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knoxcotn-digest Sunday, July 2 2000 Volume 01 : Number 103

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Date: Sun, 02 Jul 2000 11:43:12 -0700

From: "Billie R. McNamara" <knox@tngenweb.org>

Subject: [KnoxCoTN] 11 June 2000: Sunday Afternoon Rocking

Walking the Trails (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series)

Afternoon all,

I live in the heart of mountains, mountains shrouded in more than the soft

blue mists of an early dawn or a late evening...mountains shrouded in a

mantle of heritage, mountains that shelter beneath green leafy canopies the

paths our ancestors once trod, mine and yours. Not much more than a

stone's throw from my door is the Wilderness Road, and nearby, the older

Boone's Trace. More than a few of our ancestors, with hope in their

hearts, made their way through the Cumberland Gap, that natural pass that

contributed so to westward expansion, and followed these paths. Many days

I have spent hiking those trails, and dreaming of a day I might traipse the

Appalachian Trail, from start to finish...a dream which, Lord willin' and

creeks don't rise, I may one day do. It is a lesson in appreciation,

walking those paths. One clambers up and down mountains, across ridges,

around sheer cliffs, chooses slippery moss-covered stepping stones in a

creek rather than wade it...and there is a lot of time for reflection, a

lot of time for appreciation.

More than once I think of "them" when I hike those trails. I may walk the

same paths their feet trod, but my experience is vastly different. I enter

the trails prepared, with good hiking boots, the supplies I might need, a

full stomach, and a feeling of relative security. Someone knows where I

have gone, when I will emerge, will come looking if I do not. I know what

the weather will be, and if a slight shower catches me unaware I will take

shelter under an overhang, knowing my discomfort is temporary. The end of

the journey is assured for me, and will be no more than a few hours

away. My only motivation is the recreation, the appreciation of nature, a

brief interlude of "escape". There is a hot meal and a hot shower waiting

for me at the end of a perfect day. There is little to worry over...the

trails are virtually safe so long as one is alert for unwary snakes not

looking for company. The most startling thing one might come upon is a

deer that goes crashing into the wilderness, or a chipmunk scurrying for

cover...obviously as startled as you are yourself. Now and then the

weather channel might overlook a thunderstorm warning...but the woods are

full of natural shelters...and it simply makes the day a bit more

interesting to huddle beneath a rock cliff watching the rain run in muddy

rivulets off the side of an overhang...and provides time to wonder.

The cliff overhang I have taken shelter under is ancient and natural,

carved in the belly of a fat mother mountain. A natural secure womb for the

weary traveler, it has housed more than one throughout the years. Indeed

the blackened embers at my feet tell me a visitor not so long ago has

stopped here to take a respite. And as I shiver in the cool dampness,

huddle against the cold rock walls waiting for nature to play out her fury,

I wonder.... once upon a time did a band of weary pioneers do the

same? Did a group of men gather at the edge of the overhang, mumbling

about time lost, watching the woods warily for intruders, anxiously casting

looks back at fretful children and weary mothers? Did a mother comfort a

feverish child beside a fire built in the belly of this carved out bit of

rock? Did a new life find its first beginnings in such a place as

this? Did a small band stop here because of weather...or because a member

of their party could travel no further and they hoped to nurse him to

health....or to wait for him to die?

I traipse the trails and wonder how many are buried along it....know that

undoubtedly many are, unmarked and known but to God. That slab of rock

there is natural, indigenous to the area, but the way it is tilted on its

side, and buried one flat side down in the earth is not...could it possibly

be a semblance of a marker for someone long ago others stood on this same

trail and grieved? How many are they who never saw the end of their

journey? How many left a loved one here, buried quickly with no time for

closure or good-byes, moving on with heavy hearts and pain, understanding

all too well that they would never return, nor would they know exactly

where it was along they way they left a child, a mother, a brother. Did

they try in their humble way to mark the spot with what natural material

they could find? And did they, passing the graves of those who had

traipsed the trail long before they did, draw a quick breath and whisper a

soft prayer when they saw evidence of the story that might indeed wind up

being their own? Did the little band suddenly become hushed, a man remove

his hat in respect, as they trudged past, hoping that fate might not be

their own? The

skirmishes with natives in this area were many, and folks passing through

might well know where it was this or that one took place. Did the men

suddenly begin to whisper among themselves as they passed the scene of a

massacre months before, taking care not to alert their women and children

that "this" was the spot? And did they draw a deep breath of relief when

that spot was behind them?

What emotions did they carry in their hearts as they walked these

paths? For some there would have been fear, surely....knowledge of the

dangers faced, of the powers of nature, the wrath of natives, the fear of

bandits and murderers preying on small bands traveling west. For the youth

there would have been a spirit of adventure, an anticipation of all that

awaited, and in the way of youth that spirit would have outweighed a sense

of danger. Even "youth" would have a far different definition,

however...for few there would have been who lived to see half a century

pass, and a thirty year old would have been a man past prime and in

maturity. For all would have been a glimmer of hope, a resolution that

this journey must be worth any price, else they would not have made

it. They would probably make less than ten miles per day many days, and

their journey would be long with no comforts waiting at the end of it save

what they were able of themselves to carve from the resources surrounding

them. Nor would the end of the journey mean an end to danger...danger

would be a mantle that would drape itself from their shoulders for all of

their lives.

I come out of the wilderness not more than three or five miles from where I

entered it, stepping onto a blacktop road where modern vehicles whiz by on

their way to comfortable homes, air conditioned stores, malls, jobs. Less

than an hour away at most a hot shower awaits me, a meal of my choice, a

comfortable easy evening. My blessings of today would not have been but

for their hardships of a day long ago.

And so when I walk the trails, I walk not with fear in my heart, or

wariness....but for a respite from the stresses of living, for a glimpse of

serenity....and my experience is far different from theirs. I begin the

journey for different reasons, end it more quickly, and simply return to

the same comfortable nest I left in the same day. They set their feet upon

those trails for far more serious reasons, and nested in a corner of their

hearts must have been the hope that for their children and their children's

children they would carve a more secure world. Perhaps they thought no

further than those immediate generations, perhaps they dared not dream

more. However far-reaching or limited their vision, they accomplished

their purpose. And so today....I step out of the woods on a black topped

road that leads to comfort. Their tears, their trials, their blood, and

their courage bought this. It was their gift, unwitting though they may

have been of how long-reaching those sacrifices would be.

But it makes me wonder....if their purpose was a safer more secure world

for themselves and their children, they accomplished that very thing....and

more besides. If one walks the trails for a purpose....if this was their

gift to generations unborn....then what must OUR gift be? Simply to

remember? To appreciate? Or something more? Do we walk our trails of

today with the hope of something more secure for our children and our

children's children? Or do we simply enjoy the fruits of those who have

walked the trails before us? If we dared to dream as they did, what would

be the securities we would wish for those unborn? Have we set ourselves on

a Wilderness Road fully aware of dangers, but reaching for a promise that

we ourselves might not live to see to fruition anymore than they had the

assurance? Or are we simply retracing the same tired path, now that the

wilderness is tamed, free of the dangers of two hundred years ago? What

must our gift be?

just a thought,

jan

.________________________________________________

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shared...simply share as written without alterations...and in entirety.

Thanks, jan)

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Date: Sun, 02 Jul 2000 11:44:24 -0700

From: "Billie R. McNamara" <knox@tngenweb.org>

Subject: [KnoxCoTN] 04 June 2000: Sunday Afternoon Rocking

"Re-building a House" (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series)

Afternoon All,

No doubt you are surprised that this week Sunday Afternoon Rocking is a

mite late. Indeed it is, both due to a lot of "goings on" in my life, some

stressful and some celebratory. But it is primarily due to a hard drive

crash that did not get my back issues, but certainly wiped out the many

"future" editions of the column you were to see, and which I kept as "back

up" for those busy times of life. In short, "I am building my house" again.

More than a few of you have had this frustrating occurence happen

yourselves, I am sure. And more than a few of you have probably learned

along the way that a hard drive is not a good place to store those things

"near and dear to one's heart" without a backup. It has been a valuable

lesson, and typically, has set me thinking.

The crash of a hard drive may indeed be frustrating, even somewhat

heart-breaking (I am still realizing the messages I have lost), but it is

very very small in the great scheme of things. I survived close to forty

years never knowing the value of one, a lot of that period not knowing what

one was <smile>, I am sure this is not any life-changing event! A minor

inconvenience, perhaps, one that will take a bit of time to recuperate, but

nothing more. And in counting blessings, and considering losses, a lot of

thoughts have tapped in...thoughts of the losses of others...thoughts of

the legacies of losses.

In an earlier column I told you of a great great aunt, whose house burned

not once but three times, and each time she straightened her shoulders,

dried her tears, looked life square in the eye, and rebuilt...three times

in the same spot...even when one of those house fires meant the deaths of

three of her children. Although I never knew this woman, and the only story

of her that survives in this family line is the one I relate, this story

since the day I found three tiny graves on a hill and heard it, has been a

source of both awe and inspiration to me. I may not know the color of her

eyes, her hair, what she enjoyed, what she dreamed, the sound of her

laughter, or anything of her personality beyond this trait....but her story

is a legacy with a lesson beyond measure.

"Build your house again". I have seen the story repeated in cemeteries,

over and over, and so have you. The man whose wives met untimely deaths in

childbirth, the man who began again and again to give his living children a

home, to rebuild a family. The woman who raised a large brood alone after

the untimely death of her husband, or married again and gave her children a

fresh start. We see the story in the historical accounts of communities

that at sometime in their past found a population faltering due to disease

or economic woes...and somehow managed to draw a weak but brave breath,

pull color into its cheeks again, and greet the world again, sometimes with

fresh growth, sometimes by simply surviving in some manner of speaking

despite a tragedy. We see the story in the migrations of the past brought

about by political upheavals, disease, economic woes....and always we know

that in hearts burned hope that in a new place with a fresh start there was

a new chance. We see the story in deeds and we see it in wills, if we but

have the wit to read between the lines, and realize that we are as surely

seeing a documentation of hope as we are a documentation of legal records.

Who among us has not the story in our legacy of a "rebuilt house"? Each of

us has not one, but many stories. Many of us know the first ancestor who

sailed the seas to this country, and the story of why. Many of us know

which ancestor left the established settlements of the east and conquered

trails westward. More than a few of us have ancestors who walked the Trail

of Tears, who were driven from a home simply because of "being in the wrong

place at the wrong time". We have ancestors who knew the division of a

nation and fought the battle that ultimately meant that house, at least,

still stood. For every event related in a history book, we can match an

ancestor who lived in the time, and either knew the "rebuilding of a house"

on a national level or a personal one. We draw inspiration from their

stories, and we recognize the truth in our own lives.

If there is one thing about the human spirit that must be universal,

indigenous to all times and all peoples, it must be hope. Hope has rebuilt

houses when disease, famine, fires, and politics have destroyed them. Hope

has been responsible for revived families, revived communities and revived

nations. Hope has kindled a spirit crushed beneath the heels of all of

those things life dishes out that can't be helped, and all of those unfair

things that could have been helped but were not. Hope has breathed life

into a repentant heart and given renewal to a worn and tired one. Hope has

opened the door to medical discoveries and life-easing inventions. Hope has

been the unnamed character in all of our family trees that insured there

was one. If there is one trait that humankind holds in common across the

centuries, across the world, and one trait responsible for the march of

timeless survival it must be this.

The ancient Greeks told the story of a young woman given a box by Zeus, and

told never to open it. Typically human, curiosity overcame Pandora, and

when she opened the box all the evils of the world swarmed into it. Grief,

sinful natures, pain, disease, heart-break, famine, war....until she

slammed the box shut and buried her head in sorrow over what she had

released upon mankind. There came a knock from the inside of the box, and a

tiny voice begging, "Let me out!" Finally, hearing no evil in that still

small voice, she eased open the cover again. One last gift flew out....and

it was Hope.

Whether it be a myth, born of convictions of the past no longer subscribed

to by any of those populating the earth or not, the story relates an

ancient truth. Hope is all that keeps us trudging.

I often think it is not the names, the dates, the "facts" behind a family

line that is the most important thing of all this we do at all...but the

legacy that documentation can teach us. Consider the common thread next

time you admire that family lineage you can trace sixteen generations.

Consider the element that brought it to today, and at what points that

element might have seemed to be no more than dying embers, and at what

point it sprang flaming to provide a new light to a family in darkness.

Consider Hope a legacy.