But when we got inside the trailer, it became plain to me at once that they didn't need to do any great changing to make a little girl happy. First thing I saw when May switched on the light were those shelves and shelves—seemed every wall was covered with them—of whirligigs. I knew what they were right off even though they weren't like any whirligigs I'd ever seen. Back in Ohio people had them hooked to their fences or stuck out in their gardens to scare off the birds. And they'd be mostly the same everywhere: a roadrunner whose legs spun in the wind, or maybe a chicken or a duck. Cartoon characters were popular—Garfield was in a lot of gardens with his arms whirling like crazy in the breeze.
I'd seen plenty of whirligigs, but never any like Ob's. Ob was an artist—I could tell that the minute I saw them—though artist isn't the word I could have used back then, so young. None of Ob's whirligigs were farm animals or cartoon characters. They were The Mysteries. That's what Ob told me, and I knew just what he was talking about. One whirligig was meant to be a thunderstorm and it was so like one, black and gray, beautiful and frightening. Another was Ob's idea of heaven, and I thought his angels just might come off that thing and fly around that house trailer any minute, so golden and light were they. There was Fire and Love and Dreams and Death. Even one called May, which had more little spinning parts than any of the rest of the whirligigs, and these parts all white—her Spirit, he said. They were grounded to a branch from an oak tree and this, he said, was her Power.
I stood there before those shelves, watching these wonders begin to spin as May turned on the fan overhead, and I felt like a magical little girl, a chosen little girl, like Alice who has fallen into Wonderland. This feeling has yet to leave me.
And as if the whirligigs weren't enough, May turned me to the kitchen, where she pulled open all the cabinet doors, plus the refrigerator, and she said, “Summer, whatever you like you can have and whatever you like that isn't here Uncle Ob will go down to Ellet's Grocery and get you. We want you to eat, honey.”
Back in Ohio, where I'd been treated like a homework assignment somebody was always having to do, eating was never a joy of any kind. Every house I had ever lived in was so particular about its food, and especially when the food involved me. There's no good way to explain this. But I felt like one of those little mice who has to figure out the right button to push before its food will drop down into the cup. Caged and begging. That's how I felt sometimes.
My eyes went over May's wildly colorful cabinets, and I was free again. I saw Oreos and Ruffles and big bags of Snickers. Those little cardboard boxes of juice that I had always, just once, wanted to try. I saw fat bags of marshmallows and cans of SpaghettiOs and a little plastic bear full of honey. There were real glass bottles of Coke looking cold as ice in the refrigerator and a great big half of a watermelon taking up space. And, best of all, a carton of real chocolate milk that said Hershey's.
Whirligigs of Fire and Dreams, glistening Coke bottles and chocolate milk cartons to greet me. I was six years old and I had come home.
BETTIE SELLERS
(March 30, 1926–)
Poet Bettie M. Sellers was born in Tampa, Florida, and was raised in Griffin, Georgia. She moved to the Georgia highlands in 1965 when she and her husband accepted teaching positions at Young Harris College in Young Harris, Georgia.
Sellers received her B.A. from La Grange College in 1958, and her M.A. from the University of Georgia in 1966. She was awarded an Honorary Doctorate of Letters from La Grange College in 1991. Sellers retired from the faculty at Young Harris in 1996. In 1997, she was named Poet Laureate of Georgia.
The author of seven books of poetry, Sellers has received numerous awards, including being named Poet of the Year by American Pen Women for The Morning of the Red-Tailed Hawk. She also won a Georgia Emmy as scriptwriter for the documentary The Bitter Berry: The Life of Byron Herbert Reece. Her work has appeared in a wide variety of publications, including Georgia Review, Chattahoochee Review, and Arizona Quarterly.
Sellers crafts poems from the images that surround her in the mountains of northern Georgia. Many of her poems illuminate the lives of the women of the region. One critic noted that Sellers knows these women “from the heart-side out.”
Sellers says, “The language of a transplanted mountaineer is, of necessity, somewhat different from that of one born here. The rural way of life, though, is much the same, and it has been easy for me to think that I truly do belong.”
OTHER SOURCES TO EXPLORE
PRIMARY
Poetry: Wild Ginger (1989), Satan's Playhouse (1986), Liza's Monday and Other Poems (1986), The Morning of the Red-Tailed Hawk (1981), Spring Onions and Cornbread (1977), Appalachian Carols: Poems (1977), Westward from Bald Mountain (1974). Nonfiction: The Bitter Berry: The Life of Byron Herbert Reece (1992), Beyond Uncle Remus: A Study of Some of Joel Chandler Harris’ Negro Characters (1966). Autobiographical essay: “Westward from Bald Mountain,” in Bloodroot (1998), ed. Joyce Dyer, 234–42.
SECONDARY
Dorla D. Arndt, review of Morning of the Red-Tailed Hawk, Appalachian Heritage 13:3 (summer 1985), 75–76. Contemporary Authors, Vols. 77–80, 485. Joyce, Dyer, “Bettie Sellers,” Bloodroot, 233. Robin O. Warren, “Stories of the Land, Family, and God: The Poetry of Bettie Sellers,” Her Words (2002) ed. Felicia Mitchell, 249–60.
PINK
from Liza's Monday and Other Poems (1986)
Her mama called her “Pink” when she was born,
to match a tiny flower pressed in Exodus—
from Charlestown gardens, its like not found
among the blossoms wild in Brasstown soil.
She called the two boys “Flotsam” and “Jetsam,”
having heard such words ring somewhere
with all the strength of heroes: Samson, Saul—
though never could she find them in The Book
no matter if she searched to Revelation's end.
The last child Mama named “Rebecca” to be sure,
make up for giving wrong names to the boys—
and those now stuck too tight to budge.
Then Mama died, not knowing just how right
she'd called her boys, hell-bent to leave the plow
and hoe for parts out West where gold grew common
as the stones they cursed in winding valley rows.
In time, their faces faded as Pink brushed
Rebecca's long red hair, the color of her own.
She washed and cooked, up on a wooden stool
that Papa made so she could reach the tubs and stove.
She stitched the gown for Rebecca's wedding day,
embroidered it with pinks and ragged robins
around the neck and sleeves. In other springs,
she knitted caps for babies never hers.
She did for Papa till his days were through
and kept the cabin neat as Mama ever could.
Alone, she withered slowly, frail and dry
as petals caught and pressed by Exodus.
MORNINGS, SHEBA COMBS HER HAIR
from Liza's Monday and Other Poems (1986)
She watches from the open door, the man
long-legged, tall and straight, his hair aflame
like foxes make as they run through the broom
sedge patch behind her house. This neighbor
passes by each day to climb the slope
of Cedar Ridge, cut logs to build a barn
near where the trail that crosses Unicoi
turns west through Brasstown Gap.
She watches, thinking how her own man,
gone these three years, never had
that loose-limbed stride, that fire atop
his head. Older than she, he never made
her heart run wild and fly across the valley
free as red-tailed hawks rise high
on currents of cold morning air. She watches,
planning how one day she'll walk out, ask him
how his wife does, how
his son. She'll wait
beside the big oak, ask him in to warm his hands
before her hearth, to notice how her dark hair falls
as smooth as water in Corn Creek caresses stones.
How she will warm cold fingers in his hair,
and face eternal burning if she must.
LIZA'S MONDAY
from Liza's Monday and Other Poems (1986)
She has left her tubs and boiling sheets, fled
north across the woodlot, heard no grumble
from the pigs as she passed, the chicken shed
where eggs wait to be gathered, felt
no pain as December's harsh wind dried
lye soap on her arms, reddened hands held
stiff by her sides, palms forward as to catch
the gusts that sweep the slopes of Double Knob.
Inside the cabin: Ethan's shirt to patch,
the fire to mend, small Issac sleeping
in his crib, soon to wake for nursing.
These and other chores are in her keeping,
but she hurries up the mountainside
as on an April day to search for mint
and cress, to find first violets that hide
in white and purple patches by Corn Creek.
The ridge is steep and rocky, sharp with briars.
Raked inside by gales howling bleak
as northern winds around the cabin whine,
she does not feel the laurel tug her dress,
the briars pricking dark red beads that shine
on bare arms. All winter afternoon she climbs
until she gains the highest rocks, the knobs
where one can look out, trace the spines
of distant mountains, scan the valley floor—
black dots for shed and cabin, smoke only wisps
blown by the wind. Liza sees no more:
not broken stones underfoot, not heavy sky
holding snow. She sits on Double Knob, back
against the ledge, and watches night come by
to close the valley, wipe her clearing out
as though it has never been. Snow clouds
roil around Liza's head, wrap cold arms about
bent shoulders, fill her aproned lap, open hands,
Below, the wash-fire has burned down to embers;
Ethan long begun the search across his lands.
THE MORNING OF THE RED-TAILED HAWK
from The Morning of the Red-Tailed Hawk (1981)
In holy books, in church, I hear curses,
see stones hurled at bodies caught in acts
that spurn the law of Moses and of God. I,
like Saul, have judged, held coats in hands
washed clean in the blood of a Bible-belt Lamb.
But, outside my window now, the red-tailed hawk
glides, imperceptibly adjusting to turbulence,
scanning his territory for unwary rodents
in the reaches of tall marsh grass.
I too cruise, needing emotion, words to write.
Today, I intercepted a man's glance, saw his eyes
smoothing the light hairs on another man's arm
as they walked the beach.
These two are lovers in some sheltered cove,
where my claws could intrude, sharp
as the red-tailed hawk, his talons sunk in flesh.
I will not write their names. Deeper than books,
than church, I have caught some ancient pain,
accepting it to cup, as in a chalice,
between my trembling hands.
ALL ON A SUMMER'S AFTERNOON
from The Morning of the Red-Tailed Hawk (1981)
When my mother had turned her sad
slow heel back into childhood,
she ran away,
for most of a summer's afternoon.
Neighbors with pitying faces came to help
my father search the Flint River bottoms
where she had scratched up arrowheads for us
and told such tales that Creeks were lurking
behind every pine and oak for all our summers.
They combed high grasses skirting the beaver ponds
where she once sat, shushing our very breath
to quietness even the shyest beaver could trust.
They found her in the farthest pasture.
Tugging feebly at her print dress caught
in a tangle of barbed wire, she stood
with wide eyes, watching the Indians
come from behind the trees.
LEGACY FOR RACHEL
from The Morning of the Red-Tailed Hawk (1981)
I could call you Rachel
though that is not your name.
In the old story, Rachel waited,
watching Leah bear her children,
spun and wove in the corner
of Jacob's tent, hearing babies cry.
Years, you sat at your mother's knee,
wound her wool balls, stacked quilt
scraps in neat piles, cleaned her house.
And Leah came on Sundays, bristling
with young, ate your meals, patted
your thin shoulder, saying:
“What a good sister you are.”
While funeral meats still lined
the kitchen cupboard shelves,
she piled up afghans, quilts
for daughters one, two, and three—
drove off toward town, leaving you
cradling balls of wool, picking lint
and scraps nestling under the cushions
of your mother's favorite chair.
MARY LEE SETTLE
(July 29, 1918–)
Born in Charleston, West Virginia, Mary Lee Settle's childhood was divided between West Virginia and eastern Kentucky, where her father worked as a civil engineer. She attended Sweet Briar College from 1936 to 1938, then worked at the Barter Theater in Abingdon, Virginia, where she was “discovered” and sent to Hollywood to be screen-tested for the movie Gone With the Wind. After returning from California, she spent a year modeling in New York. In 1942 she traveled to England to join the Women's Auxiliary Air Force, a branch of the Royal Air Force, an experience she recounts in All the Brave Promises.
After the war, Settle traveled extensively and made her home in the United States, England, and Turkey. She has returned to West Virginia several times over the years, homecomings that she has fictionalized in The Killing Ground and Charley Bland.
Settle's most acclaimed work is her 1977 novel Blood Tie, which won the National Book Award. Many critics contend, however, that Settle's most lasting literary contribution is the Beulah Quintet, a series of historical novels which begins in seventeenth-century England and ends in twentieth-century West Virginia. Prisons provides the prologue to O Beulah Land, followed by Know Nothing, The Scapegoat, and The Killing Ground. On publication of the last volume, Settle won the 1983 Janet Heidinger Kafka Award for the best fiction published by an American woman.
Liberty, its use and abuse, is a theme Settle explores throughout the Quintet. Spanning nearly three hundred years of British/American history, the Quintet addresses the uncomfortable truth that freedom for one group of individuals often translates into enslavement for others. Settle's examples range from the uneasy relationship between the British gentry and commoners in Cromwellian England, to the struggles between Appalachia's coal barons and miners.
Settle writes, “What matters…in the historical novel is not the retelling of great historical events, but the poetic awakening of the people who figured in those events.”
The two following scenes are from Addie, Settle's autobiography, in which the author recalls her grandmother's life in the Kanawha Valley of West Virginia. First, Addie recounts her failed marriage to a coal miner. The second scene offers a glimpse of Addie's second marriage to Mr. Tompkins and her support of the legendary Mother Jones, a union organizer active in the West Virginia coalfields at the turn
of the century.
In the scene from The Killing Ground, the final volume of the Beulah Quintet, Hannah McCarkle, the daughter of a well-to-do West Virginia family, confronts Jake Catlett, a poor mountaineer who killed her brother, Johnny, during a drunken brawl. The Beulah Quintet evolved over a twenty-five-year span, and Settle traced it back to this scene, saying, “I had a picture of one man hitting another in a West Virginia drunk tank one Saturday night, and the idea was to go all the way back to see what lay behind that blow. At first I went all the way to 1755, then I realized that wasn't far enough, and I went back further still, to Cromwell's England in Prisons, to trace the idea of liberty from which so much of the American experience sprang” (Contemporary Writers, Vol. 89–92, 467).
OTHER SOURCES TO EXPLORE
PRIMARY
Novels: Choices (1995), The Kiss of Kin (1995), Charley Bland (1989), The Beulah Quintet (1988), Celebration (1986), Water World (1984), The Killing Ground (1982), Know Nothing (1981), The Scapegoat (1980), Blood Tie (1977), The Long Road to Paradise (1973), Prisons (1973), The Clam Shell (1971), Fight Night on a Sweet Saturday (1964) [revised in 1982 as The Killing Ground], Know Nothing (1960), The Old Wives’ Tale (1957), O Beulah Land (1956), The Love Eaters (1954). Nonfiction: I, Roger Williams: A Fragment of Autobiography (2001), Addie (1998), Turkish Reflections: A Search for a Place (1991), The Scopes Trial: The State of Tennessee v. John Thomas Scopes (1972), All the Brave Promises: Memories of Aircraft Woman 2nd Class (1966). Autobiographical essay: “The Search for the Beulah Quintet,” in Bloodroot (1998), ed. Joyce Dyer, 244–46.
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