Part of the old house is the original log cabin Papaw built on to after he drove cattle from Washington County to settle here; on land bought from his new brides father. It was a simple gabled roofed house that sat on a knob, in a little valley of Bullitt County, Kentucky. Truth be told, Papaw probably had more money in the big barn down the knob than he did in the house. But I loved the place and loved coming here. As I tossed the pillow and quilts back against the headboard, a solitary feather escaped the pillow seam and floated gently across the room to land in the dim light of the window. Dawn was barely breaking over Peacock Hill as I peered through the glass.
“Cavin”, I smiled as I pulled on my jeans, thinking about the way my great grandparents pronounced my name. Armstrongs had been in Kentucky and Virginia since 1690. Some of the phrases and terminology they used was certainly Scottish and Irish. I suppose Cavin made more sense to their inherent Scottish inclinations than the more Irish/American ‘Kevin’ did. At twelve years old I thought it bit funny, but at the same time I liked the way it sounded when they said it. I pulled on my boots and headed for the table, buttoning my shirt as I stumbled toward the light of the kitchen.
The old wooden table was set full of biscuits, slab bacon, eggs, potatoes and butter. Every bit of it from the self-sustaining farm they called home. Papaw and Mamaw were waiting as I sat down to eat. We bowed our heads while Grace was said. Mamaw had poured me a cup of coffee. When I was here, or at my grandparents, I was allowed to drink it, and I loved it. Still do. We talked about the weather and today’s squirrel hunt, the reason for my stay, and chores that needed done. I watched them, Willie and Ethel, trading barbs and laughing, even at this early hour. They were quite a pair.
Willie was a slim man, of average height. He still wore bands on his long sleeves just above the elbow, like men did in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. Round glasses sat on his nose under a hat that he was seldom without. He wore a straw hat in summer, the kind with the green visor in the brim. He wore a felt/wool hat in the winter. At other times a ball cap. Most of the time he was dressed in bib overalls with laced up work boots on his feet. Great grandma Ethel was plump and jolly. She always wore dresses and stockings. Her long hair was worn in a bun that shook a little when she laughed. And she loved to laugh. They both did. Conversations with Willie and Ethel would always be rich with jokes and chuckles. To me they seemed like the happiest people in the world. They saw their share, and then some, of troubles in this life. And no marriage is bed of roses always. But, happy, that’s what they were this day, and how I remember them now.
We finished breakfast and Mamaw put the extra biscuits and bacon on the back of the cook stove. They’d be gone before the day was done. Plenty of hungry boys and men around this farm. Papaw and I headed outside into the early chill, past the smoke house and down the sloping path to the barn and blacksmith shop. The guineas raised the alarm as I went by. Their shrill call startled me at first. "Well, if anyone was still asleep around here, they aren't now" I thought. . With the chores done, we headed back past the log shed toward the “holler” in between the hills.
Guns tucked under our arms, we walked quietly along the road. Only the crunch of dirt and grass under our feet gave away that anyone was up and about. The sun was just beginning to light up the hilltops. A mist was rising like blue/white ghosts out of the valley floor and hanging in the peaks far above us. Off in the distance a dogs bark was echoing through the valley. Hard to say where he was, sounds travel long distances in between the hills. We crossed the creek and opened a gate. “Remember” Papaw said “ If you open a gate, you close the gate behind you. Or you could wind up chasing cows all day”. I closed the gate and we made our way along the creek bank, following the grassy dirt and creek rock road.
The holler was such a magical place to me. It was a pasture in a hollowed out area surrounded by hills of hardwoods. You were wrapped in trees with a circle of sky overhead. It was like stepping into another world. My Uncle Butch Armstrong later built a house in this holler. I always envied him living there. Papaw headed up the creek to the right and sent me into a little draw on the left. I sat down in the thick autumn leaves, enjoying the woods and anxious for the squirrels to move. A crash in the distance told me a squirrel was leaving his nest. I would be ready, and so would Papaw.
What a morning this was. A noisy woodpecker was calling in between hammers on a tree trunk. blue Jays, Cardinals and Meadow Larks all voiced there opinions of this glorious morn. The air was cool and fresh. I took in all that was around me, and drew in a deep breath. I felt then that I was in the most beautiful place on earth, on the most beautiful morning ever. I felt happy to be alive and to be a part this family of mine. Parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. And for this morning spent with my great grandparents, Willie and Ethel. I knew that there just couldn’t be a morning better than this one.
And now, looking back many years later, I would have to say that few have been.
