Move to Sand Mountain

by Lillian Presley McJunkin, daughter of Pat Hawes Presley, written sometime in the 1940s

It was the mid-winter of 1933, those depression years or the lean years, as they are referred to today. I remember them so vividly because it seemed we just couldn't survive the cold winter in this small town in Georgia [Trenton]. My father was out of work, as were so many other men in those times, and though my mother had made her usual big garden of fine vegetables the summer before, and had canned dozens of jars of all these delectables, with piles of potatoes and squash in the cellar, there was just not enough money to pay the rent on the big house we lived in.

Our family was a rather large one. There were two brothers and one sister older than me. Then my baby sister, who was three years younger, and, of course, she was seemingly spoiled beyond description. So, with five children, all with enormous appetites, and needing warm clothing for school, it seemed impossible to my parents to keep us together.

I remember the big white and black spotted sow with her litter of pigs, roaming free to eat of the acorns, roots, and berries that grew on the ridges around our town. This big sow kept us supplied with ham, bacon, and sausage. The fall of the year was a busy one when it was time to butcher the hogs. All of us joined in the grinding of the sausage, and smoking hams and bacon. Even as I write this I can almost smell the pungent hickory smoke in the air. Mother's home-grown sage that flavored the sausage lent such a spicy odor, the whole house smelled of good things to eat.

Our milk supply came from a beautiful Jersey cow. We didn't have room on our half-acre of ground for a barn or pasture. But, there was pasture land across the road from our house that belonged to the tourist home down the road a short ways. So, my father did odd jobs of carpentry for Mrs. Tatum, the tourist home owner, in exchange for letting our cow eat off her pasture land. So we were provided with all the milk and freshly churned butter our family needed. I had always thought of Mrs. Tatum as being rich, with the beautiful white, typically Georgian home, with the clean, green and white canvas awnings, surrounded with the blue spruce and evergreen bushes. But my twelve years of experience had not taught me that poor Mrs. Tatum, a widow, was struggling to make ends meet, just as everyone else was during those years. In spite of her garden club friends, the afternoon tea parties, and the large-brimmed beautiful hats she always wore to church on Sunday, she was still a woman with little money. Very little, in fact, because there weren't enough travelers in those lean times that could afford to pay for a night's lodging in her home.

My mother was a very wise woman. She had a streak of determination about her that most people would and some did envy. Besides being a good mother, she always seemed to be full of hope, trust, and faith in everyone she knew. She was confident of herself and believed in everything she did.

Now, my mother had made a decision. Since we had no money to pay our rent and Dad's meager earnings were getting smaller, we were going to move. My Uncle John [Presley] was a fortunate farmer who lived in the mountains in Alabama. Besides his own farm, he owned another one with a smaller house and about 40 acres of tillable soil. There was a barn, smokehouse, chicken house, corn crib, and a big pasture land with woods and a freshwater spring flowing through. He needed someone to run this farm since it was three miles from where he lived, and he couldn't work both places at the same time.

Mama pounced on the idea at once. Dad was no farmer, we all knew that. But we all would have to pitch in to make this farming pay off. So, it was decided we were to move to the mountains in Alabama to live. Now that sounds as though it might have been a long move for people like us, with finances so low. But in reality it was only some 26 miles away.

We boxed and crated our belongings and loaded our furniture, old and worn as it was, on to Dad's old flatbed truck for that long 26-mile move. My oldest brother [Almon] haltered our Jersey cow and started out on foot to lead our much-needed milk and butter supply to our new home. He had left before daybreak to make as many miles on his journey in one day that he possibly could. My brother was 17 years old at the time, but he was thin by nature and perhaps under-nourished, too, so it was quite a chore for him to lead or pull a meandering cow up those mountain roads. We left our town with feelings of despair, leaving our beloved friends and neighbors with promises to visit each other as often as we could. We passed my brother several miles on the way, still tugging at the rope to keep control of the cow that seemed to think she should be allowed to stop and graze on the tufts of grass that grew along the roadway. If I close my eyes now, I can still see my frail-looking brother, with his worn jacket pulled tightly up around his neck and face. His wool cap drawn down over his ears and both hands jammed to the bottom of his pockets, still clutching the rope and trying so hard to keep warm in spite of the icy mountain air.

About half-way to our new home we stopped in front of a dilapidated old house that never knew what paint was. Dad went inside for a few minutes and talked with the people, then we were on our way again. I later learned these people were some distant relatives, and my father had made arrangements for my brother to stop there to spend the night and bed down the cow in their barn, so he could continue his journey the following day.

After what seemed like hours of driving over the bumpy unpaved mountain roads that were more like old wagon trails, we finally pulled into the drive of our new home. It was the first time any of us had seen it, though we had visited my uncle many times before and that was only three miles away. The house looked bigger than it really was. It too had never been painted. But the yard was big, and huge stately water oak trees made the place look very elegant. There were two large pecan trees near the east side of the house, and the wintry breeze was blowing the last remaining nuts off the trees. Two small bedraggled grey squirrels pounced on the wind-tossed pecans, and with their jaws crammed and bulging with their goodies, raced for the big oak trees and lost not one moment to scamper into their nests to hide the treasures for another day.

I think I must have been the first to jump out and start exploring this new place. To me it was the greatest. Being a lover of the big outdoors, my eyes turned toward to barn across the road. On beyond was the most beautiful forest of mammoth white pine, sweet gum, and birch. The cool waters of the spring that started its course somewhere deep in the woods made a small creek that wound its way through the pasture between the barn and the swaying pines. All sorts of thoughts ran through my mind. I thought of all my friends left behind in the little Georgia town. How I wish I could share this wonderland with them.

Soon we were all busy with the tasks of unloading and setting things in place. There were two extra-large-sized fireplaces to heat the living-room and a bed-room that was big enough to hold two full-size beds with room to spare. The large kitchen boasted of a wood-burning cook stove that put out enough heat to warm the pantry and the dining-room on either side of the kitchen. It wasn't long until my father had cheery fires glowing in the fireplaces and everything was warm. A new feeling of security came over me. No place was closer to heaven than this.

I wondered why the house looked so large, more like a two-story home, but there were no winding stairs. Yet on the outside I had seen windows upstairs. It was at this time my younger sister and I began to look around and explore. Then we saw the stairs, or rather the ladder that ran straight up to a big attic. It lay against the stone of the huge chimney of the fireplace. We climbed to the top and looked into the attic, where there were boards on floor sills making an extra-large room. There is where we placed our mattresses in the summer time for cooler sleeping. Many hours were spent in the attic on rainy days and cold winter days when we couldn't be outside. An old catalog and a pair of scissors would keep us busy cutting out paper dolls and making paper houses.

It was a nice old house and one I remember in my fondest thoughts. There were so many happy hours and sad ones, too, but one tends to remember the happiest rather than the sad thoughts when we look back to times gone by.

It was only a matter of a few hours after we moved into our new house when we met our new neighbors. I had never met anyone so uneducated and typically mountain folk anywhere in my life. Naturally, they seemed to be a different breed of people entirely, and I'll have to admit I was somewhat intrigued with them. Fascination better describes what I felt upon meeting them. But, new friends were a welcome sight, and in no time at all, we were steadfast friends.

Exhausted from excitement, we were all in bed early and ready to awaken early to continue our new adventure. The following day did bring more excitement as we explored the farm and walked the woodlands of the pasture land. Early in the afternoon my brother arrived, still leading the cow. We ran ahead to open the gates that led to the barn. We chose a stall for her that was deep with hay and felt our cow was as happy with her new home as we felt with ours.