The Clark Graveyard Decoration

 The Photos. Top: The Bible, hymnals in a box, and the collection basket 'neath the old Cedar tree. Next is my Great Grandfather Faulkner's (Civil War Vet) tombstone and finally we have my stepfather Fred Wilson, Mama (Sara Wilson) and Uncle Clayton Faulkner at their Grandmother's grave.

Clark Graveyard Decoration is a special annual event where kinfolk show respect to past generations by maintaining and decorating their graves. To my knowledge no one knows when, how or why it began.

The Clark Graveyard is located in southern Bedford County, Tennessee. It is near the rural Vanatta, Midland and Fosterville communities –communities rich in family history from my Mother’s side. The graveyard is still in use and well kept. The tombstones are usually made of marble or granite and are lovingly and creatively decorated with real and artificial bouquets. Veterans' markers are additionally adorned with Old Glory. Throughout the yard mature trees like the softwood aromatic Eastern Red Cedar, various species of Oak, Hickory and other hardwoods, grow straight and tall on the gentle rolling landscape. This day’s weather was mild with a calming breeze out of the north. The sky was a bright unclouded azure blue.

The gathering of mainly baby-boomers and their elderly parents is held every third Sunday in May. I’m not sure who is regularly in charge, or if the position is self-appointed or elected. On this day a friendly fellow who, only slightly bitter, told us he had to take over because his brother was a no show. He informed us that the graveyard bank fund was nearly $6,000 (many heads turned nodding in approval) and on this Sunday we raised over $200 from a small but generous group.

My family is notoriously early to any gathering and this day was no exception. Being early gives us ample time to get choice seats as well as mingle and converse with other early birds. Without fail the number one topic of conversation is finding out who we are related to and how. Oral family history is supremely important to my Mother and we children seemed to inherit the gene –along with prolific if not annoying picture taking.

On this day we met some dear ladies who were related to us through Cousin Jim Will Trott –my Grandfather Faulkner’s first cousin. When the family connection was made a self-congratulating murmur filled the air.  Immediately associated names flowed like a new tapped well: Era Mai, Aunt Kit, Aunt Fannie and Uncle Josh. Each name is usually attached to an unforgettable anecdote like “Aunt so-in-so, who was afflicted" or "Uncle what's-his-name, his oldest boy was kind of slow", or "Cousin so-in-so, poor thing walked with a limp" and so on. With each story their fading names and faces are reborn with reverence and fondness. (Like many other relatives who’s names melded into a single utterance, I grew up thinking Cousin Jim Will was one word: Cudnjimwill. It took me years to discover I could separate the name into meaningful syllables.)

In a short while voluntary offerings were gathered in a woven basket lined with a checkered cloth and plain brown hymnals were handed out to all. Soon our smiling leader found a spot underneath the elderly Cedar tree (which was covered in harmful Poison Ivy on one side and harmless but similar looking Virginia Creeper on the other side) and commences the gathering by welcoming everyone. After a few obligatory business announcements he read the 23^rd Psalm from a large black Bible. Our new found leader's sister was our designated song leader and asks us to please turn to page 171 in our hymnal and all sing Rock of Ages. Since we were all imprinted with the familiar song the singing started well before we found the page in the hymnal. Mostly the women sang out loud and the men, when anyone looked at them, mouthed an accidental harmony.  On the second chorus the song leader’s voice cracked but everyone was too appreciative of her leading the singing to be critical.  

After the last voice on the second hymn died down there was a long pause. Not knowing what to do next the song leader leaned over and whisperer into her brother’s ear. He nodded in agreement and offered up a generic yet pleasant prayer that covered all the bases. A rousing “Amen!” from the contented congregation followed. Our leader seemed pleased and asked if anyone had anything to say. Again there was an extended pause as all the bashful folks looked around for a potential speaker. Finally I impulsively let out with, “It sure is a nice day!” Everyone shook there heads in agreement as they laughed at my outburst. With that our impromptu leader called the gathering to an end and we all exchanged the usual but sincere goodbyes. 

We folded and loaded the almost antique aluminum lawn chairs and pulled Uncle Clayton away from his thoughtful and captive audience --he was telling a small group of ladies a lovely story about curing his prize hunting dog's mange. As we drove off I thought how much those nearly forgotten folks whose names adorn all those silent tombstones would have appreciated the wonderful day and our long-lasting respect.

Later,

Larry

Cud'n Ollie Tucker

Top photo: Sara Faulkner gets homework help from --the always helpful--Cud'n Ollie (on the porch of W.O. Faulkners General Store--see story below). Bottom photo: Cud'n Charlie (L) and Cud'n Ollie take a rest from planting.

I can't say Ollie (Tucker's) name without Cud'n in front of it. (Cud'n being a southern distortion of Cousin.) While some non-related local folks were known as "cousin so-and-so" Cud'n Ollie was a real blood relative.

He was an easy going, pleasant looking, dignified and hard working gent.  He would travel from one set of kinfolk to the other doing odd jobs for room and board --milking cows, feeding chickens, whitewashing, picking cotton, planting crops or gathering hay.

We never knew when or if we'd see our travelling cousin so each visit was special. We younguns enjoyed hearing how he'd met Kit Carson. Daddy pooh-poohed the story by telling us Cud'n Ollie had his wires crossed because he and Kit Carson lived at different times. No problem, the possibility of knowing someone who knew a famous real life 'man of the frontier' made it worth suspending your skepticism for a while.

Cud'n Ollie also entertained us younguns with a little numbers trick --he could tell us how many miles we'd travelled since our last visit. We kids were amazed at Cud'n Ollie's savant-like memory. Of course, unlike Cud'n Ollie, we did not know what an odometer was or, for that matter, what arithmetic was. But like all illusions the world was truly magical --at least for a while until we figured out how he did it. 

Over time Cud'n Ollie faded from our lives. What happened was we became teenagers, no longer interested in Cud'n Ollie's easy going ways and mundane stories. By the time we realized how much more we wanted to know about him and from him, dear old Cud'n Ollie was gone.  

Later,

Larry

Papa Faulkner

Photos L-R: W.O. Faulkner with first grandson Skipper Hayes; Papa and Grandma in a good humor; an elderly Grandma and Papa with expecting grand-daughter Pam Mack. Below: W.O. in his WWI uniform.

Walter Orr Faulkner (W.O. to friends and Papa to the grandchildren) was the picture of goodness. An orphan at a young age he was lovingly raised by kinfolk.  He was soft-spoken, calm and ruled by honey rather than vinegar. He was liked by all he met.

Mr. Todd told me of the time he and some other young boys attempted to buy blasting powder at Papa's general store. The boys planned on fishing the easy way, that is, they were going to blast the fish right out of a pond and Papa knew what they were up to.  He calmly and in his unadorned way told them, "Boys, I know what you plan on doing with the powder and I don't think it is the right thing to do." According to Mr. Todd, Papa never raised his voice, yet he appealed to their better side in such a way that the boys felt ashamed and abandoned their sly idea.

Papa started his country store while the Great Depression still had a stranglehold on the country. Papa gave President Roosevelt credit for rescuing the local area and indeed the country. Many folks in the dirt poor rural south benefited from FDR's work programs and, like Papa, they became died-in-the-DNA Democrats. Near the end of his life he laid helpless on a small V.A. hospital bed in the fetal position barely alive -- he did not recognize his grandchildren or daughter Sara, yet when asked if he was a Democrat or Republican the metal bed would rattle as he blurted out DEMOCRAT!

The only complaint I ever heard about Papa was a halfhearted and humorous one from Grandma. She said with a chuckle, "When our fourth and last child Robbie was born, Walter was more interested in showing the neighbors Old Ring's (the family cow) newborn twin calves than he was his own daughter." 

If only the world was full of good old souls like W.O. Faulkner.

Later,

Larry

Big Grandma

On Mama's side we had Big Grandma Faulkner and on Daddy's side there was Little Grandma Pinkerton. This is a ditty about Big Grandma.

Photos: (L-R) Grandma Faulkner holding grand-baby Pamela Pinkerton with grand-baby Johnny Tuttle tagging along. Next is Grandma all dressed up and finally Grandma as an attractive middle aged lady.

BIG GRANDMA

Big Grandma Faulkner carried her large stout frame proudly. Her long strong arms and big hands worked perfectly with a handsaw, a hammer, a sewing machine, a knitting needle and yes, a switch.

Grandma ruled the roost. She once firmly told my grandfather, who was having a hard time repairing the sink plumbing, "Come up from there Walter and let me fix it!" And she did.

I can see her now in a casual long dress wiping her hands on a worn and stained apron. For church she might dress up in a  fashionable hat, a dark colored dress, a floral broach with her well-bookmarked Bible tucked under her arm.  

She was born and raised in the country; went to a country school; married a country man; ran a country store and lived out her life in the country. Along with her husband (who the grand kids called Papa) Grandma reared four fine children; raised chickens for eggs and food; varnished the rocking chairs; made whitewash and swabbed it on the chicken coop and the smoke house;  dressed up the yard in Roses and Irises; maintained a small neatly planted vegetable garden; painstakingly crafted quilts and knitted doilies; made foot stools out of discarded cans; washed clothes in an old wringer washer; made hot water bread; sang beautiful tenor harmony--all the while entertaining and teaching us real life lessons with stories adorned in a colorful homegrown language. 

She recognised humor at play quickly. She'd mock and call "Preacher", the vocal male yellow cat, to the back door where he would strike up a sermon, which was usually about "feeding the masses". He'd preach, with a few "amens" echoed back from Big Grandma, who finally passed the hat and collected him a tasty table scrap or two.

Larry

W.O. Faulkner's General Store

I was almost five when Papa and Grandma Faulkner sold their Donnell's Chapel store. My memories are few but clear mental snapshots of people, looks and smells. The rest I filled in with relatives help. 

Photo: W.O. Faulkner sits on the porch of the family owned store.

In 1934, the great depression was lingering yet the family Doctor, Dr. Gordon, felt W.O. and Rubye Faulkner worthy of a $200 loan. With the loan Papa and Grandma Faulkner, along with three of their eventual four children (Clayton, Edna and Sara--Robbie would be born the next year), left Midland, Tennessee in Bedford County and moved about 30 miles northeast to open a store in the gentle rolling hills and valleys of Donnell's Chapel, Tennessee (in Rutherford County). They owned the store until around 1956.

The modest store building and a house next door was leased from Mr. Carter. The store construction was typical of the day: sawmill wood framing, plank siding and a tin roof. The tin on the shed roof, which overhung the porch, was dented and gnarled. (According to Aunt Robbie the dents where from wholesalers backing their trucks into it.) The building was painted regularly with Grandma's homemade "whitewash". The wood porch spanned the front of the building with a well-worn bench provided for customers to rest, whittle, or just wave at passing cars. Cases of empty "cold drink" bottles were stacked and ready to be picked up by vendors for credit.There was a large Coca-Cola and Pepsi sign attached to the front eave of the building displaying "W.O. Faulkner" or "W.O. Faulkner's General Merchandise". The front of the building was a mosaic of signs placed by companies touting their wares at the popular store.  

It was was not unusual for locals to come down from the hills on horseback or in wagons loaded with barter such as watermelons or molasses. Papa often gave credit to those needing help until they could "get back on their feet". The country folk came from nearby Murray, Burkes Hollow, Big Springs and Cripple Creek. Cars and trucks boiled up dust from the unpaved limestone gravel pike as they pulled up to get fifty cents or a dollars worth at the single Esso (now Exxon) gas pump. 

During warm weather the wide solid wood front door was left open. Colonial Bread furnished a spring loaded screen door (with it's familiar logo) that helped keep flies and other critters out.  As you entered, the screen door spring whined, recoiled and gently shut the door behind you. The inviting clean smell of freshly ground coffee and rolls of new cloth welcomed you. Papa and Grandma looked up and greeted you with an honest "hi-dee", "come in" or "how'd do".

To your left was the checkout counter with a large manual cash register perched upon it. Also on the counter sat a big barrel shaped glass jar full of multicolored hard and soft candy. For a nickel you'd get a heaping scoop of candy that would fill a small brown paper bag. Behind the counter was a hand cranked phone and can goods organized on shelves that ran the length of the store. Papa also carried coal oil (kerosene) for lamps, heaters and fuel. Just past the counter was a coffee grinder where the aroma of pounds of fresh ground coffee hung in the air. In the middle of the store was a glass display case, containing bread and other staples. The display case rested on a shiny varnished wood enclosure which in turn sat on the old plank flooring. Further to the right was another glass display case with an assortment of notions: hair oil, combs, skin tonic etc., all displayed in tempting ways. On the the right wall shelves contained aromatic bolts of fabric for curtains, dressmaking, quilting and the like.

In the winter a black pot bellied coal burning stove was both a comfort to customers and a danger to children lured by it's warmth. Vented straight up through the ceiling the cast iron heater kept the store comfortably warm. (Typical of the day, holes in the wall where a stove pipe used to be, were covered creatively with plate size pictures of "Jesus on the Mount" or "Jesus and his Flock" cut out of handheld church fans--nothing was wasted.)

Churches and country stores were often the epicenter of rural social life. Farmers would sit contentedly in a circle around the warm heater telling tales of crops gone bad, bad weather and how things had changed. In between the colorful rural stories, the men spit well chewed tobacco into the provided spittoons and contemplated their next tale. During those moments of reflection the place was as quiet as a cemetery. Occasionally the silence was disrupted when the squeaky iron door of the black stove was flung open to add a chunk or two of coal, and for a while the room smelled of coal dust. The calming quiet would linger when, out of the blue, someone in the group would begin a new yarn with, "That's right" or "Uh-hum, yeah" as if to agree wholeheartedly with his, yet to be told, story.

Later,

Larry