Etched in Stone ~ A Labor of Love

As the years have passed, and the search for my roots has unfolded, I have come to think in ways I never thought of before.

I find myself filled with speculation, as to why things happen they way they do.

Why do some souls live to a ripe old age, while other’s life cycles begin and end in one, fleeting, day’s time?

The grand scheme of things is held safely in the hand of a higher power, of this I am certain, and such is not for us, just mere mortal man, to know.

But the questions still abound.
Would we still be human if we did not wonder about it all?

There will always be the “ Why’s?” and the “How Comes“.


I know we are all here for a purpose, we are here to learn from one another and love one another, of that I feel certain.

I see the beauty and the wonderment that this wonderful world has to offer and it makes me want to drink it all in, slowly.
Like a perfect cup of cocoa on a cold winter’s night.
Like a tangy cup of cold lemonade on a blistering day in August.

Something worth savoring.

I want to cherish and live, each and every moment that I am blessed with.


My mind wanders off to the mountain near Relief, N.C., often.

There is a mountain that rises steeply behind a little country church, there in the tiny Mitchell County community. The church sits nestled at the bottom of the rise and the pine trees tower overhead.

The pine trees know the story.

They have stood by silently as the years have marched past. Silently watching as the seasons come and go. Oh, they know for certain. Branches stirring with the breeze , as if they are waving a polite greeting to all who venture near.

If those trees could only tell you all that they have seen. At the base of one of those tall, ancient pines, high up on that ridge, lies a single soul.

A soul long gone.

There is a yellowish stone.

Not a monumental marker, but a lasting marker, just the same. A rectangular stone with a simple cross etched into it. No name, no date.

If you were to pass by, most likely you would not even see it.
The pine needles fall thickly up there and they quickly cover the stone.

A single soul laid to rest on the highest part of the ridge. They were carried up and placed lovingly by those that were left behind.

This solitary soul, laid to rest, apart from others.

Or are there more here?
Are there others nearby, whose markers have long since vanished?
Is this soul surrounded by those that they loved, or are they all alone?

Was this place requested by the person, prior to their death?
Or was this place chosen for them, out of the love for the beauty of the area, and a love for the person?

Was the stone carved right on the spot or carved and carried up there?

Was the person a child or someone’s parent? Young perhaps, or old and wise from the years?

What time of year was it when they buried the poor soul?

Was it cold and bitter winter, when the ground was hard and unforgiving?
Or was it mild and sweet spring, when the grasses were tender and the sun was beginning to warm the earth?

Is this our relative, of our own blood, with no one left that remembers them?

Who ever lies underneath those pines in eternal slumber, was one that was remembered, one that was loved.

That is all any of us can ever hope for. To be loved and remembered.

Love lives forever.





UNKNOWN CEMETERY, RELIEF LOCATION:



On the mountain above Brummitts Creek Brethren Church, around the mountain from Relief. Climb a path that runs diagonally up the bank of the incline. At the ‘saddle’ of the ‘hill’ you will see the abandoned Mary Whitson Cemetery on your right. Turn to your left and climb the ridge up through the pines. When you reach the top of the first rise, you will see that the ridge rises again. The cemetery is almost to the top of the second rise.
There is nothing there but the stone, amid a bed of pine needles. It is very easy to miss it, but it is at the highest point of the ridge, measuring crosswise. There is also a dilapidated barbed wire fence running along the top of the ridge in places.

ACCESSIBILITY: Very difficult! The climb to the grave is only for fit persons. CONDITION: Abandoned.

1. Yellowish rectangular stone, with a simple cross etched on the face. No name or dates.

files.usgwarchives.net/nc/mitchell/cemeteries/unknown01.txt

A Sister’s Love ~ The Correll Family

David and Nancy Harrington Correll were married about 1862 in Tennessee. They had eight children:
Isabell- born 1862, Mary Calla- born 1864, James - born 1868, Nancy- born 1872, Jarrett- born abt. 1869, Thomas- born 1870, William - born 1873 and Arminta- born 1877.

Isabell Correll married our Welzia Augustus Arrowood and started our line of Arrowood’s in the Gastonia area.

Thomas married Annie Evelyn Waldrupe about 1894. Thomas was born in Harrell’s Township, Mitchell County, North Carolina, the family moved later to Happy Valley, Blount County, Tennessee.

He and Annie had thirteen children. Two of those children were Ruby and Minnie. Ruby was born on February 13, 1908. Minnie followed soon after, on April 25, 1911.

Sister, Ollie Correll, was born on December 25, 1894, she was the eldest of the children. She would walk to work escorted by her boyfriend, on most days. One day in January of 1916, she made her way to work, apparently unaware that little Minnie and Ruby were following along the path, behind her. The snow and the weather had probably caused the creek to swell to a scary and fast moving body of water. Cold water.

Little Ruby, 7 years old, and Minnie, 5, followed Ollie, across the creek on a makeshift bridge and either one slipped in, and the other followed, or they both went in together. Sadly, their young lives were taken that day.

They drowned together on January 2, 1916. Swept downstream in a rapid torrent of water.

When they were found, they were still holding hands.
Together in eternity. I can only imagine what their poor mother endured that sad day.

Ollie must have blamed herself for the tragedy, a heavy burden for an older sister to carry. Ollie was about 20 in 1916, at the time of the accident.

Ruby and Minnie were buried together and share a marker at Redtop Primitive Church Cemetery in Happy Valley. Two little sisters, side by side, forever.



Ollie, the elder sister, lived to be 69 years old. She passed away on 12/06/1964 in Knoxville, Tennessee. She married Tolbert Delsmer Hensley. Together, they had eight children. On the 1920 Census she and Tolbert were living in Knox County, TN with their daughter, Lillie, age 2 ½ years old.

Thomas and Annie were both passed away and gone by the year of 1927. Thomas died at age 51 years and Annie passed at age 47.
They are buried at Redtop Primitive Church Cemetery, in Happy Valley.



Not far away, in Boone Cemetery, rests David and Nancy Correll. William, son of David and Nancy, along with his wife, Nancy Gardner Correll, also rests in Boone Cemetery.




Nancy C. Correll, sister to Thomas and Isabell, was born January 17, 1872. She married Thomas Grant Garland on May 30, 1893. They had five children. Nancy and Thomas Garland are buried there at Redtop Primitive Church as well.

Sister, Mary Calla, is buried alongside her parents in Boone Cemetery, just up the way, in Happy Valley.



Brother, James, is buried at Redtop, along with his wife Annie.

Arminta “Minty” Correll married Henry Watson Sellars and had a large brood of ten children. Arminta passed away on March 26, 1918, in Happy Valley, Tennessee.

That peaceful valley holds quite a few of our family safely, in heavenly rest. Quite a beautiful place for a final resting spot.

Wonderful Apple Crisp

Ingredients

4 apples - peeled, cored and sliced
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup white sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 egg, beaten
2 tablespoons butter, melted


Directions

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
In a 9 inch square baking pan, mix sliced apples with brown sugar. In a large bowl
mix together flour, white sugar, cinnamon and salt. In a small bowl, beat together egg and melted butter. Stir into flour mixture. Spread evenly over apples.
Bake in preheated oven for 30 to 40 minutes, or until topping is golden and crisp.

Saylor's Sunrise~ Sweet Mountain Apples

When I was a little girl, and the leaves began to turn, I knew it was about time.

Time for autumn, the fall of the year.
Time for apple cider, and warm fuzzy sweaters.


Apple butter on warm toast.

With the chill in the air, and the clear blue of the 'almost dusk' sky, my thoughts turn back to the mountains.

Time for apples.

The smell of fireplace wood smoke, as evening is coming on, holds something special for me.

October falls softly in Carolina.
Like a spent leaf sighing slowly to the earth.

Time to gather round the hearth.

My grandpa had such a love for the mountains. He was ready, no matter what time of year it was, to get in the car, and head for the “hills”. We lived in the Piedmont of North Carolina. Just some low rising hills around . The mountains of the area, are not really what I would consider to be mountains, they are really tall “hills“.

The mountains call me back ‘home’ this time of year, every year, it is just in my blood. Can’t seem to help myself.

When there is still some color in the trees, the air is crisp, and the skies are blue, it is time.

We would stop along the way, at a roadside stand, for apples, cider, and honey. The signs were emblazoned on the path and beckoned you to stop for quite a ways before you actually got there. Excitement growing with each new sign.

A rite of the changing seasons, this journey to the mountains.
Indelibly imprinted on me, just like heading to Filbert, South Carolina when summer peaches are ripe and sweet. The best place in the world for peaches.

It is just something that you do.
Part of who you are.
Part of where you come from.

On our recent trip up to “the mountains” , the smell of sweet apples, and the hope of the tartness to come, lured me to stop along side the highway to sample them. We came back with more than enough for the both of us.

I like the ones that my grandma always called "poppy". The ones that are sweet up front, after the first bite, then they cause that tingle along your jawline. That tingle of slightly tartness. Do you know the ones? The 'poppy' ones..you know. Grin.

We stopped at Saylor’s Orchard, in Bakersville, NC. We were not disappointed. My friend, Jack, at the Grist Mill, highly recommended these apples. They call their ‘signature’ apple the “ Saylor’s Sunrise“.




They are awesome!
Golden, red, and delicious.

Saylor’s is owned and operated by Jim and Jean Saylor. You can’t miss it, you can see it from the road. The view of the valley from their apple stand is an added bonus. While we were there , a deer passed in the orchard, down below.



A beautiful sight.

When I walked into the apple store, I was entranced with the sweet, tantalizing smell of mountain apples.
It was so thick with fragrance, that it made you feel like you had stepped inside of a basket of apple blossoms.

Stop by and get a large bag of those fragrant apples . You will be glad you did.

The Grist Mill on Cane Creek ~ Dellinger Mill

On the ride up the mountains, to Mitchell and Yancey counties, I had time to quietly think. I thought about simpler times, a time that my ancestors knew well. I thought about surviving during cold, harsh winters in an unforgiving forest. I thought about storing up food and wood , to keep your family safe and warm during the cruel winter months. It had to have been difficult, not an easy life. "Survival" was in every waking thought, no doubt.

As we winded our way along the curvy mountain roads, I thought about a horse and wagon making that steep ascent up the mountain . Not a wonderful thought. I remember my grandfather telling the tale of coming to Gastonia from Shelby with a wagon and a mule. But then again, that is pretty much flat lands compared to Mitchell County.

We found our way to Hawk, North Carolina and followed the signs to the Dellinger Grist Mill. The wood sign along the road proclaims the Grist Mill’s rightful place on the National Historical Registry.



The Dellinger Grist Mill.
I was told a story, under tall pine trees, that gently sifted down sweet smelling pine needles, with each gentle breeze. A story about a mule named “Jack" and a small boy that played along that creek and was taught how to grind the corn into cornmeal.



We were finally there. What a moment of discovery.

This mill has been in the Dellinger family for over 130 years.



It sits nestled in the trees, in a low place by the road. Sitting proudly alongside Cane Creek, with it’s clear, cold, water surging past it. A relic from another time and place, it has reclaimed it’s glory, and grinds away, just as it always has.

We were greeted with a warm handshake and a smile to match, when we entered the drive. It was Jack Dellinger, owner of the mill. His great-great-grandfather Henry (Georg Heinrich) Dellinger and mine, are one and the same, (my 4th great grand). That is where our life paths connect.

I felt like I had just “come home”. His face 'lit up' when I told him my connection. He has a deep, rich, family history flowing in those waters of Cane Creek. He also has a deep 'river of love' for the place, flowing through himself. You cannot help but feel that love. It just spills over like water over the dam, just up-creek about 200 yards.

Oh yes, back to the story of the mule. Jack’s grandfather, David Dellinger, had two mules, one named “Ruby” and one named “Jack”. He thinks that just maybe, just perhaps, he himself, is named after that mule. I sort of doubt that, but it does make one pause for thought, a smile slowly spreading, as he tells that story.

He is a storyteller from the heart, for sure. Simply captivating. He knows that place by every stone and stick. He restored the mill, saving it from certain ruin and loss. He restored it back into operation, but not by 'conventional methods' alone, but by the love he poured back into it.

He told me that he had retired, without a hobby, to keep him busy. No golf for him. So one thing led to another, and he began the difficult task of restoration. After getting permission from the 'Missus’' first, of course. (grin) One man and one mill, and a wonderful legacy of love, that just won’t quit. We walked across a log foot path that crossed the creek, to the site where the Cane Creek Church once stood.



We saw the old chimney of the homestead of Jack's grandfather, now gone. I touched that cold hearthstone and imagined the fireplace glowing, and a family gathered round the warmth.



He has grits and cornmeal for sale, ground on the premises, of course, just the way that our great-great grandfather did it. He will autograph your book, if you ask him kindly. The book is a treasure trove of Dellinger information.



He has a wonderful DVD that tells the story, too.

But don’t take my word for it. Go see the mill for yourself. Go meet the man full of love for the old Dellinger Grist Mill. Hear him tell the tale. Maybe you will get lucky and get the warm, genuine, bear hug that I got. We are family, after all. You will come away richer and with a better understanding of our past, just as I did. Tell Jack “Hello!” for me.





Directions to Dellinger Mill:

From I-40 in North Carolina or I-81 in Tennessee and from the Blue Ridge Parkway:

Go to Bakersville, the county seat of Mitchell County, NC.

There is one traffic light in Bakersville and it is located adjacent to the courthouse. Turn onto Mitchell Avenue going east, which becomes Cane Creek Road
( State Road 1211 ) as you leave Bakersville. Go exactly four (4) miles, with no turns. Dellinger Mill has a large wooden sign on the right side of the road. The mill parking lot is near the Mill, down the access road on the right side of Cane Creek Road.