​Saturday night I attended the annual Fiddler’s Convention in Frankville. I had never gone before and I have spent the majority of my life in this community.  My parents never allowed us to attend.  I’m not sure why. Even in the days before cell phones, they always knew where I had been and the company I’d been keeping before I returned home. This is the one event that I could have honestly used that teenage utterance, “but everybody else will be there” and it would have been 100 percent TRUE! However, I was never allowed to go, so I never went.
            My parents were strict, but they allowed for culture. As a teenager, I searched the Arts and Leisure section of the Mobile Press each Sunday to see which Broadway shows and concerts were coming within reasonable driving distance. Most of the time, my parents made sure that I got tickets to these. But going to the Fiddler’s Convention 1.9 miles from their house was not up for discussion.
            So, Saturday night, we decided to check out what we’d been missing. We drove the two miles and parked at the post office, across the street from Frankville School. The sheer number of cars in the community caught me off guard like it has every single year that I have driven by the event. We spoke to friends and neighbors as we entered the auditorium, packed with spectators.
            The old school building has always fascinated me and I have not been inside of it nearly enough! I remember going with my grandparents to vote there and going to a couple of programs there when I was a child. I have heard my dad’s stories of going to school there and I’d love to explore the halls. I have an affinity for old buildings.
            So, I loved sitting in the auditorium with the windows raised and a spring breeze cutting through on Saturday night. The third Saturday each April is a perfect time logistically to host an event in a building that lacks modern heat and air conditioning. The scent of barbeque wafted through and the sounds of guitars, string bass, mandolins and of course, fiddles filled the wooden building. Feet were stomping. Hands were clapping. Voices were singing along.
            I have to admit that I am not the biggest fan of bluegrass music. I didn’t know how I was going to enjoy an entire evening of it.  I do marvel at the crazy, undeniable talents of The Isaacs, a bluegrass gospel group, but that’s as far as I have ventured into the genre. I didn’t realize how many bluegrass standards I knew, thanks to hanging out with my grandparents. I have to admit that  I did enjoy myself.
            Because every single person I know (except my parents) was in the room, I let my teenager hang out with her friends, knowing that if she tried anything, I’d know soon enough. She tried something alright! She decided to sing in the vocal competition. She didn’t even tell me so that I could be nervous for her! Her song choice was a hymn and she sang it beautifully, but it was definitely not a hand-clapping, fun song. She had fun regardless.
            It was refreshing to see so many people using various talents. Young people and older people collaborated to perform beautiful selections. Because there is no cell service in Frankville and there is no WiFi in the school building, phones were just used to take pictures and videos. It was quite nice.
            I probably will never listen to the bluegrass station on my radio. There’s no danger of me ever attempting to learn anything other than the history of buck dancing, but I will go back to the Frankville Fiddler’s Convention. It was good to see the community come together for a positive event.
 
            Saturday night I was a tourist in my hometown and it was indeed memorable time. I’ll be back again next year! In the meantime, I am collecting history on the Frankville Fiddler’s Convention. Please contact me if you’d like to contribute. [email protected]
            

​I have lived on the same dirt road for most of my life and I will readily admit that I love dirt road life. Yes, my car and the rocking chairs on my porch stay dusty, but there is just something about dirt roads that endears them to me.
I reflected on my little dirt road during recent meetings of the Washington County Commission. Many people in the county want asphalt on their dirt roads. I don’t fall into the same category as them. I’m an old soul and dirt roads remind me of a slower pace of life.
There have been times that dirt road living has been inconvenient. During heavy rains, my road has gotten sloppy. The thick mud has caused vehicles to become stuck. That can be a pain. I recall a rainy winter while I was in high school and the school bus could not travel the road. Instead, one of the teenage boys who lived on the road loaded all the kids up in his dad’s 4x4 and took us to the highway to meet the bus. After school, we piled back into and onto the same truck and were safely deposited at our own homes.  Thankfully that does not happen often!       
Dirt roads usually have just one lane. This means when you meet someone, one of you has to pull over and let the other pass. I love this because it is (sadly) one of the only times I catch up with some of my neighbors. We will usually roll the window down and speak for a moment. It’s a country quirk.
Dirt roads are for ATV riding. Like it or not, the younger crowd brings their ATVs to dirt roads. As a teenager, I rode my fair share. Now I see my friends’ children riding the same road frequently. Sometimes they will stop and visit for a while if they see us outside. It’s always pleasant and again, a country quirk that sets us apart.
One-lane dirt roads aren’t conducive to speed. There are some that challenge this, but typically, you drive slower on a dirt road than a highway. A slower pace allows you to notice things like dogwood blooms, rabbits and the water level in a branch. On the highway, these things are a blur.
Dirt roads don’t lead to major cities or major attractions. They are a way of getting to a home, a farm, a small country church, or a cemetery. You won’t encounter a lot of traffic, but you’ll likely see livestock, ponds, barns and kids out playing in their yards.
In addition to leading to quiet destinations, dirt roads are also for walking. Some of my favorite memories from my childhood are of walking the dirt road with my grandmother and great-grandmother. They said they were walking to get exercise, but looking back, they didn’t walk fast enough to burn any calories. They were walking for enjoyment and to go see relatives and neighbors that lived down the road. It never involved a planned visit, just joining someone on the front porch for a few minutes before needing to, in my grandmother’s words, “mosey on.”
At the end of our road, there’s a little country church. It’s a nice reward for walking one mile over the rocky road. It too is a reminder of a slower pace.
With a full calendar and no end to activities in sight, I think I need to prioritize better and take a stroll down the dirt road more often. For me, the little dirt road that I have always called home will be a reminder of sweet, simple memories and opportunities to enjoy all the quirks that country living has to offer. 

​“Welcome home.” Two simple words that mean so much. To know that someone is glad to have you back from your journey and to know that you have a place to call home are two monumental sanctions. It is unfortunate that not every pilgrim gets to hear these words, especially if the pilgrim was a soldier in the Vietnam War. Due to political rifts in the country, those who returned alive from the southeast Asian country were not welcomed with the fanfare and accolades that their service merited. Often, they entered homelessness and isolation upon re-entering the land for which they fought.
Honoring the Marine
Those who paid the ultimate sacrifice in Vietnam were also denied the recognition and respect that fallen soldiers deserve. Their funeral services were often quiet and lacked pomp. Many times, there were protests at the funeral services.            
For a Washington County family, the shock and trauma of losing their 18-year old son, never lessened. Sam Busby’s death, three weeks’ shy of his nineteenth birthday, is known of throughout the county. It is Sam’s life, prior to becoming a United States Marine that only few recall. At a service in St. Stephens last month, Sam was celebrated with full rights, fanfare and accolades. For members of his family, the ceremony brought comfort and even relief. More than 130 family members, friends, neighbors and veterans assembled to commemorate the 50th anniversary of “Savage Sam’s” death.
The ceremony was a culmination of a year’s worth of planning for Gerald Deas of Montana. Deas was a friend of Sam’s in St. Stephens and when he was old enough, he too became a Marine. Over 130 people were at the ceremony to pay homage to the sacrifices of one whose life was cut short, but whose legacy lives on. Thirty-four of those present were veterans.
The young man who refused to give up
            Sam William Busby loved life to the fullest. He never backed down from a challenge, no matter if that challenge was breaking a wild horse in St. Stephens or facing enemy fire in Vietnam. His siblings remember him as a true outdoorsman and an athlete with a passion for life and an outgoing personality. An avid hunter and excellent marksman, Sam found his niche as a Marine machine gunner at boot camp and military occupation specialty school. In a matter of weeks, he was training other young men to properly use machine guns.
            Sam valued deep, authentic relationships. He had close relationships with his siblings and his parents. He loved his friends deeply also and was known for being honest and intentional in his relationships.  In letters to his mother, he vividly described the atrocities of war. He felt that his family and friends at home should know the realities of what soldiers were facing.
            Sam’s brother Kedrick and sisters-in law Ginger and Norma shared stories of Sam that have been preserved through retelling over the years. Norma was a member of the Leroy High School Class of 1968 and knew Sam as the likeable, mischievous, athletic classmate who was voted “Most Athletic.”  Like most teen boys, Sam sometimes drove a bit too fast.  Sam was tenacious, never giving up on any task that he deemed worthy.
 Kedrick was only 7 months old when his older brother was killed, but he says that he would know his older brother because of the great lengths that his parents, Valton and Nell Busby, went to ensure that their son’s legacy endured. “I’d know who Sam was if I met him in the middle of the night. My mama told me, ‘You’re going to know him.’” Kedrick has carefully preserved the family lore and indeed knows his brother, Sam.
 “Savage Sam”
The eldest Busby son, Levone, was drafted to Vietnam. Levone Busby, knowing the gravity of the situation in Vietnam, offered to stay for a longer tour so that his younger brother could have more time at home.  He was aware that Sam had willingly joined the Marines prior to his graduation from high school in 1968, but for his parents’ sake, he hoped that his little brother would be able to avoid Vietnam for a while longer. Unfortunately, the U.S. government does not honor the wishes of concerned big brothers. It issues the orders and the soldiers go where they are told to go and do what they are told to do.
The entire family was on American soil together for two weeks before Sam’s tour in Vietnam began on Dec. 10, 2968. Sam was eager to defend his country. Busby’s intensity and resolve became widely known within his squadron, who dubbed him, “Savage Sam.”  In his last letter to his mother, dated Feb. 27, 1969, Busby wrote, “My squad leader got killed and I took over the squad. The reason I am up for a meritorious promotion and medal is because of the actions I took in battle.” Marines who knew Sam have told the family that he never faltered and refused to back down in any situation.
As he faced the enemy in hostile fire on February 27, 1969, Sam was shot in the leg. Rather than retreating, he continued to fight, saving the lives of five other men who were with him. The gun that Busby was using jammed, still he did not retreat. Captain Daniel Hitzelberger detailed Busby’s death in a letter to his parents in March, 1969. “Sam did not stop his attempt to clear the weapon, but died as he continued his efforts. Every man that died that day was fatally wounded helping another Marine. Your son died as he lived, honorably.”
 Ultimate sacrifice
            Valton Busby was watching CBS news on Thursday, Feb. 27. 1969. As Busby watched film from Vietnam, he insisted that he saw his son’s body on a gurney. Though some doubted what he saw, Busby knew that his son had not survived and was so convinced of this that he went to his pastor for consolation, knowing that a funeral would soon need to be planned. Busby’s concerns were validated on Sunday, March 2 when the family, gathered for Sunday lunch, received the dreaded knock on the front door.  
            Sam’s funeral was the first to be conducted in what was then the new sanctuary of First Baptist Church of St. Stephens. His traumatized family sat in the sanctuary and listened to the words of  Revs. Darnell Archie and Bobby Rone. Their cousin, Wanda Pezent, sang a favorite hymn, “What a Day That Will Be.”  A Marine delegation and a Navy firing squad conducted military rites. Sam was home, but home was never the same again.
With each year that passed the Busby family, honored their brother, but this year’s service was unique and offered healing and hope to the Busby family and to each of the veterans in attendance.          The service marking the 50th anniversary of Sam’s death was much different than the first. For this one, the family had time to prepare and time to process. The ceremony gave his siblings a time to grieve and to recall the five decades that have passed with pride amidst their grief. Kedrick described the ceremony as “refreshing” and stated that for himself and his siblings a burden was lifted as their brother was remembered and honored properly.  As they gathered around his grave this time, the grief remained without the shock and the true impact of Sam’s sacrifice was known.  As she did fifty years prior, Wanda Pezent sang, “What a Day That Will Be.”
Legacy
            Levone Busby wore his Army dress coat and saluted his brother and the veterans in attendance at the memorial ceremony. . Together, Kedrick and Levone placed a wreath on their brother’s grave and accepted a medal commemorating the 50th anniversary of the Vietnam War.  Levone was honored for his service with the presentation of the U.S. Cold War Medal. Another Busby brother who served was recognized posthumously. Louie Busby was an Army veteran, His wife Judy accepted the Silver Dollar Freedom Medal from Deas in his honor.
            In 1920, as he accepted the Republican nomination for vice-president, Calvin Coolidge warned, “The nation which forgets its defenders will itself be forgotten.”  May we never forget.
            For Sam and for every veteran, “Welcome Home.”  

​My grandmother will celebrate her 85th birthday on Monday. She will be the first to tell you that my love of reading did not come from her, but she does read her Bible daily and the paper on Thursdays. So, I am writing a public ode to the strongest, most practical, honest to a fault and beautiful woman I know. Nathalee Autry Hodge Brooks, you are my favorite!
            I have been fortunate enough to know both sets of my grandparents, a both sets of maternal great-grandparents and one paternal great-grandmother. I have treasured photographs of these people, some of whom my children were blessed to meet. I don’t take the memories of any of these for granted, but on “MawMaw” Nathalee’s birthday, I’ll just talk about her.
            From childhood, I was fascinated by her Royal typewriter, but I knew not to touch it. She left paper in it and sometimes I broke the rules. I am quite positive she never noticed it because pushing those keys did NOT leave a mark on the paper. Right. The temptation was simply too strong! She worked for years as the cafeteria manager for Coffeeville High School. The typewriter was for her monthly inventory or “book work” as she called it.  She was meticulous about the “book work” and a good steward of every resource that ever came through her hands through work or in her personal life. That typewriter still fascinates me.
            I hated penmanship in second grade. I cried over cursive, but I loved the flourishing, looping strokes with which MawMaw wrote. Her grocery list, ever present on a steno pad on her bar (to this very day) motivated me to practice and practice and practice.
            The steno pad on the bar is evidence of her practicality. One side is for groceries. One side is for household items like toothpaste and trash bags. The notepad and pen are always found right at the end of the bar and she writes things down as she runs out of them. Her children and grandchildren learned quickly that there are other pens and notebooks in the house. The steno and its pen stays put!
            In the days before cordless phones, MawMaw had one phone in her house, again practical. She could only talk on one at a time! That phone was centrally located at the end of the hall, right across from the bedroom where my sister and I slept when we stayed with her. Without fail every Saturday morning, Mrs. Merle Hicks would call. Lots of people have memories of Mrs. Merle, but no one remembers her being a quiet person! My sister would put her head underneath her pillow and mutter. I just listened to both sides of the conversation.
            Ulcanush Baptist Church is where my grandmother has worshipped for decades. Her parents were involved there. She still goes as often as she can. Even if she can’t physically be there, she sits in her home and reads the Sunday School book during the time allotted for Sunday School. A couple of years ago, I noticed that she had gotten a new Bible. She told me that her other one was “wore out” because it got used every day for many, many years. That statement will never leave my brain.
            My grandmother is not a huge fan of makeup. If I had looked like Vivien Leigh, I probably wouldn’t be either! However, lipstick is something she rarely goes without. Her lipstick collection is another thing that has always fascinated me. I can remember the long row of tubes in vibrant shades of red and bright pinks. She still has a nice collection. 
           Life has not always been kind to MawMaw, but she has always chosen to be kind, no matter the circumstances. She raised three children as a single mom on a limited income. Their needs were always met and they never doubted their mother’s love. She forgave their father and made memories with him and with their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren before his death. That is a kindness and strength that is so rare!
        With limited space, thank you, MawMaw for peanut butter cookies, hidden chocolate in the fridge, birthday cards, weekly phone calls and your prayers. Happy Birthday!

​I could never be considered a “fan girl” of any band, television show, actor, actress or athlete. I don’t watch enough t.v. to get drawn into things deeply. If I were going to be an obsessive, obnoxious fan of anything, the object of my obsession would be Harper Lee. She only wrote two novels and for decades, we only knew about one, but she is absolutely my favorite.
Lee was inducted into the Alabama Women’s Hall of Fame last week. The honor is well-deserved for the Alabama author, most famous for the beloved, yet controversial novel, To Kill a Mockingbird.  As I reflected on Lee’s influence on American literature, I considered a few lessons that can be taken from her life.

1. Live modestly. In 2015, Harper Lee’s net worth was estimated at $35 million. You’d have never known it from looking at the outside of the small, modest home that she shared with her sister Alice in Monroeville. Many of us who don’t earn $1.6 million quarterly in royalties have homes that surpass that of a millionaire. Not every millionaire chooses to build more than they will ever use or need.
2. Travel. While a student at the University of Alabama, Lee participated in a program that allowed her to spend a summer at Oxford University in England. She also left the small town of Monroeville in the rearview mirror when she moved to New York City to work as an airline clerk. Lee also traveled to Kansas to aid childhood friend Truman Capote in his research for In Cold Blood. We often use lack of time and lack of extra money as excuses for never venturing out, but it’s okay to start small. How long has it been since you’ve gone one of the local museums or spent some time on the river?
3. Cultivate deep friendships. Joy and Michael Brown were friends of Lee’s that she met in NYC. We have them to thank for the gift of TKAM. They believed so deeply in Lee’s ability to craft a novel that they gifted her one year’s salary in 1956 and encouraged her to write her story. Lee and the Browns maintained a close friendship that spanned sixty years. That friend you’ve been meaning to call? Call them.
4.  Embrace diversity. Apart from summers spent in the same small town, Harper Lee and Truman Capote didn’t share many things in common. Lee didn’t seek accolades or praises for her work, whereas Capote wilted without attention. He was loud and often overbearing. She was reserved and quiet. Yet, each saw the other as worth getting to know.  Connect with someone who is different from you. It could turn into a lifelong friendship, but even if it doesn’t, your life will be enriched by the other person’s. Just an aside, Truman fascinates me! I’d have loved to have been friends with him.
5. Read. Lee never finished college. She left the University of Alabama six months before she would have earned a law degree. However, she continued to read and research and could hold her own in any conversation as a result. In a rare letter to Oprah’s magazine, Lee wrote, ““In an abundant society where people have laptops, cellphones, iPods and minds like empty rooms, I still plod along with books.”
6. Live a simple, quiet life. A Pulitzer prize, a name that is widely recognized, a movie based on your novel (starring Gregory Peck), honorary degrees, countless requests for interviews and Lee chose to stay quiet and live simply. She went to her childhood church and had coffee at her favorite hometown deli. Often journalists labeled her as a “recluse” because she refused their requests for interviews. Her close friends would vehemently disagree with the assessment of the out-of-town journalists because their “Nelle” was warm, witty and wise. She just did not seek the spotlight. In a social media driven world, we often seek the spotlight too much and it sometimes makes us miserable.

One of the less quoted snippets of wisdom in TKAM are the words of Miss Maudie Atkinson to Scout and Jem when they are in awe of their father’s marksmanship, “People in their right minds never take pride in their talents.”
Yet another lesson from the captivating Nelle Harper Lee. 

​I love experiences more than I love tangible things. I like photographs that remind me of the experiences. My mission is to see and experience as much as possible and to expose my daughter a variety of experiences ranging from the arts to the National Parks. Seeing new things is a love that we share.
If you had told me five years ago that I would spend a good chunk of money going to a Broadway show, I would have likely shrugged. Guilty pleasure. However, if you had told me that I’d spend a good chunk of money going to a hip hop Broadway musical about the guy on the $10 bill, I’d likely have laughed. Hip hop is not my genre and I enjoy American history, but Alexander Hamilton is not a guy I recall learning a whole lot about…until 2015.
In the fall of that year, I learned of ‘Hamilton”, a new show at the Richard Rodgers theatre in New York. I listened to the soundtrack on Spotify and I was hooked. I shared it with my then 12-year old. She was also hooked and quickly became obsessed. Over the course of the last 4 years, we have become tremendous fans of “Hamilton: An American Musical.”
We were unable to see the production when we were in New York last summer, but the touring company has taken New Orleans hostage for the entire month of March. We were there, first in line at the Saenger on Sunday evening.
The music from ‘Hamilton” is a mixture of rapid-fire rap, soulful R&B and traditional Broadway fare. The delivery of each songs is intense and not once during the nearly three-hour production did boredom enter. It’s fast paced, and follows the story of orphan immigrant Alexander Hamilton rising through the ranks in New York City to become a leader in the American Revolution, George Washington’s chief staff aide, founder of the national bank, the New York Post and the Coast Guard.
I know you are likely thinking that it’s just another “rags to riches” tale, but it’s so much more. I have to emphasize the music again. It is phenomenal. The lyrics are astounding, relatable and quotable. It is brilliantly written, by an absolute genius, Lin-Manuel Miranda, son of Puerto Rican immigrants.
Miranda read American historian Ron Chernow’s biography on Alexander Hamilton and the rest is history. Chernow assisted Miranda in making sure that the historical facts were correct and the rest is pop culture history. To be able to write the lyrics to a hip hop musical based on a biography is proof of Miranda’s crazy genius!  No biography has ever sparked my creativity!
So, yes. It really was worth the money and the time spent. I had the tickets for two months before mentioning them to Tatum, because I care about her academics. Knowledge of tickets would have caused her to obsess more than usual over the characters, music and story line and ignore her responsibilities. When I finally did tell her, a literal countdown, in the form of an iPhone app began.
The days ticked on by and we were finally in the theatre for the long-awaited, highly anticipated show. We were the first in the merch line to get that overpriced tee that she had to add to her collection of Broadway tees.
Three hours in the theatre flew by as we watched Hamilton’s complex relationships depicted on the stage. We laughed at King George as he pranced and scatted, promising to “send a fully armed battalion” to remind the colonies of his “love”.  We applauded the over the top portrayal of Thomas Jefferson returning from France in purple velvet garb.  When Eliza Hamilton burned the letters that her unfaithful husband had written, we cried. When she decided to put herself “back in the narrative” of his life and preserve his legacy, we cheered.  
 
 
            We got home from our adventure at 1:48 a.m. Monday. When that 5:30 alarm sounded, it was a struggle. Tatum and I reminded each other that if Alexander Hamilton could write 51 essays for The Federalist Papers in 6 months, we could likely survive on the bare minimum amount of sleep for one day.
            We survived and are still talking about our most recent adventure with each other and anyone who will listen. I foresee more experiences for us in the future, because, as Hamilton proclaimed from the stage, “There’s a million things we haven’t done!”

​From a mother’s heart addresses tragedy and hope
By: Shannon Courington
“In the mere seconds it took for the drunk driver to cross that center line, my world as I knew it came to a screeching halt.” Cowart penned these words remembering vividly the phone call that changed the trajectory of her life forever. Brandy, age 10, Taylor, age 8 and Sara-Frances, age 6, would never enter their home again. They would never again play with their “baby” siblings, Gus, age 2, and Mary Alice who was one-week shy of her first birthday. In an instant, half of Cowart’s family was gone. “My children are gone, but they are not lost. I know exactly where my children are.”
Toni Cowart’s story is one that has been in the making for almost 22 years. A beautiful October day turned dark in 1997 when three of Cowart’s children lost their lives in a horrific car crash that has not been forgotten by those who live in Clarke County. The Wiggins Children Memorial Bridge on Highway 84 east of Grove Hill is a poignant reminder of tragedy, the brevity of life and the consequences of drinking and driving.
Over two decades later, Cowart has chosen to embrace hope and to share her story and the lessons that she learned from her children’s lives and sadly, from their deaths.  Her memories of Brandy, Taylor and Sara-Frances fill the pages of her first book, From a Mother’s Heart. “As a mom, I want to tell stories about my children. I want to say their names. I want other people to say their names. I also want to tell people that whatever they are facing, whatever they are going through, they are not alone.”
Cowart’s book began in a unique way. “I had a tote bag full of slivers of paper and a notebook and I carried it with me. I would just write things down and I journaled back at that time, but I started fine tuning things about a year and a half ago.”
That’s when Cowart decided that it was time to pursue the project that been consuming a large portion of her thoughts for two decades. In a leap of faith, she stepped away from her job as an insurance broker and began to write using those journals and precious slips of paper filled with memories. Cowart describes the process as a “healing” one. “It would hurt me more not to be able to talk about those precious lives.”
Cowart understands that many people are uncomfortable in the presence of someone who has had a difficult loss because of the emotions associated with it and because no one wants to intentionally hurt those who are already wounded. No one really knows what to say or how to say anything when tragedy strikes. “I want everyone who knows me to know about my babies. I can’t meet someone and become their friend without telling them about my children. I have five children, three of them are in Heaven. They are still as much a part of my life today as they were then. My whole point for the book was to share about my babies. I also want people to know who have suffered hurt, pain, loss that they are not alone in the path that they are walking. The world is not kind to us on a regular basis.
            In the years that have passed since that grim day in 1997, Cowart has relied on her faith to be able to face each day, each child’s birthday, each holiday, each milestone event that her children’s classmates celebrated, and each painful anniversary of the day that forever altered her life. She openly shares her faith with readers and with audiences that she addresses as she speaks around the region. The book is Cowart’s attempt to invest in the lives of hurting people while keeping the memory and spirit of her children alive.
            During a  recent local book signing event, people that Cowart had never met poured in to hug her, to speak encouraging words to her and to share that they had prayed for her intermittently since that dark day in 1997.  In turn, she thanked each person and answered questions openly. Other mothers who had experienced the loss of children approached her and the evidence of an invisible, inexplicable sisterhood was present. None of them had chosen these paths. Nor had they anticipated them. Yet here they were, in new seasons without the people around whom their worlds once revolved.
 Though at times tearful, Cowart exuded a peace that is indescribable, except maybe from her own words, “In spite of the scars that history has etched upon my very being, I am in an amazing place and I am happier than I ever truly thought possible.  I am learning to embrace each new season I come to and that personal experience is priceless. We don’t ask for ‘our story’, but it is ours nonetheless. At the end of the day, I wouldn’t trade mine with anyone else. God has given me the sweetest gift-the gift of beauty from ashes. Being able to truly embrace and enjoy life in spite of tragedy gives me an incredible freedom.”
           
From a Mother’s Heart can be purchased from Amazon. Toni would love to hear from you and to speak for your events, contact her at [email protected]

​In an age of instant communication, we have forgotten the importance of actually writing letters and sending greeting cards. My friend Cindy in South Dakota is in her late 70’s. She and I exchange letters regularly, although she has an iPhone. Another friend who is younger than I, sends a greeting card each week and I reciprocate. These cards include brief, handwritten notes. I look forward to going to the mailbox late in every week.
Unfortunately, letter writing is becoming a lost art. Digital communication is quicker and more convenient. Skype and FaceTime allow us to see the people we love and hear their voices. Those are wonderful technological advances, but there is something about “snail mail” that is endearing and heartwarming. My fifteen-year-old calls it “vintage communication,” but she smiles big when she receives a letter from “Grandma Cindy” that details her adventures and misadventures in the South Dakota snow. There is something about handwritten letters. Here are a few observations I have made:

1. Greeting cards and handwritten letters require intentionality. You can’t voice text to a pen and there is no greeting card generator at the local pharmacy. You have to choose your words and put them on paper. Choosing a greeting card takes time. A poorly thought out card can send the wrong message, whereas a card carefully chosen can brighten someone’s entire day. Time and intent are required in letter writing. It takes both to choose the write words to convey thoughts and news. When we sit at a computer, we can easily delete what we don’t like, but handwritten letters require much more effort.
2. Handwriting provides a personal touch. Like fingerprints, handwriting is unique. My sister gave me a platter for Christmas that had my grandmother’s handwritten recipes on it. I think it was the first time I have ever cried on Christmas day, but I recognized that perfect swirly script immediately upon unboxing it. Nobody else wrote like she did. The same is for handwritten letters. They are the personal touch that we lack so much. There is not a font on any word processing software that I love as much as I love either of my grandmothers’ penmanship.
3. Actually, writing letters means that I interrupt my rat-race schedule and get quiet and reflective. It’s good to sit down, breathe deeply and write.
4. Letters are worth saving. Entire books have been published containing letters. These books provide raw, personal insight into time periods and historical situations that are will never be seen again. Change is constant, but letters capture the significance and the thoughts of those who lived during these times.  Some of my favorite books based on letters include Sebastian Faulks’s A Broken World: Letters, Diaries and Memories of the Great War, Too Brief a Treat: The Letters of Truman Capote, the letters between John and Abigail Adams in My Dearest Friend and A Life in Letters: F. Scott Fitzgerald.  These people lived and experienced life much different than I have and connecting their personal thoughts to historical fact is fun.
5. They make going to the mailbox fun. Even in the age of instant digital communication and paperless billing, I do not personally know of anyone who has been able to completely do away with their mailbox of post office box. They may not check it daily, but it’s still there. We know that bills are going to come each month and magazines, catalogs and the unavoidable “junk mail,” but what catches my eye are the envelopes with the hand-lettering. I know that someone has written something just for me when I see those. It makes a difference!

Yes, postage rates have increased recently, but $0.50 is a small price to pay to send a letter across the country or across town to let someone I love know that I am thinking of them. It makes a difference for both the recipient and the writer.
 Side note—one of the best cards I ever received was from a fourth- grade student for Teacher Appreciation Week more than a decade ago. It was a sympathy card. Yes! The note inside was precious. “Mrs. Courington, I love you. This is a sad card, but it’s the only one I had at my house. I drew happy faces for you.”
Handwritten words matter, so do hand-drawn happy faces.

​Dogs
            I like dogs. No, I love them. I love MY dogs anyway.  I believe everyone should own at least one, but only if they have proper time and resources to devote to the dog. Because here’s the thing—even free dogs are NOT CHEAP!
            A month ago, I was driving to Chatom as I do every Monday morning and when I hit a certain point on the Chatom-Bigbee Road, my phone lit up with multiple text messages from my daughter.
“There’s a black lab at the school. He’s real sweet.”
“Can I have him?”
“Some kids are scared of him and some are being mean to him.”
“Mama, are you getting these messages?”
“Hey. You aren’t answering, but I already talked to the office and they said I could have him.”
            Insert eye roll here.  I was well aware of the dog at the school. He had been there for days because there were multiple social media posts about him. By the time I got parked and had enough service to respond, she had sent more messages, assuring me that this dog was sweet and that he needed a good home. I finished my work in Chatom and went by the school. I was told of how my child loved the dog and had been in tears because no one had claimed it. Another eye roll.
            I made arrangements to get the dog home and into the fence, which he immediately climbed over. We put a collar on him, bought him a bed, fed him and gave him a name. We took pictures and plastered them on social media BEGGING his rightful owners to step up. No, he wasn’t the average stray dog. I have never met a true stray that can fetch, sit and shake on command. The dog showed appreciation for his rescue by leaving the good home that he’d been given. I was frustrated; Tatum was heartbroken. I assured her that we had done everything possible to make him feel at home. She just knew he’d appreciate all that we’d done and stay and no one had claimed him. I secretly hoped that it was over…and the dog showed up again.
            This time, I got him to the vet and had him fixed because all of my other pets are fixed and they don’t roam. I naturally and wrongfully assumed that this would be the case with “Leroy” and I was wrong! To show his gratitude for updating his shots and “fixing’ him, he left again. This time he was gone for 9 days. But last Tuesday night, he came back and he has stayed…so far.  I don’t trust him.
            So, Leroy the Labrador has a home right now, even if he is a most ungrateful member of the family. There is much research that indicates that owning a dog does beneficial things for a person’s health and mood. Those researchers never met a confused rescue dog who had to search for his home on his own. That particular dog caused elevated blood pressure and a decrease in good vibes. As I usually do, I am learning to accept the dog that I never wanted.
            I have a reputation for rescuing strays. It has almost gotten me attacked by a mama coyote, but I tried! The pup that I tried to pick up was her pup!  It has caused some lively debates with my husband, but an animal can’t help that his owner is not responsible. Once while on vacation, I rescued a dog in South Dakota and brought him home and he’s been grateful for five years. This Leroy dog will never be that grateful. Come to think of it, I don’t even think he was on the porch when I left for work this morning. Who knows? I sincerely home that he settles in and realizes that we do like him, albeit begrudgingly and that we want him to stay safe.
            So, here’s to Leroy, our “free” dog, who has cost me quite a bit of money and sanity over the past month. May you live a long, healthy life somewhere in the vicinity of our home. My child doesn’t know it yet, but if Leroy sticks around, he will be in her senior portraits, a most unique souvenir of her high school experience. 

​The sign out front reads “Gainestown United Methodist Church, Established 1919,” however, Gainestown United Methodist Church is actually older than the sign states. The 1919 could possibly indicate when the congregation joined the United Methodist Church, but even that is up for debate. What the beautifully handwritten records do show is that a congregation was meeting and keeping active records as early as 1812. In 1812, the church was known as the “M.E. Church at Suggsville.” In 1817, it was called the “Methodist Church, Gainestown, Alabama.”  It is unclear if the Gainesville and Suggsville were the same community at one time or if the congregation moved from nearby Suggsville to Gainestown.
            The founder and first pastor of the Methodist congregation was Reverend Joshua Wilson. Wilson, a native of North Carolina and a Revolutionary War veteran, came to Gainestown around the year 1817. Wilson has been called the “founder” of Gainestown. Wilson’s son, Dr. Joshua Sanford Wilson had the antebellum home that is now called the Wilson-Finlay House built in 1846.  
            In 1854, a two-story church building was built. The top level was used as a masonic lodge and the lower level was used for worship services. For 57 years, the building served the needs of the people of the bustling town of Gainestown. In 1911, a tornado devastated Gainestown and destroyed the two-story structure, along with many other businesses. The congregation resolved to build the current church from salvaged materials of the first church building. It was built on the same plot of land, but the foundation was laid in a different place.
            Seven generations of Terri Lancaster McLemore’s family have attended Gainestown UMC. The church is special to McLemore who has spent much time preserving the written history and cleaning the aging tombstones of the cemetery so that they can be read. The cemetery itself is unique. It is shaded by pines and cedars and contains many plots of families that lived, worked, played and worshipped in Gainestown. The age of the oldest grave is not known because it is believed, based on the evidence of uniformed imprints in the ground, that there are unmarked graves of Native Americans, slaves and others who lived in the community whose graves were not marked or have lost their markers to time. These indentions in the ground are consistent with the shape and size of a typical grave and are located in the back of the cemetery. 
            Nature has not always been kind to the quaint wooden structure with the “simple pretty” stained glass windows. Ninety-three years after the church was rebuilt from the rubble of a tornado’s aftermath, Hurricane Ivan roared into the Gulf and brought with it destruction that the area had not seen for decades. The church remained on its foundation this time, but not without significant damage. The 2004 storm caused heavy damage to the roof and to some of the interior furnishings. Again, the resolve of the Gainestown faithful rose to the challenge. A new roof, updated wiring, and carefully selected light fixtures were added. Even after repairs in the modern era, the simplistic nineteenth century vibe can still be felt in the building.  
            Dr. William S. Pitts wrote a hymn based on his travel through a river valley in Iowa in 1857. The stagecoach he was traveling on stopped to give passengers a moment to stretch and Pitts happened upon a valley near the Cedar River. In his mind’s eye, he envisioned a church in the valley and wrote the lyrics to “Church in the Wildwood.” Several years later, Pitts returned to the area to see a church being built on the spot that he had foreseen. Pitts never made it to Gainestown, Alabama, but his description of the little country church by the river rings true for the “Gainestown Church,” as iPhone maps have labeled it.
“Come to the church by the wildwood
Oh, come to the church in the vale
No spot is so dear to my childhood
As the little brown church in the vale
How sweet on a clear Sabbath morning
To listen to the clear ringing bells
It's tones so sweetly are calling
Oh, come to the church in the vale.”
 
The congregation of Gainestown Methodist Church remains faithful. The body of believers meets on the first and third Sundays of each month at 11 a.m. Rev. E. C. Russell is the pastor. Homecoming services are hosted each October.