by Joyce Bueter

Created on: November 22, 2009   Last Updated: March 03, 2010

When I was a child, my maternal grandparents lived in a “holler” deep in the midst of the Ozark Mountains.  My mother was raised there as well as her five younger siblings.  I loved to go visit there, it was a fascinating place.  A “holler” pronounced hollow in other places, was a fairly narrow piece of land nestled between two hills.  In this part of the country every holler had a name.  The one where I was born was the same one where my mother was raised, its name was “Possum Trot”.  Pistol Barrel and Horse Holler were just up the road a bit.

The farm was only two miles from town which was also the county seat and a very busy little place.  That doesn’t seem too far unless you have no vehicle which my Grandfather did not.  He never owned a car in his entire life.  His mode of transportation was walking.  He walked everywhere as did the entire family unless they happened to hitch a ride with a neighbor in the back of their buckboard wagon.

Grandpa did some farming but his vocation was that of a school teacher.  He was a very good teacher and well known in the area for his unequalled abilities in Math.  A brilliant man in a lot of ways, but he did have a few quirks.  He was quite forgetful, one family story was about him walking to town for one item and coming home without it.  He was greatly embarrassed but everyone else got a good laugh from it and never let him forget that!

Grandpa was very jovial, he liked to joke and tell stories.  Even though he was a school teacher, he had way of pronouncing words in his own peculiar way.  I happened to be in a small bedroom just off the living room while a conversation about war was taking place. He started talking about all the bombs being dropped in Europe except he didn’t say “bombs” he pronounced it “bums”.   Well, being the very literal person that I still am to this day, pictures began to form in my twelve year old brain.   I began to see very small hobos, red handkerchiefs on poles hanging over the shoulder, tumbling from airplanes wafting their way slowly to the ground. I didn’t want him to hear me so I covered my face with a pillow, rolled around on the bed and just about smothered myself to death in order to keep quiet.   I wouldn’t have hurt his feelings for anything.

My Grandparents were wonderful people, raised six children on a small farm with rocks for soil and a teachers pittance.  They carved out their own niche in my heart and soul and I am trying to pass that on to my children.

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