The Red Flannel Rag

was down the hill some. I thought he would be around a while longer, so I had not

formally recorded his community history.

I never realized what a treasure my daddy was to our family and to the Hopkins

Gap community. Not only had I failed to record his voice, but I also felt bad for the

community. Unlike other men who depend on their wives to maintain family

connections, Dad was the one who visited people in the hospital, nursing homes, and

attended every funeral of people in the Gap. When he died, his sister, Vernie, was in her

nineties and living in a nursing home. Dad was her most faithful visitor. I wondered

who would take his place in her lonely room.

Dad lost a few of his brothers and sisters before he died. He made sure their

graves were marked with headstones. When I visit his grave now, I notice that his

brothers who have died since him do not have headstones, and they probably never will.

It seems that nobody else in the family cares as much as he did.

Now as I write, I depend on notes in the margins of books, on envelopes, and bits

of paper. I wrote these notes as I listened to him talk over the years, always intending to

record him. I am thankful for my scattered notes.

Influence from the Grave

Other influential characters in my life died long before I was born. Their

contributions to my childhood were given in stories about their lives passed on to me by

my mother. They were also the characters in much of the oral tradition so freely given

to my generation by my uncles and aunts. Whenever I found myself in a quiet setting

with Uncle Shirley, Uncle Jim, my mom, or dad, I could expect to hear a story.

Amazingly, the stories were told the same with each telling giving me the sense that I

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