make a flower bed or maybe have some in pots on the porch but there ain’t nothing of the sort here.
Oh, the pots of flowers that lined my porch railing back when I had my own house—and how proud I was of the show! Bevan’s Emma Ray loves flowers—law, in springtime her thrift is a sight on earth—the way it lays like a blanket over that old stone wall—purples and pinks and a white that most burns your eyes when the sun hits it. And the peonies …
But ain’t no use thinking on that. Emma Ray has her children to help her and Bevan does his part too. Maybe when her man was alive, Fronie had more time for flowers. Still and all, I believe she’d be a happier somebody could her eyes light on a rosebush now and again.
I wish I could help her someways—instead here I am, taking up more of her time and making things harder. Bevan has said he will try to send money every month to help out—I don’t eat much; maybe the money will ease her load. And I can still snap beans and suchlike—
There was a rustling in the boxwoods and I could just make out a shape slipping along behind the leaves. At first it worried me but then I figured it must be the child—Fronie’s least un and the only one still at home. Bevan told me he’d heard the poor little thing is simpleminded and bad to take fits. Another worry for Fronie.
I called out soft, “Come here, child,” hoping she’d not take flight. “Come see your Granny Beck.”
The sounds in the boxwoods hushed and I called again. “Come here, honey, I got a pretty for you.”
She was like a half-tamed woods creature—poked her head out the bushes a little ways and looked at me with great blue eyes in the midst of a dirty sun-browned face. Her hair was a greasy snarl and the dress she had on weren’t much better than a feed sack with holes in it.
I can do something about that
, I thought.
I dug into the pocket of my skirt for my charm. “Look here, honey, what I got,” I said and she come out of the bushes and up the steps slow, her feet just a-dragging.
But when she got up close, her eyes went to mine before she looked to see what was in my hand and that was when I knew.
“Oh, honey,” I said, feeling like I could bust out crying any minute, “there is so much I have to learn you and maybe not a lot of time left. But I’ll make a beginning right now and tell you of the fairy crosses and how they come to be. Put out your hand.”
When I give her the little rock charm, she studied it close and a smile started across her face, turning her from a wild thing into a pretty child. She touched the cross real gentle, running a finger all along it, tracing it up and down.
Her eyes got real big, then she whispered, “This is from the Little Things, ain’t it?”
Law, they was a catch in my heart at them words. I begun to answer her but the tears come on me all to once—tears of joy that I have found her.
THE LEGEND OF THE FAIRY CROSS
Fairy crosses, also called fairy stones or fairy tears, are composed of staurolite, a combination of silica, iron, and aluminum. These minerals often crystallize into a cross-like form. Traditionally, fairy stones have been carried for good luck. They are believed to protect the wearer against witchcraft, accidents, sickness, and disaster. It is said that three U.S. presidents carried fairy crosses.
The Cherokee Indians have a legend that fairy crosses are the tears of the Little People (Yunwi Tsunsdi), tiny, reclusive creatures known for their ability to find lost people. As the story goes, the Little People were singing and dancing and drumming near the town of Brasstown when a messenger arrived with news of the Crucifixion. The terrible news made the Little People cry, and as their tears fell to the earth, thedrops hardened into tiny crosses which may still be found in that locale.
An extensive collection of fairy crosses is on display at the Cherokee County Historical Museum in Murphy, phone (704) 837-6792.
Chapter 10
The
Oh, the pots of flowers that lined my porch railing back when I had my own house—and how proud I was of the show! Bevan’s Emma Ray loves flowers—law, in springtime her thrift is a sight on earth—the way it lays like a blanket over that old stone wall—purples and pinks and a white that most burns your eyes when the sun hits it. And the peonies …
But ain’t no use thinking on that. Emma Ray has her children to help her and Bevan does his part too. Maybe when her man was alive, Fronie had more time for flowers. Still and all, I believe she’d be a happier somebody could her eyes light on a rosebush now and again.
I wish I could help her someways—instead here I am, taking up more of her time and making things harder. Bevan has said he will try to send money every month to help out—I don’t eat much; maybe the money will ease her load. And I can still snap beans and suchlike—
There was a rustling in the boxwoods and I could just make out a shape slipping along behind the leaves. At first it worried me but then I figured it must be the child—Fronie’s least un and the only one still at home. Bevan told me he’d heard the poor little thing is simpleminded and bad to take fits. Another worry for Fronie.
I called out soft, “Come here, child,” hoping she’d not take flight. “Come see your Granny Beck.”
The sounds in the boxwoods hushed and I called again. “Come here, honey, I got a pretty for you.”
She was like a half-tamed woods creature—poked her head out the bushes a little ways and looked at me with great blue eyes in the midst of a dirty sun-browned face. Her hair was a greasy snarl and the dress she had on weren’t much better than a feed sack with holes in it.
I can do something about that
, I thought.
I dug into the pocket of my skirt for my charm. “Look here, honey, what I got,” I said and she come out of the bushes and up the steps slow, her feet just a-dragging.
But when she got up close, her eyes went to mine before she looked to see what was in my hand and that was when I knew.
“Oh, honey,” I said, feeling like I could bust out crying any minute, “there is so much I have to learn you and maybe not a lot of time left. But I’ll make a beginning right now and tell you of the fairy crosses and how they come to be. Put out your hand.”
When I give her the little rock charm, she studied it close and a smile started across her face, turning her from a wild thing into a pretty child. She touched the cross real gentle, running a finger all along it, tracing it up and down.
Her eyes got real big, then she whispered, “This is from the Little Things, ain’t it?”
Law, they was a catch in my heart at them words. I begun to answer her but the tears come on me all to once—tears of joy that I have found her.
THE LEGEND OF THE FAIRY CROSS
Fairy crosses, also called fairy stones or fairy tears, are composed of staurolite, a combination of silica, iron, and aluminum. These minerals often crystallize into a cross-like form. Traditionally, fairy stones have been carried for good luck. They are believed to protect the wearer against witchcraft, accidents, sickness, and disaster. It is said that three U.S. presidents carried fairy crosses.
The Cherokee Indians have a legend that fairy crosses are the tears of the Little People (Yunwi Tsunsdi), tiny, reclusive creatures known for their ability to find lost people. As the story goes, the Little People were singing and dancing and drumming near the town of Brasstown when a messenger arrived with news of the Crucifixion. The terrible news made the Little People cry, and as their tears fell to the earth, thedrops hardened into tiny crosses which may still be found in that locale.
An extensive collection of fairy crosses is on display at the Cherokee County Historical Museum in Murphy, phone (704) 837-6792.
Chapter 10
The
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