Friday, April 06, 2012

Ammonia Lynn Collins

Ammonia Collins wasn't much fond of her name.  It weren't spelled exactly right, in her opinion.  Her Mama had named her "Aah-moan-Nye-uh" because she had heard the name somewhere in the mountains and thought it was pretty.  Mama claimed it was either Cherokee or Choctaw and meant something right lovely, but she never remembered exactly what.

The problem happened after she was born in 1951, when her mama tried to spell it out and write the name down in the family Bible and register here home birth at the courthouse over to Manchester, Kentucky.  She dutifully rode from Beloved to Manchester with her husband Chester in their 1950 International Harvester truck, visited the County Clerk's office and with some difficulty and not just a little pride completed the short form announcing the birth and naming of Chester Woodrow Collins and Amy Rose (Sizemore) Collins first baby girl. 

Amy Rose had learned to read and write way back when some city women came down the river and set up some sort of trainin' and schoolin' camp in tents on a hillside under a grove of sycamore trees.  The city women had taught cookin', first aid, readin' and writin', sewin' and other lady like pastimes. Amy Rose had learned all the writin' she could stand that summer way back when.

When she went to the clerk and handed him the form she had her shoulders back, a smile on her face and pride in her heart.  The clerk, Homer James Goins, looked the form over and looked hard at Amy Rose.

"Ammonia?  You are namin' your little gal baby Ammonia?" he asked carefully?  One had to be careful in the clerks office.  No sense startin' a feud over a misspelling.

"No, Homer James.  It is 'Aah-moan-Nye-uh', an Indian name.  I forgot what it means, but it means something awful good in Indian.  We are part Indian, you know.  My Grandma was named Cherokee Bowling, after all."

"Yes, mam, I do remember that.  You sure that is how it is spelled?  We could spell it a little different if you want." Homer James said hopefully.

"Nossir,  that is the way it is supposed to be spelled."

That is how Ammonia, actually Ammonia Lynn Collins was named. 

Sunday, April 01, 2012

Summertime Memories Revisited

 Arnett Homeplace, Double Creek, Kentucky - home of my Great Aunts Mag and Bess and Great Uncle Bill.  This is something I wrote 8 years ago (7/7/2004) as I dreamed of the place

It is so easy for me to close my eyes and go back to those summer memories. Somehow about 40 years fall off and I am 11 and it is July in the hills of Kentucky.

Double Creek is where my Grandma moved after my Grandpa (my namesake Steve Hollen) died. I should say she moved back to Double Creek because that is where she was born. My Uncle Bert built his Mama a log cabin right across the creek from the Arnett homestead. Family tradition says that Grandma's Grandpa - Tom Arnett built the log cabin back after the Yanks and Rebs kept coming by and taking anything that wasn't tied down.

The creek that ran through the little valley was the center of my day. My brother and I waded into the creek early each morning and wandered up and down about 2 miles of Little Double Creek as we played.

Crawdads were a favorite catch for us as we bent over shallow pools filled with sand and small rock for our prey to hide under. Our hands wrapped around rocks as we cornered them or waited patiently as they would scoot backward into our waiting grasp. Our girl cousins were often chased by one or both of us. Hands full of crawdads were a wonderful prize!  We didn't care that their claws dug deep into our tender palms as long as we could terrorize a sweet mountain girl.

Down where Little Double and Big Double Creek split off was out swimmin' hole. It was the deepest spot on the creek. It was also the most distant from Grandma's house at over a mile away. That wasn't much of a problem since everyone along that creek was kin. We waved as we walked the dusty road. Cousins, Aunts and Uncles waved back and sometimes called us in for a cold Coke or maybe some blackberry cobbler with sweet cream poured on top.

The family names along that creek were like a genealogy lesson...Hollen, Arnett, Gilbert. Smith, Bowling. All settlers in the early 1800s. All family on one side or the other.

The swimmin' hole was also the place where folks were baptized when the circuit ridin' preacher held services in the one room school house on Double Creek. He came once a month, preached, had dinner with folks and in the afternoon would baptize any folks that got saved in the last month or two.

Seems like my brother, my cousin J.M. and I practiced baptizin' each other a few times in that swimmin' hole. Sometimes it was solemn and sometimes we would just grab someone and dunk 'em quick and hard.

As we would walk home the yellow dust from the road would cover our feet like magic shoes. We would run, fleet at the whitetail deer that would often stand on the hillsides. They would pause under the shade of a sweet gum or sourwood and watch as we raced home.

A quick stop at the creek to wash off the dust and we would run into the cabin or to Grandma's house to change and get ready for supper.

Supper might be fried chicken, mashed or fried taters, slow cooked green beans with a big ol' chunk of ham, plenty o' tomaters, green onions, fresh slaw and maybe even fried poke or maybe wilted mountain greens with chopped green onions and covered with a dressing of vinegar, bacon grease and a little sugar to cut the "whang" of the vinegar. Cathead biscuits with real churned butter and sorghum or home made jelly would be our bread. If there was time to bake we might be surprised with butter rolls - sweet and filled with sugar, cinnamon and swimmin' in a buttery sweet sauce.

Cousin, even tonight I close my eyes and I float down that creek, back through 40 years to a simpler time. Jump in here with me, enjoy the cool creek water and let's float back down the creek together.

Aunt Mag and Aunt Bess won't mind me bringin' friends home for supper. I do it all the time. They'll be proud to see y'all.