Sweet Myrtle . . . Untended

your Paw." "Really?" he asked, and I saw I had won. I hoped he never asked his father about it. I crossed my fingers and got the pop. So as we sat there drinking our pop and eating a Jumbo pie, we talked about this and that to which Tag agreed or disagreed with a nod of his head. Sam placed the empties upside down in a pop case, came back to me, stuck his small work-roughened hand out to be clasped in mine and with the soberness of a judge said, "We'uns will pay you'uns." After the boys had gone, I sat there musing on those words: "We'uns will pay you'uns." I had not heard that phrase for some years now. In those few words is hidden the mystery of our mountain way of life; the very essence of our culture; the base on which our philosophy is founded. It is not a promise lightly given, for it's more binding than any contract drawn up by a lawyer or a treaty between two great nations. Even death cannot break that promise given by a mountaineer. Because it does not mean just, "I will pay you"; it means, "If for some reason I cannot pay, then my folks will. If they can't pay you, then they will pay your folks." The cash money will only be paid once, the favor of kindness (commodation) will be repaid over and over, generation after generation. I have heard many an oldtimer remark, "Sure, I will do anything for him I can, his aunt was so good to my grandmother." It also works the other way around; a grudge is repaid the same way for some slight, hurt, or grievance, thus causing the family feuds. All elections are gained or lost based on this principle. All votes are cast either for spite or to repay a favor-not to the candidate himself but his family. After many generations, you will hear, I would not vote for him after the way his grandfather treated my husband's cousin, not on your life I wouldn't." Or "I could not vote against him. His mother was so good to my sister." Foolish? Not on your life. This is the strength of a vanishing race, the strength that held the mountains together. Sadly, it is now only found in remote places. But the memory still lingers m our hearts. Sweet Myrtle . . . Untended Neglected, full of last year's skeleton, dead branches standing too full To allow tender new snoots of Indian Summer bloom. Hack back, chop out, thin down. Accomplish the new harvest Of a short lasting birth of raging purple hue. Among the drying and snapping, stringing up of summer's crop, As trees cast their formal attire to the ground to warm the earth, I think of hearth, home, fullness, closeness, skin touching skin. Leaf to leaves . . . Strange you choose nakedness now. Whisper thin trees. Your voices will die this winter As wind uses your branches for the harp of melody in the coldness. All will proceed in the quiet thundering of winter snow. You will awaken to cull out sweet myrtle and Wait for the earth bloom of soul. -Deborah Hale Spears 19 ...