This page is dedicated to memories of life in the Appalachian Mountains, to the loved ones who have gone before us, and to the seasons of time gone by.
I wanted to share a piece of my heart with you, the reader. The most vital part of my journey has always been the people who walked it with me: my family, my friends, my children, and all those I have held dear. They are the true soul of my story.
The Strength of the Ridge: Memories of Bryant and Polly Severt
In the high country of Ashe County, life wasn’t handed to you on a silver platter; it was earned with blistered hands and a “right smart” amount of sweat. My Papal, Bryant Vance Severt, and my Mamal, Virginia Clara “Polly” Severt, were the strongest people I ever knew. They lived in a big two-story house without a lick of indoor plumbing, paper thin walls, the cold wind blew right through, but it didn’t touch the warmth of our hearts. We never felt like we were lacking.
I mind the times we’d sit in the living room, passing around a gallon jar of fresh cream. We’d take turns shaking that jar for a spell until it turned to cow’s butter for Polly’s scratch-made biscuits. To this day, that was the best victuals a body ever ate.
Since there was no water in the house, we’d tote stainless steel buckets from the spring and keep them on a cabinet by the wood cook stove. I can still taste the cold water from that old aluminum dipper. I still eat my oatmeal out of the same aluminum bowl Mamal fed me from, it keeps the heat in for an hour, and it’s plumb perfect for ice cream cold, too.
Life was a constant cycle of the seasons. When the weather turned airish, it was “pine tipping” time. Mamal was picky; she’d climb those big pines to get the perfect three-pronged tips, and I’d be at the bottoms of the tree a-filling the sacks. We’d turn the living room into a workshop with roping tables, working until our fingers bled. We’d wash the sticky resin off our hands with butter, the scent of pine filling the house with a larruping warmth.
When we weren’t a-making roping, we were “pulling leaves” from beadwood trees or digging may-apple and bloodroot. I’d try to stay out of the poison oak, but I’d usually end up covered in itchy bumps unbeknownst to me until the next morning.
Summer meant bean-picking time. We’d head to the fields at five in the morning, our jeans damp from the dew-laden vines. I’d be a-picking as fast as I could, but Mamal could get twenty bushels to my one, she had a way of seeing every bean on the vine, too. After a long day in the sun, a bologna sandwich and a Sunkist was a feast.
Papal had a way with his honey bee gums, too. He’d put on his netted hood and his smoker, and we’d stay back, tetchy about getting stung, but eager for that sweet comb. He was a patient man, especially with me. My cousins would run when they got in a gaum, but I was his “pet.” I’d just walk up and say I was sorry, so I never did get a whopping.
We’d sit on the porch for hours, a-shelling beans or a-shucking corn, just a close-knit family a-talking and a-laughing. Those “hardships” made us who we are, stubborn, headstrong, and full of compassion.
Papal and Mammal gave us everything just by being who they were. They were one of a kind, and though they’ve moved on to that quiet cove over yonder, I’m beholden to them for the life they gave me.
Dedicated to their memory.
Bryant Vance Severt
08-6-1934 til 01-7-2016
Virginia Clara ‘Polly’ Dishman Severt
07-14-1938 til 01-18-2018
In Loving Memory of Ramona Lee May: July 4, 1977 — February 3, 2021
As we age, we carry the weight of those who have gone before us. We remember the grandparents who shaped us with unconditional love and taught us the mechanics of survival. We remember the lifelong friends we could hardly imagine living without, the ones who offered a helping hand, a boost of spirit, or a shoulder to cry on.
I had such a friend in Monie May. Her smile could light up the entire world, fueled by a heart of gold. No matter the emergency, she managed to be there for everyone lucky enough to call her a friend. She was tough as nails when she needed to be and fierce if crossed, yet she was a devoted mother who acted as a shield for those she loved.
Monie was an amazing woman who endured her share of hardships. Life wasn’t always kind to her, and she struggled as we all do, but she was eventually lucky enough to find a partner who cherished and doted on her, a love she returned in full. Though life still held its losses, she finally found the comfort she had long lacked, providing her children with the stable, loving home they deserved.
She was taken from this world far too suddenly and far too soon. I miss her every day. I still find myself reaching for the phone to call her, wanting to share good news or bad with the one person I knew truly cared. She wasn’t perfect, she made her share of mistakes just like the rest of us, but she was extraordinary. Since she’s been gone, she has missed so many milestones: the accomplishments she would have been proud of and the “firsts” of her children. She should have been here to witness the trials and the triumphs of those she loved.
As time moves on, I have lost more dear friends, people I thought would be by my side until the end of time. It is difficult to make new friends because they cannot share the history of the pain, the loss, and the laughter we weathered together. A true friend can never be replaced, not by a thousand others, not by a billion. It would take that many just to fill the shoes of a “true blue” soul like Monie.
I miss my family and my friends who have moved on, but they are never truly gone. They filled the internal void created by their absence. They helped form the person I am today, and every kindness they showed me on my journey has made them immortal in my heart.
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