly it was thoroughly modern with two seats and a Sears and Roebuck

catalog page for your every need.

Harry, not knowing what had just crossed my mind, led the way through the knee

high grass toward the back door of the screened-in porch. There he unlocked the

door and paused to look down the hill toward the tattered old red barn with its

small stock pen and corral.

There was no doubt in my mind why Harry had paused, he was thinking of

Grandpa Allen’s earlier death. It had occurred right there in that mangy old stock

yard pen in June of 1941. A massive heart attack had struck Grandpa Willie down

in the prime of his life, at the early age of 58. I wondered how many good years

had he lost that day? I’ll never know, but I do know that Grandma Jenny lived

another twenty eight years as a widow and a very lonely person. The family never

knew how she struggled to survive each day, somewhat depressed and lonely.

What did she do to fill in the voids she faced every day? We will probably never

know.

The Magical Kitchen

Harry was the first to enter, and then I sensed the presence of others, unseen

kinfolk straining and pressing forward, nudging past me, all seeking entry into the

old family homestead.

As we entered the screened in porch area I believed I could hear the faint sound

of music. The sound then became clearer, not louder but clearer. I searched

through my memories and finally identified the words of the song. A tune my

young Aunt Ruth used to sing before she died, I’m sure I’ll mess it up but as I

recall it went something like this.

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Down in the meadow in an itty bitty pool, swam three little fishies and a mama

fishie too,

“Swim said the mama fishie, “swim if you can” and they swam and they swam

all over the dam.”

I am sure there are more lines to the song but they continue to escape my mind.

Oops, I was so engrossed in conjuring up the words to the 1939 song that I nearly

stumbled over Grandma’s old washing machine. Needless to say it was manual

and worked by hand with someone rocking the cradle back and forth hopefully

cleaning the laundry. Then it came to me. Aunt Ruth used to sing that fishie song

while she scrubbed the family laundry.

Finally the rush around me seemed to be over. I speculated every deceased

member of our family that had ever lived in the homestead was now with us in

this tiny room.

In reality I knew it was just Harry and me standing in Grandma’s kitchen. I couldn’t

hear the others breathing but I knew they were all there, waiting and watching. I

detected the presence of Grandpa and Grandma. I suspected their nine departed

children must be there also, crammed into the small nook we called a kitchen. I

couldn’t see them but there was no doubt in my mind they were all there, biding

their time. I wondered just what they hoped to see. Maybe they knew something

about this charming old house and its inhabitants that Harry and I didn’t. Was

there something that we really needed to know?

None of the Allen forefathers were wealthy or even slightly rich. In fact they were

all quite poor and really had nothing to compare their lives too. If they had been

born years earlier they might have been considered pilgrims or even pioneers as

part of the vast group of settlers that migrated west. Willie and Jennie would have

fit quite well into the early settlers group. Who knows, they may have made

friends with old Daniel Boone or Davey Crocket.

They owned no diamonds or jewels, nor displayed outward appearances of

wealth. The family’s only means of livelihood was their small farm which they had

managed to accumulate sometime around 1935. Prior to that time the family had

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survived by serving as tenant farmers for larger land owners or farms in the Owen

County area. According to the 1940 Federal Census records, their small farm was

given an estimated value of $250.00 dollars and was probably overvalued at that

sum.

As I stood in the small kitchen the same question came to me as it had in the past;

just how was Grandma able to cook her fabulous meals in such a small confined

space and without modern cooking conveniences?

When our family came to visit there were always six to eight of us sitting at the

dinner table, and every meal seemed fitting for a king. We feasted on whatever

was in season. In early spring we tasted new potatoes and peas straight out of the

garden. The vine-ripened tomatoes were perfect and later in the year it was corn

on the cob. It seems like string beans (we had to help pick, string and snap them)

were in season forever, but they were always delicious and still remain the source

for comparisons even today. And don’t forget the buttermilk biscuits or

cornbread. Grandma was a whiz at both. Her fried ham steaks and red eye gravy

were always beyond comparison. Sometimes she would make jello by lowering

the container down into the well to help made it jell. Of course she had to be

extra careful since the well was also her storage space for butter, cottage cheese

or anything that needed to be kept cool.

Thanksgiving and Christmas brought forth sweet potatoes with marshmallows. I

don’t ever remember her dinners without desert. It was usually a baked cake

with an icing to die for. I still believe her applesauce three layer cakes were

probably her best.

Regardless of how many people were there she was always saying, “Now Billy

here is some more ham, why you’ve hardly eaten anything and Donnie your plate

is nearly empty.” And about three o’clock when it came time for us to return

home she was always packing the left overs for us.

My mind still recalls our summer visits to the farm and the wonderful breakfast

meals that she would prepare. My favorite was having a breakfast of hot biscuits,

thin slices of fried ham and red-eye gravy. Danson plum jelly and fresh honey or

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homemade molasses (made with real sugar) were always available to go with the

biscuits, especially if we were nursing a sweet tooth. The highlight of the meal

was the homey smell of the kitchen plus the fragrance made by the hot cup of

sassafras tea that Grandma brewed for us. The tea came from the sassafras root

and had a unique taste of its own. There were times during our summer visits

that we used to go searching for the sassafras root on the farm. Sometimes we

made a game out of who could find the most sassafras in the shortest time. I

don’t think I ever won but it was the hunt that mattered most. I still love that

special root taste and flavor.

Grandma did all that on her wood burning stove with an attached oven. Oh

Grandma, you will be forever missed, and not just for your wonderful meals, we

also love your special hugs.

We gave our Grandma a lot of credit for her efforts, but don’t forget she had

some secrets of her own like her smokehouse in the back yard where she cured

and smoked her hams and other cuts of meat. Plus her really big secret, the root

cellar, where she stored her fruits and vegetables in a controlled temperature

along with the numerous vegetables and fruits she had canned or put up in

Mason jars for that rainy day use (like when we came to visit).

I had just finished reminiscing about Grandma’s cooking when I heard Harry

suggest we head to the living room. I sensed the sound of feet shuffling; I

supposed it was our kin folk jostling for better view of the action.

The Living Room

If there was a sanctuary in this small home it would be here in their small living

room or sitting room as some of the finer folks would call it. It was a fairly plain

room with a tattered and raveled 9x12’ carpet on the floor. The carpet’s pattern

had long since worn away. All of the walls were covered with wallpaper layered

on top of wallpaper. The most recent contained images of an English Fox Hunt

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scene. The scenes of the fox, the hound and men on horseback were still visible,

even after all the years gone by.

The wall facing Swope Road contained two relatively small north-facing windows.

Both were covered with white curtains with lace doily borders. Only three

pictures adorned the walls, one of Christ on the cross at crucifixion, the second a

lovely picture of Jennie and Willie in their younger days and finally an oval portrait

of Willie taken just before his 1941 death. When he passed away his viewing and

small funeral were held in this very room.

This picture has always stood

out to me because I attended

Willie’s funeral service as a

young lad and I remember it

vividly. I wasn’t tall enough to

see into Willie’s casket but I

remembered seeing his picture

hanging on the wall just above

his casket. To me, that picture

and his casket would remain as

one, forever etched in my

memory. Today the picture

wears a special glow as it was

being highlighted by a ray of

sunshine entering through the

front window.

The Allen family had grown up

in a God-fearing environment.

They nurtured their family while observing God’s day on Sunday. Every day they

said Grace and thanked God and Jesus at mealtime for the food he provided while

they asked for his forgiveness and guidance. Their work days were hard and long,

but when leisure time permitted and coal oil was available to fuel the lamp in the

evening, they read the family Bible, here in this sanctuary of a room.

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The Bible was not only God’s instrument but it was also represented their family

historical record as all births, deaths and other important family dates or events

were documented there. As Harry and I slowly inspected the living room I glanced

through the family Bible resting on the chest of drawers and noted the names,

dates with many entries dating back in time. I believed it would be a treasure

trove of information and definitely needed further investigation.

The room was furnished with four simple pieces - a small high-back love seat, a

non-matching chair and two small end tables. Each table held a small kerosene or

coal oil fueled lamp with a wick, or mantel as it is sometimes called. The tables

and lamps were positioned near the divan and chair for better reading. The soot-

laden lamp chimneys and shades were slightly ajar and loose from years of use.

Willie’s Bible lay on the table by the chair while Jennie’s adorned the seat on the

divan. A four-leaf clover, a good luck omen, was found pressed between pages

100 and 101 of Jennie’s personal Bible. The significance of the clover will never

be known.

A medium size chest of drawers served as the resting spot for the family Bible.

Adjacent to the family Bible sat a very old PHILCO radio gallery, model 38b,

battery operated radio set. The radio dates back to pre-1930 when the

government began asking a census question, does the respondent own a “Radio

Set”. Including such a question on radio ownership reflected a new interest in

consumer items and methods of communication. Willie was not concerned with

the government’s interest in radios, he only knew that times were changing and

having a radio set was the best way to keep in touch with the news and world

events. To prolong the lifetime of the batteries the “Set” was used only on special

occasions. Willie assumed that someday they would have electricity in their

home, but for now batteries would have to do the job. I figured the batteries

were dead and gone. But to be absolutely sure I turned the radio switch to the ON

position. I could see the dial was set to receive one of my favorite stations, WLW

from Cincinnati, Ohio. I was correct; the batteries were dead and gone.

An armoire or clothing chest in the far corner of the room provided additional

clothing storage for items not used on a regular basis. However, the armoire also

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served as the hiding place for Grandpa’s two guns, a Remington twelve gauge

shotgun and Winchester 22 caliber rifle. The weapons were old, battered and held

very little monetary value; in fact both had seen their better days. But they were

still able to provide protection for the family, if and when it was required. I can

attest to the accuracy of the Winchester since I used it several times squirrel

hunting as a teenager.

The stored firearms represented another reason the living room deserved to be

called a sanctuary. I led Harry into the next little room which had served as my

bedroom when I visited Grandma during our summer school vacations.

The Kids/Guest Bedroom w/Fireflies

The kids’ bedroom contained a small bed with its head against the north wall. The

room had a pane-glass window covered with curtains similar to those in the

sanctuary. This window is where we sat our Mason jar with our fireflies in the

evening hoping they would keep us entertained as well as light our way to

slumber land.

The bed contained two mattresses, really just sacks that served as mattresses.

The bottom was a sack (tic) filled with goose feathers and down that had been

harvested over the years. The feather tic mattress was placed on the bottom,

thereby serving as the base for the straw filled sack that we actually slept on. As I

recall the bed was pretty comfortable unless some of the straw worked its way

through the sack and started poking you. I remember how much my head used to

sink into the feather pillow, almost to the point where I couldn’t hear any of the

sounds of the evening. My brother and I shared this bed on several summers. The

small room was not much larger than the bed itself, leaving very little room for

walking or moving about.

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Grandma’s Hidden Chattels

The time was at hand to enter the confines of Grandmother’s bedroom. This tiny

little room had served as the protective vault where her chattels were concealed

for many years. Her clothes, secrets, personal memories and the worldly goods of

her life were now stored here and would remain that way throughout eternity,

unless Harry and I disturbed them.

We had discussed this subject as we made the trip to the old homestead this

morning. We pondered the question; did grandma understand and realize that

one day a family member or possibly a stranger would be viewing and

inventorying her most sentimental and personal items? We believed she was

aware of this likelihood and had at least twenty eight years to prepare and plan

for this probability. For this reason we really didn’t expect to find anything out of

the ordinary.

And so, with an open mind and my nodded approval, Harry turned the door knob

and opened the door. As children and later as adults we had never ventured into

this portion of the homestead. This was a new experience for each of us.

The room was without windows and its darkness hid the actual room size. I

laughed at our stupidity. Surely we should have known we would need a lamp or

some source of light to see what we were doing.

Harry ventured into the living room and was able to get one of the lamps burning.

As he returned he made the stupid comment, “Let there be Light”. We both

laughed a little, which helped to relieve some of our tensions. Harry’s comment

sure wasn’t original as it is referenced both in the Bible’s book of Genesis and the

secrets of Masonry, but it did shed some light for us.

This room was slightly larger than the living room but was sparsely furnished with

a feather tic bed, a mirrored dresser and a small chest with three drawers.

Just to the left of the dresser sat a small cedar-style hope chest. The smell of

moth balls hung heavy in the air surrounding the hope chest. The moth balls were

evidently doing their job by giving off a toxic vapor designed to kill the moth and

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its lava. I assumed the hope chest was part of Grandma’s dowry as she collected

items that would be beneficial if and when she married. Knowing she married in

1907 meant the items in the chest might possibly be over 60 years old.

In the corner of the room was a small clothes closet containing clothing that were

hung on wire hangers. Had we been more observant we might have noticed there

was a kerosene lamp w/chimney on top of the dresser. I chose to light the

bedroom lamp and then we split the room giving portions to Harry and myself.

My section of the room contained the mirrored dresser, the cedar chest and the

clothes closet and I wasted no time in beginning my search and inventory.

I noticed a bottle of Grandma’s favorite fragrance sitting on top of her dresser. Its

lavender scent became widespread as I released a little whiff into the air. The

name Yardly was printed on the cheap blue bottle with an atomizer spray

attached. There was no doubt it belonged to her. She seemed to be lingering in

the room with us, quite possibly looking over my shoulder.

On the wall above her dresser was a framed picture of a young girl. I didn’t know

who the child was but with Harry’s help we thought her to be Grandma’s

daughter, Christine. The young child had died early in 1916 at the age of eight

following a local Cholera outbreak. Our identification was later supported by a

Richland Baptist Church bulletin found inside the rear portion of the picture

frame. The announcement listed the date, name and some details surrounding

the loss and subsequent burial of young

Christine Allen.

Life isn’t supposed to turn out that way.

Parents should never have to bury their

own children, especially at such a young

age. Christine Allen died in 1916 at such a

young age. She had yet to reach the age

where she began to enjoy life. As such

Grandma had to endure the pain of death

in her family at such an early age.

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Grandma’s dresser contained an old cigar box that was laden with trinkets of

every kind. Opening the lid I released the odor of the cheap King Edward cigars

the box once held. Its smell soon overtook the lavender fragrance and mothball

scent that had meandered through grandmother’s bedroom. A quick view of the

boxes contents revealed nothing of value, but numerous items and trinkets with

some emotional or sentimental value to grandma. The biggest question of this

novel find seems to be the question it poses. Why use a cigar box to store

personal items when neither Jennie nor Willie smoked, especially cigars?

One of the most unusual items in the box was a shiny buckeye, best described as

a prickly or smooth fruit of a tree or bush of the horse chestnut family, or the

large shiny brown poisonous seed it contains, native to North America, (Ohio in

particular). Grandma was very superstitious and believed the buckeye to be her

good luck piece. She was always shining and rubbing it while keeping it close by

for many years. I guess Grandma’s luck wasn’t very good because in the box with

the other items was a “Rabbits Foot”. We all know it wasn’t very lucky, especially

for the rabbit.

The King Edward box also contained some cosmetic jewelry pieces like lockets, a

cheap metal bracelet with some engraving, pendants and brooches. One such

locket pictured below contained the photograph of a young lady that Harry later

identified as Fanny Acree, Grandmother’s

younger sister.

Inside one of the lower drawers was a blue

jewelry box. When I opened the lid I was

surprised to see a small gold wedding band. It

was well worn and bore the inscription of

“Love, Willie 1907.” I was somewhat startled to

find her wedding ring here. I just assumed she

would have been wearing it when she passed.

When the bottom of the jewelry box was raised it revealed a well preserved small

four-leaf clover. The clover was normally a sign of good luck, but after being next

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to her lucky buckeye and lucky rabbit’s foot for so long, the clover had probably

lost some of its lucky mystique.

Harry and I could mull over this discovery but I am sure we could never come up

with a good explanation for the four-leaf clover. Yes Granny, you may take that

personal secret memory with you on your trip to heaven.

Two very unusual items displayed on her bed were gifts from my daughters. The

two small stuffed animals were somewhat frayed but still intact. I knew their

monetary value was zero, but to Granny they must have represented value

beyond belief.

Inside the next drawer were stacks and stacks of letters and seasonal cards

written over the years to her by her many children and grandkids. Some were

divided into small packets and tied with colorful ribbons, most likely left over

from Christmas.

As I scanned the cards I noted they were separated into family groups. Taking a

minute I searched for something I personally had sent to Granny. Finally, I found

it, probably no one but Grandma would notice the connection, but I did. It was an

invitation to my New Haven High School graduation ceremony. You might ask why

that would be so important to her. Everyone knew she wasn’t going to travel sixty

miles away just to see me, her grandson graduate; especially considering she had

never traveled more than fifty miles from her home in her lifetime. But the

connection was my graduation photograph that I had sent along with the

invitation. Only my grandmother, my mother and I would possibly recognize the

importance and significance of that photograph. Only three people out of this

world of millions would understand the bond or attachment of this particular

photograph.

To explain the connection I need to refer to the many times that I reiterated how

poor we were as a family. This photograph is living proof to that statement. In

the school graduation photograph I was wearing a nice looking suit, however, it

wasn’t mine. Only my mom and Granny knew that this fine looking suit actually

belonged to my deceased father who died from TB twenty years previously at the

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young age of twenty-nine. It was the suit he wore when he wedded my mom; In

fact it was dads one and only suit. When the graduation photograph was taken

the suit was actually one year older than I was.

I cannot comprehend how or why my mother continued to keep and maintain this

less than valuable suit of clothes. During the first nineteen years of my life she

must have cared for, packed, moved and stored this suit of clothes at least fifty

times. Did she have a master plan; did she know how the saga was to end? This

small packet of cards, letters and the photograph I discovered here today might

be the answer to that question. It does conjure up another question of why

wasn’t my dad wearing this suit when he was buried?

The story becomes even more unbelievable when I confirm that the only time I

ever wore this suit was for my graduation picture. After that I joined the Air Force

and moved on with my life. Only God and possibly Mom and Grandma know the

current whereabouts of Daddy’s suit.

My thoughts were interrupted when I heard Harry announce that he found a page

from an old Courier Journal newspaper dated 23 May 1934. He couldn’t

understand the significance until I mentioned that it was my birthdate. Then he

noticed a second news page almost two years older, dated 2 June 1932, which I

confirmed as my brother Bill’s birthday. They were just little sentimental

keepsakes for Grandma. If we were hoping to find that pot of gold at the end of

the rainbow, we were still looking and waiting.

Digging deeper into the drawer with all the letters and cards I came upon the

Richland Baptist church notice printed for Willie Mason’s funeral. Inside the

folded documents was a hand written copy of a Bible verse that was read at her

husband Willie’s funeral in 1941. The scripture had obviously been selected and

hand written by Willie in preparation of his death.

The scripture comes from the book of James, Chapter One, Verse Twelve and

reads,

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“Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for

when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life,

which God has promised to those who love him”.

A person might question did Willie have a premonition of his early death or was

he always so methodical in his actions. As I think of my own personal premade

death plans maybe this preplanning of events runs in the Allen family genes.

I was still pondering this dilemma when Harry announced that he had come

across the 1907 wedding license for Willie and Jennie B. I listened as he read the

ages of Willie at 23 and Jennie 21 when they were

married in the home of Jeff Perkins, a friend of the

Allen family. The marriage had been performed by

Henry Holbrook and witnessed by two of their

friends, Joseph Gross and Ransom Cobb.

Listening to Harry’s announcement I could only

image how beautiful Grandma Jennie must have

looked at the young age of 21. To me, she was

always a lady of beauty and stature. Then Harry

announced that he had found a picture of Grandma

when she was very young, I assumed around

marriage age. Yes indeed Jennie B was a beautiful young lady.

Back on my side of the room I decided to move my search into the family clothes

closet. As you might expect it was small but still not completely full since it

contained only her few items.

Prior to making this trip today Harry and I had been given some instructions, be

sure to touch everything, literally everything even the toe of every shoe for cash,

keys, and valuables. Those were my instructions and I was following them to the

letter. People trying to hide objects sometime pick the oddest places to do so.

Searching one of Grannies winter coats I was rewarded with a small wad of

money rolled into a small cylinder tube similar to a shotgun shell. As we finished

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counting my discovery we were amazed when the amount totaled almost $875

dollars. We had found Grandma’s tiny, three decades old nest egg that she had

been hoarding for that special rainy day. Harry, like me, was in complete

disbelief of our discovery. My spirits were high as I renewed my search looking

for more gold at the end of the rainbow. But an hour later with no further

treasure’s to report my adrenaline had dropped back to normal. I had searched all

the clothing and decided to focus my attention of the two shelves at the rear of

the closet.

It was there I found a small packet of letters, nine to be exact, secured together

with a yellow ribbon. At first notice the parcel looked like all the other cards and

letters I had seen in Jennie’s belongings. Then I noticed there were no stamps on

the envelopes. Looking closer I observed the envelopes were sealed, and did not

contain an address and thus had never been posted or mailed. I concluded it’s

possible she never intended to mail them or was planning to post them later.

I probed deeper to the rear of the shelf but could find no other letters or

envelopes that Jennie had received or written.

Unable to resist the mounting questions and pressure I chose to open the first

letter hoping to garner some answers. After fumbling with the envelope I

unfolded the one sheet of paper that was inside and began to read;

Dear Ernest M 6/1/67

I am aware of your recent incident. Knowing this I pray that you are safe and

sound of body and soul. I will not cease thinking about you until you are safely

home again. I realize I cannot write daily but I promise you will be in my

thoughts every day. I can hardly wait to see you and give you a welcome home

hug and maybe even a small kiss. Please keep the faith.

You are in my prayers daily.

Jennie B.

After reading Jennie’s short note I became more confused than ever. Did

Grandmother, our Jennie B. have a male suitor? Obviously she had been widowed

for over twenty five years and was certainly eligible to have a suitor. But if Ernest

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was really a suitor, why not post the letters. Then the thought hit me, maybe

Ernest was already married. I decided to examine the next letter before jumping

to more conclusions.

Dear Ernest M 9/1/67

Still no news from you, so obviously I am overly concerned. We have been friends

for nearly four months and I think of you constantly. I really don’t know you very

well but hope to change that in the future. Thinking of you and your plight helps

me to pass the long lonely days and nights. Be strong, take care and hurry home.

Jennie B.

Searching for more answers I opened the next sealed envelope and began to read

its contents.

Dear Ernest M 12/1/67

Christmas is coming soon. My friends and I await news from you. It would make

our holiday season much better to hear of your health and status. It’s been

almost a year since we last heard anything about you.

Even people like me with strong faith begin to have doubts from time to time. When

this happens we begin to doubt ourselves, in God and the future. I want to keep the

faith. I will strive to keep the faith, but it would be rewarding to receive a small

sign or token from you that all is well and there will be a spiritual enlightenment.

I pray for you, daily.

Jennie B.

Reading this third letter did not reveal any insight into Jennie’s relationship or

friendship with Ernest M. If anything the situation became cloudier. Harry

mentioned that it was getting late, which helped bring me back to my senses. I

think at this time we both realized that we couldn’t solve this puzzle based on the

limited information we had available.

So we decided to head back home, thankful at least that we were able to

inventory the few things that were of value. After securing the place we started

the sixty mile trip to northern Kentucky.

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On the trip home we reminisced about a lot of early memories that were brought

up today as we toured the old Home Place. We were pleased with Grandma’s

memorabilia and the small amount of cash we discovered but neither of us was

happy that we were leaving with so many questions unanswered.

Prologue

Every story deserves a conclusion, grand finale or at least an answer to important

questions generated; this is my attempt to satisfy that quest.

Harry and I had undertaken the mission to tie up the loose ends we found at the

old Allen Homestead. During our visit to the homestead we had discovered

numerous small items, trinkets, rings, brooches and other items of interest but

nothing of significant value or importance, with the exception of the $875.00 in

cash.

However as we finished our search and inventory process we believed we could

not finalize our mission without uncovering some answers or explanation to the

small stack of neatly kept, sealed but not mailed letters to Ernest M. Just who was

Ernest and what was his relationship to our Grandmother? Where Ernest is now?

Why isn’t he a part of our lives?

Jennie had faithfully written to Ernest every four months for over three years.

Then she died, without further contact with Ernest, leaving us to unravel the

mystery. Harry and I had opened and reread all of her nine letters. They all

seemed pretty much identical and offered no clues or answers.

Two years later, while pondering the problem I decided to review the items that

we had saved and brought home from the old Allen home place. Quite by

accident as I was fumbling through the old King Edward cigar box filled with

trinkets, keepsakes and other items I noticed the cheap old bracelet that we had

found. Before, it had seemed like a cheap old trinket with little value of any kind.

However, upon closer inspection today it revealed the inscription CDR Ernest

Moore Jr. with the date 3/11/67 engraved below the name. This new discovery

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immediately brought forth new questions and at least an angle that might lead to

solving our puzzle.

The passage of time during the Vietnam War in the early 1960’s and the following

years revealed the loss of public support for the war itself but continued support

for the American fighting man, especially those who had died and others who

were MIA, missing in action, or a POW, prisoner of war. To boost aid for these

military personnel, many support groups were formed to help insure they and

their memories were not lost or abandoned forever.

One of the ways they showed support was convincing the public to purchase a

cheap bracelet engraved with the name of a comrade in arms and the date he

went missing in action or became a prisoner of war. The plan was for that

purchaser to wear the bracelet until such time as the POW was safely returned to

his family and loved ones.

As time passed we learned the basic information behind CDR Ernest Melvin

Moore, Jr. and his capture.

The aircraft carrier USS Ticonderoga, the fourteenth U.S. carrier to be built, was

patrolling the waters off North Vietnam in late 1966. The “World Famous Golden

Dragons” of attack squadron 192 were ordered to return to Vietnam in November

of 1966. It would be their third combat deployment and a cruise that would

prove to be both intense and noteworthy.

Commander Ernest M. “Mel” Moore, Jr. was an A4E Skyhawk pilot and also

served as the executive officer of the Golden Dragon squadron assigned aboard

the USS Ticonderoga. As the monsoon season drew to a close and spring arrived,

the Dragons increased the numbers of strikes it made against targets in the Iron

Triangle (Hanoi/Haiphong/Thanh Hoa) region of North Vietnam.

CDR Moore was one of six SHRIKE pilots in the squadron. SHRIKE missions were

considered to be among the toughest missions in the war.

The SHRIKE pilot’s job was to fly ahead of the strike group by five to seven

minutes literally trying to draw fire from the surface-to- air missile emplacements.

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When the ground radar found the SHRIKE, the pilot would fire anti-radar missiles

at SAM sites. The goal was either to actually knock-out the SAM radar or, as was

sometimes the case, to force the North Vietnamese to turn off the radar, enabling

the alpha strike force behind the SHRIKE aircraft to fly on and off their targets

without SAMs launched against them. The more SAMs that were fired at the

Shrikes meant fewer fired at the actual attack formations, which had to stay

together to complete their part of the mission.

CDR Moore had led several SHRIKE missions, which were flown by more

experienced pilots and on a volunteer basis in this squadron. On the squadron’s

initial strike, on a truck facility near Hanoi two of the four SHRIKE aircraft led by

Moore were hit, while the other two did a lot of dodging. Both of the damaged

aircraft made it back to the Ticonderoga and the pilots were safe.

On March 11, 1967 Moore launched in his A4E on another SHRIKE mission in the

Iron Triangle, during the mission, his aircraft was hit by enemy fire and he was

forced to eject. CDR Moore was captured by the Vietnamese almost

immediately.

The period in which Moore was captured was not a good one for “guests” of

Hanoi. It was the period of greatest torture and deprivation for America POWs.

The world did not yet know the inhumane treatment Americans were receiving in

the hand of the North Vietnamese.

Meanwhile, without Moore, the Golden Dragons continued their strikes in North

Vietnam. The month after Moore was captured was a landmark month for Naval

Aviation and the Golden Dragons. One of their own, LCDR Michael J. Estocin was

awarded the Medal of Honor for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk

of his own life. He became the only Navy jet pilot to be so honored. Although

Estocin was classified as a Prisoner of War, he was not returned at the end of the

war. He remains missing.

As time passed and additional information became available we learned that CDR

Moore was alive and released after almost seven years in captivity as part of

Operation Homecoming on March 4, 1973. He was among 591 Americans to be

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released from prison camps in Vietnam. It was a time for elation, but too late for

Grandma to savor the good news

Following his return to America CDR Moore made the following statement, “It is

very important that those six years of my life leave no feelings of bitterness within

me. I have worked hard to make those bleak years contribute something of value

to me as a man - as a human being. I have succeeded to some degree. The simple

process of mental exercise, especially in solitary confinement, has helped me to

arrive at some simple basic truths about life and my place in this structure of

human interaction. I know what freedom is because men attempted to deprive

me of it. I have found freedom to be a mental attitude. You can be free even

though confined in a cell if you set your mind to that task. Then you learn that

freedom of speech is as much an obligation as it is a right. You must insure that

those who have opposite views are allowed to express them through the same

media that you use to express your opinions and beliefs. You don’t have that

right in Hanoi, but we do have it here in the United States of America”.

He further stated, “We have problems in our country, but we are a great people.

United we can accomplish almost anything we wish to achieve. We have so very

much, we can afford to be generous with the less fortunate people of this world.

Life is very beautiful for me now. All those dreams I had in prison about my family

and my countrymen have actualized far beyond my dreams. I don’t think a man

can get beyond that. I have dealt destruction and know deeply the tragedy of

war. Yet in the end, knowing the tragedy and terror of war, it is necessary to

combat those who would try to control every thought, breath, and word - even

every act of life, to their own way. That is a more evil thing”.

CDR Ernest Moore retired from the United States Navy as a Captain. Moore and

his three daughters, Michelle 17, Melissa 15 and Leslie 10 make their home in

Coronado, California as they enjoy the benefits of freedom in the United States.

Harry and I could only believe that Grandmother had obtained Ernest Moore’s

POW bracelet and continued to pray for his safe return. As a show of support she

wrote letters which she never mailed. Her letters ceased when she passed away

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in January of 1969. Thus we believe the family mystery surrounding Grandma’s

unknown suitor, lover or friend and secret was finally solved.

To Grandma Allen, the aluminum bracelet engraved with Ernest Moore’s name

represented more than a cheap bracelet. It actually represented CDR Moore’s

life, his career and his family. She just couldn’t let that slip away without doing

her little part to support his efforts. And so tonight Grandma and her many kin

folk that visited the old Allen Homestead can rest in peace knowing that she did

her best with her nine small envelopes and the notes she had hand written. She

can now rest in peace knowing that Melvin Moore is at home and among the

living. Her death might well have been easier had she known of his fate before

she passed.

Tonight we will again watch the fireflies from our own bedroom window as we

await the comfort of sleep. But, before sleep comes we will pray for men like CDR

Melvin Moore and the average person like Grandma Allen who are willing to fight,

support and stand up for America and its ideals.

The End

Written by Emmett D. (Don) Mason, Kentucky Colonel

Author of over 28 short stories Mason’s Missives, 6/1/2019, volume 28, “Grandmother’s Homestead, Chattels & Secrets”