So Many Trails, So Little Time

"I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven . . . " Song of Myself --Walt Whitman

While meandering along a wilderness trail in the Great Smoky Mountains, I came upon a stone chimney, jutting out of the green forest. Someone once lived there among the trees with the cool, clear creek not far beyond.

How very beautiful these woods are. There is a peacefulness that touches me to the soul. The people who lived here experienced their own trials and tribulations, but the forest also provided lessons of grace, wisdom and common sense.

My father tells me stories of the woods. When I was but a child, he would led me through the trails, winding carefully through the pine trees. He reminded me to walk softly and try not to make disturbances. He also reminded me to listen carefully, for there are things human ears can miss when our minds are not on the path.

I think one of the most important things I learned about the trails, is to watch for animal droppings. A bear can leave a most unpleasant sign, but it was easy to see and even easier to avoid. So just recently I thought, "If a bear craps in the woods, do we HAVE to step in it?" There are some people crapping in the Redbone woods right now. I think it's best to sidestep their mess and keep ourselves clean. There are so many trails that need to be explored and such precious little time to accomplish them all. But that is just one lesson from the woods that has been passed down from father to daughter. It is an important lesson, however and it serves me well whether I am hiking a trail in the wilderness or rushing to work in the big city.

I bought new hiking boots a month ago. They have thick soles and built in support for my ankles and the arch of my feet. I'm prepared to press on, no matter how long the journey may be.

Them's fight'n Words

There are some phrases that seem to be passed from generation to generation. I think I can identify certain periods in my family history when an ancestor or kinfolk took a dislike to notions or actions of the day and they uttered the phrase, "Now, them's fight' words!"

I can say with relative confidence that in the mid 1770's, William and Edward Goings (kin somehow, but I don't know yet, but both of them my 7th generation great grandfathers) were rather frustrated with Britain's way of ruling the continent. They joined up in the Continental Army, more than willing to fight for the right of self government. If anyone tried to tell them how much tax to pay, or who could be married and who couldn't or who could own land and who couldn't they just polished their squirrel guns and said "Them's fightin' words!"

There's been members of the Moore County, Pocket Creek Goinses in every war since then - War of 1812, , The United States Civil War, the Spanish American War and on forward.

In the 1930's, life was difficult in rural North Carolina as well as other rural areas, especially for mixed-blood families who lived on the fringes of society, ostracized and discriminated against by dominant society members. Food was scarce, but family is family and you'd think that fight'n words would not show up at the dinner table. But my great Aunt Norvie told the story about the day when her son and a cousin sat at the table, eating purt good, but only one biscuit remained on the platter and Wilbert Yow grabbed it up causing an onslaught of fightin' words. The cousin took offense, believing he (being older and all) was entitled to the last biscuit, and he shot the 15 year old Wilbert to death on January 8, 1933 at the dinner table. (Aunt Norvie pictured to the right in 1990)

Uncle David Eugene Goins (pictured upper left) has heard and said plenty of fightin' words. Most of the time in Asheboro, North Carolina, he was called a d*mned ole Croatan Indian. Many citizens took offense when he started courtin' one of the most beautiful white girls in the school. He took plenty of beatings - giving back as hard as others gave it to him, but he married that sweet little Arlene Roberts (Collins descendent) and they had a beautiful family. It was not easy, fighting for the right to love whomever you wanted, but if anyone had anything to say about it, well, those were usually fightin' words.

And sometimes fightin' words took on different meanings. I recall that they could be used in jest between family members. And there were encouragements to fight within the community. My father (pictured left with his brother David) recalls a time when he was enticed to fight for a cash prize. It was at the Randolph county Fair in the 1940's, and he donned leather fighting gloves, more than willing to fight his opponent to a bloody pulp and bring home some much needed food money.

He stepped in the cage and unexpectedly charged his opponent, only to stumble forward as his challenger deftly jumped up in the air and eluded him. So my father tried again, knowing that he had to be one of the fastest runners in the county. He charged once more only to miss his opponent once more. Before he could bring himself fully off the ground, the ape jumped on my father's scrawny shoulders and started pummeling him with his boxing gloves until my father begged to be released from the cage. He staggered home black and blue on the inside and the outside, but he earned a few shiny coins for staying in as long as he did. But that was the Goins inside of him and money, food and the right to fight were worth fightin' for.

The Screen Door Unlocked

Dedicated to the memory of Ervin and Lovie Jane Goins.

There was a time when the screen door was always unlocked.

My father remembers sitting in the family living room while on leave from the US Marine Corps, talking to Grandma and Grandpa. The door swung wide open and a group of young hellions raced through the living room. Grandpa grinned at the youthful energy and Daddy asked, "Who are those young-uns?"

"Haven't any idee," Grandpa said, but no one was going to chase them off. The door was always open.

After experiencing centuries of ostracism from mainstream society, my family learned something -- a fundamental truth which is still part of the fabric of their descendents. We need each other. That door is always open.

That is why I was shocked to the core when I read an outburst laced with profanity, "we don't need them." Where did this come from? That has not been our family way --this is NOT the legacy bequeathed to us from those who walked the green valleys with hearts as big as the moon and smiles as bright as the sun.

Despite the troubled past, our families never shut each other out. I can't remember my grandparents shutting even a stranger out. It wasn't our way.

I once asked one of my grandmothers why our people were so despised and she told me not to use that word, for hatred is not our way. I will repeat her words as often as I can as a gentle reminder.

What has happened to us?