Did he know we were there?

 Do my blessed ancestors in heaven know us? Are they aware of what we are doing here? Prayers to these saints are heard, we know, but do they know anything else about us. Scripture hints that they do, but also hints that they don't. 

This month I walked through five cemeteries and stood at the graves of ancestors who lived and died in the hollows and highlands of eastern Tennessee and western North Carolina. Graves from the late 1700s to near present day. 

On Saturday September 5, 2026 I took my family to the grave of my Great great grandfather, Troy Jones and his wife, my Great great grandmother, Candace Pruitt Jones. Montezuma Cemetery in Montezuma, NC. I have a bed that he made in my home with a picture of him beside it. I did not know him, but knew his daughter, Clara Greene, my great grandmother. 

Around his grave this day were a great great grandson, three GGG grandchildren and five GGGG grandchildren, and three of their spouses. 9 direct descendants. Perhaps the most that ever stood at their grave at any one time, at least the most in a long time. She died in 1926, He died in 1923. I would like to think that a hundred years from now my descendants will visit my remains. Perhaps tell some funny story that has been passed down. Maybe my GGG granchildren will run on top of me and rattle my bones a bit as my grandchildren did on them. That would be nice. Thank you Troy and Candace. You are not forgotten. 

The Thing: What I saw in Nashville

 A hobo on a park bench reading The Wizard of OZ. 

Some boots owned by Hank Williams Sr.

The grave of Johnny Paycheck 

Cornbread and Buttermilk and the unrolling of stuff

 When I was in my early teens or so my grandfather tried to feed me cornbread and buttermilk. Crumbled it in a tall glass and poured cold buttermilk over it.  Handed it to me, "try it, nothin better than cornbread and buttermilk." In my teens through present day, this seems a disgusting combination. I could take either separately, but not the combination. Like mustard and ice cream, Japan and Korea, Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln, lobstermen and opera - cornbread and buttermilk were two of God's gifts best left separate.

Yet, it is taxing to resist the touching of a family tradition. Doing things my grandparents did, and their grandparents did, has always had appeal. Not something of power or magic or mystical source of strength. Yet a thing with purpose that I often feel I should do. The past matters, my past, my ancestors past, my grandchildren's past. When I can touch it in some way that is not make-believe I do. 

It is Holy Week. My wife is in Arkansas, chasing tornadoes and siblings and the offspring of siblings. 

I made a pot of soup beans a few days ago. They are only available to me at times such as this. Solitary times. 

I also made cornbread, of course, to go with the beans. Used corn meal and Martha White flour and all the usual components. Baked it in my great grandmother's iron skillet. I had one hot slice after another, big wedges covered with butter, or mashed into a bowl of beans. While cleaning up I stared at the cornbread leftovers and a half quart of buttermilk, sitting side by side on the kitchen counter. I heard the voice of my ancestor, Houston Blevins, my mother's father, speaking a simple truth with his mouth full, drippings on his chin, "You ever had cornbread and buttermilk? Honey, it's good! "

After 50 or so years of resistance, I caved. Like the chicago cubs in August my strength of will faded before the still clear memory of his voice. 

If there is a Cornbread Church, this was the day I saw the light. The scales fell off my eyes. The sea parted, the rain stopped, the dove flew away, the fire fell and the lady turned to salt. This is day I walked the aisle and said "sign me up, and give me some more of that mountain stuff". 

That good mountain stuff. That good mountain stuff.