Robert Lee Camp, Pelham, N.C.
Mon., Dec. 28, 1925
Early Christmas morning old Mr. Brown came over to invite us to Christmas dinner. Such hospitality! We did not learn its full extent until we had been here several days.
The senior Browns live in one log cabin, their son, daughter-in-law and children in another, close by. Each cabin consists of two separate buildings, living quarters and kitchen, joined by a covered breezeway. Bill has to bend to enter the low doors. There is one small glassless window in each room, but the whitewash log walls help to lighten the dark interior.
The whole family gathered around the kitchen table for Christmas dinner, five of the six children standing, as there were not enough chairs. Salt pork, turnip greens, sweet potato custard, corn pone (coarse white corn flour, salt and water baked in a frying pan), cake decorated with jelly beans, and the vilest coffee we'd ever tasted. Coffee beans bought green are roasted and ground. At each boiling a little fresh coffee is added to the old grinds. The brew (I cannot again call it coffee) grows bitterer and bitterer as it is reboiled again and again, and the pot gets fuller and fuller of old grounds, until of necessity it has to be emptied, and then half an inch of old grounds is kept to "sweeten the pot."
Before dinner we women-folks had picked the new tender greens from turnips left in the ground all winter. The sweet potato custard, more like a stack of pies, was served a layer at a time, our three days here having reduced the pile by six layers, with four soggy ones still to go. The children were too excited to eat anything but cake, jelly beans, and custard, although they drank that awful coffee. Probably having dessert only at Christmas they were allowed to make the best of it.
Raising tobacco for a living, the Robert Lee Browns are paid only once a year when the crop is sold, which generally is after Christmas. If the crop is poor very little money remains after their rent has been deducted. Mr. Brown took us into one of the delightfully fragrant tobacco barns--a small log building with chimney pipes from the brick fireplace, running around inside to dry the big crinkled leaves hanging from every rafter.
In spite of being terribly hard up they are a jolly crowd, with apparently no self-pity. As the children have received no Christmas presents this year, other than a little knitted cap given the baby by his grandfather and a few jelly beans for the othes, Mrs. Junior hopes to get a doll for Barna with the first dollar she can lay hands on. Having had eight children she looks older than my mother, yet I am sure she is about my age, in her early thirties. A cheerful, capable soul, she is never at a loss for a bright answer or a joke.
Saturday we dined at the Juniors' on the identical menu we'd had on Christmas, the old folks bringing the food over with them. Robert Lee, J., away looking for Santa Claus, must have found him all right for he returned slightly "aweather." His uncle has a still hidden in a bush.
Yesterday we took over much of the food Mother had sent us, the old folks again insisting we eat with them. We feel they would be really hurt if we refused. Surprisingly the kids had never tasted butter before nor had any of them eaten celery before. Besides the things we brought, including a greatly enjoyed canned plum pudding, potato pumpkin (what we call summer squash) was the only variation from the previous meals. The youngsters "ooed and ahed" over the candy, crackers, peanuts (here called goobers), as well as the Christmas cards, fancy wrapping paper and ribbons from our gift box.
In the evenings, with the baby crawling on the warm floor boards before us, we all sit around the open fire, telling stories. There is no light but the flickering flames which silhouette dancing giants on the rear wall. The men chew dried twisted tobacco leaves kept in a jar on the mantel, while the women gnaw on sticks of snuff. The hiss of spitting into the fire is continuous, and all the honors for aim and distance should be pinned on the old lady. By the hearth stands a broom made of tassels from crown grown especially for this purpose. Several times passers?by have stopped for hot water to thaw their radiators and have been invited to join the circle. The first night when we were strangers, and each night since, both families have urged us to sleep inside.
I don't remember ever being so cold--even up in Vermont--as on our hike yesterday. The folks here say the cold has seldom been so intense. The blue bird I saw today shows how unexpected this cold must be. There are also lots of cardinals and, of course, millions of buzzards. All the way down from Washington there was one or more circling overhead.
I was hoping there would be mistletoe near this camp but, although we saw plenty on the way down, we can't find a twig here. Mistletoe, little green wads in the tops of oaks, is a vampire or parasite or whatever the word is.
We plan to leave tomorrow, and near Winston Salem, only sixty miles from here, to drop in on Bill Smith (an old Brooklyn friend) and his wife, to beg the use of their bathroom. Our bathing has been sketchy these cold days.