Family Stories: Christmas Traditions


The holidays are upon us, when many gather with family and friends, tell old stories, and make new ones. This Christmas, I’d like to bring forward one of my own family stories. Like candles burning in windows, may such tales light the dark winter months and remind us of what is important.


My great grandfather Creed was born to a Cherokee squaw and a wealthy German man. When his father passed on, the family tossed his mother, with Creed and his brother, into the cold. They lived in a tent on the property through the winter, where his mother died of consumption. Creed was 13 at the time, and the family intended to drop them at an orphanage. Creed ran away and joined a mining town, preferring the terror and dangers of life underground to what awaited.

Three years later, Creed went back and retrieved his brother, whom he raised to adulthood. Living in the mining town was difficult and dangerous for the miners, but for their families as well. Rape was common, as the men worked overnight and the womenfolk remained in the shanties above ground. My grandmother, Durpha, lived in just such a shanty. Her young husband died in the mines, and she remained—in constant danger. Why? Though practicing without a license, my grandmother was a doctor. This was a rare and precious thing in West Virginia mining towns. She used to tell a story about the kind of grit required; one night someone began banging loudly on the door. She demanded they go away, fearing violation and even death. She threatened to shoot, and when the banging continued, she shot a hole through the door. The noise abruptly ceased, and she went to bed. The next morning, well rested, she awoke to find she’d killed a dog!

During this difficult time, Creed met and fell in love with the widowed Durpha. They married, and commenced to have a large family. Creed decided to quit the mining business and set up a still for moonshine instead, which he did under the house-porch, reachable via a tunnel. An “Indian” operating a still was, after all, a rather dangerous thing to do and the revenuers came searching for the law-breaker. Durpha was known all over as the county physician, and was therefore on good terms with all visitors. Naturally, the revenuers came to see her first. She sat, knitting upon the porch, where she quite truthfully told them “she had never seen any still.” Of course not. It was directly underneath her.

Durpha had always been something of a rebel; she rode horses and refused to ride side-saddle. She became a flapper in the 20s, and I have this photo of her in full flapper glory. Creed had his own rebellious streak. As an adult, the family that once disowned him tried to reconcile (because, after all, he was the heir to a great fortune). He refused to reconnect with them, the people responsible for his mother’s death and his own homelessness, and so—preserving his personal ethics—turned down the inheritance and all it stood for. They lived happily; my grandparents always called it a great love affair.

Technically speaking, Durpha’s classification was that of “midwife.” She did indeed deliver babies, but she also performed surgeries, set bones, mixed medicines, and gave house calls. Durpha frequently performed a “death watch,” that is, being called to the bedside of the dying. Even when surrounded by family, death is frightening and difficult. Durpha would help to keep the family members, and the dying, calm. Her talent for deathbed ministrations was well known; one more way that she provided comfort to those in need.

In every respect, she served her community as a doctor. Her methods and brilliance caught the attention of a sympathetic physician, who offered to pay her way through medical college. The university, however, refused to admit her because of her gender. Degree or not, Durpha continued as the “doctor” of the surrounding communities—as rare and unique (and adamant) as ever.

Durpha sadly outlived Creed, but was able to influence her granddaughter, my mother, with her determination to do as she saw fit and not to worry about what others thought. In her 70s, she learned to ride a dirt bike and so to ride the length of her large farm—proving that the limits of age and gender never held her back.

Durpha died before I was born. This, too, seemingly her own way. She let the dogs out early one day, pulled her rocking chair onto the porch to face the rising sun, bowed her head, and died. May we always be influenced by such amazing women—and men—those who face long odds, who face down prejudice and greed, who take risks (even rather unseemly ones!) and live life according to their own ethical code. I hope, wherever they are, they know how much their stories have influenced me. I have heard them from two generations of women, “amazon women,” and I have founds comfort and solace knowing that sometimes, even when it seems most impossible, we can live life on our own terms.

God bless.

Vacation Writing: Fiction Reboot Hits the Road

Or, more accurately, the water.

This week, I will be bringing you the Fiction Reboot from the green, forested shores of Dale Hollow Lake in Tennessee.

It is truly beautiful here. Softly lapping water, green blue and gentle, whispers like a lover’s lullaby. It is shocking in its clarity, seeming to be only a few feet deep but really dropping for many meters. This was once a steep-walled canyon, but dams turned the river into a deep, cold lake, stretching along the border between Tennessee and Kentucky. I love it here, not for its own sake alone, but because this is the scene of many past family vacations.

When I was young, my parents would rent a house boat on the this lake. Some of these are quite grand–yachts, really–but not on our family budget. Imagine more of a floating trailer… aluminum, white, squat, with plastic deck chairs and 1970s upholstery in floral. But trust me, it was a palace. A kingdom. As close to sailing the high seas as I could get at 13 (and I always wanted to be a pirate, you know). I would sit on the flat roof as we made our way along, listening to Sting’s Soul Cages and pretending this was a schooner of sorts… A Newcastle ship… A something imaginative and grand and flying dangerous colors. My hair (long, black, and unwieldy as Medusa’s pin curls) would fly about in a fresh evening wind. I was whoever I wanted to be. It was magic.

And, of course, there were fish. The real purpose of this journey was to save fish from drowning. Trout, bass, pike, sunfish, blue-gil, perch. We took boats out in turn with my father, the Great Man of my youth. I respected the Great Man. I fought with him a lot, too. But we were two of a kind, you know. Anti-social, for one thing, and lovers of knowledge for another. Hidden stores of knowledge. About fish. Bears. Racoons. Weather patterns. Vietnam. (And pain, and how to hide it well.) I belonged to my father in ways I would never belong to anyone else. After all, he adopted me (and I was no picnic, let me tell you). There is nothing quite like being loved by a father who chooses you for you.

And, of course, there was family. The real purpose of this journey was to save a family from the world. A unit against the machine, we left civilization behind and played cards. My mother was fantastic at cards. She was my partner. My brother was crap at cards. He was my dad’s partner. Mom and I had a system. We were the invincible females, two Amazon women ruling as queens of a small boat. Mom was great at games and stories, making up the strangest and most lovely tales (about the man who painted the sky, for instance). Mom and me–We won. A lot. Mostly because my younger brother always called suit. Even if he didn’t have any of the corresponding cards. Compulsion, I think, but funny. The boat rang with laughter always.

And, of course, there were dragons to slay. The real purpose of this journey was for my brother and I to invent as many weird water games as possible. Most involved imaginary creatures. Dinosaurs, water monsters, aliens, talking rabbits (which were also aliens–my brother had the coolest dreams). Its shocking we did not grow gills, as we never left the water (except to play cards and save fish from drowning). We were always at each other, but we were also our own best fiends. We still are.

And here I am again. Different times. There are a lot more of us, for once thing. My brother and his wife have two small boys, Nicholas and Matthew. This is there first trip to the lake. My parents are here, too, as is my spouse (the esteemed Mr. Mark who gets frequent mention on this blog, though we live 5 hours apart. He deserves crowns of glory–for I am still no picnic, and there is nothing like being loved by a man who chooses you for you).  It is the same, but wholly different. But it is still most awesome–and I can almost see my younger self, tendrils flying, clinging to the rigging and ready to man the quarter-deck.

Such places bring us back home to ourselves. And like any venue that offers a sweeping vista of the past as well as the future, this is an excellent place to write from.


This week we will have Tessa Harris, author of The Anatomist’s Apprentice for our Thursday author feature. Tune in!