tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15499715949230588252024-02-20T15:54:37.991-08:00Patti Brady...Living and Writing in Woodstock, GAPatti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-4875276368973041002019-11-01T08:17:00.000-07:002019-11-02T06:44:05.627-07:00We're Not in Woodstock Anymore<br />
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The photo above (within the stark mountains of Morocco) references the line where Dorothy tells Toto when they arrive in Oz, "I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore." An unsettling, unfamiliar place is also the crux of the matter for the main character in my <u>recently released novel</u>, IN THE LAND OF COURAGE, third installment of the Woodstock series. Earlier, I wrote about the long writing process in my October 2016 post.<br />
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Of course, the story begins in Woodstock, our sheltering town that has become too easy to cling to for the struggling young man in the narrative.<br />
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<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #a64d79;">IN THE LAND OF COURAGE is the contemporary tale of a young man once affectionately known as the<b> bravest man in town</b>. But a tragedy has transformed him. Now, he wrestles with fear, relinquishes his role as pastor and watches his wife drift from their defeated home. Friends and family try to resurrect the man they remember. Dominated by his direful imagination, he resists anyone trying to pry him from his familiar surroundings until a pledge he made returns to haunt his conscience. A struggling orphanage in Morocco is still waiting for his help. Hoping to regain his wife's confidence, he journeys to the ancient medina of Fez, a place of twisting streets, startling sights and mystifying ways. Nightmarish circumstances result. The obstacles he faces will require a man of super-charged faith. Problem is--he's running on empty.</span></i><br />
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I'm hoping you'll check out my newest offering at FoxTale Book Shoppe in Woodstock, Georgia, an establishment that kindly supports this local author. I wish you many uplifting, entertaining and informative hours of reading wherever you are. <br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: x-small;">Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock, and she is the author of the Woodstock novel series.</span>Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-80148163729877545382018-12-31T14:11:00.001-08:002021-05-01T10:32:19.980-07:00Prescience, She's Got It - Juanita Hughes<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>November 8 - Juanita Hughes Day in Woodstock</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>An introduction</b> - You haven't been in Woodstock long if you haven't heard of Juanita Hughes, latest recipient of the key to our city. She's a prescient lady where Woodstock is concerned. Early on, she realized the need to preserve our town story. For many years, she has been unraveling, recording and highlighting the earlier people and events of this place. Regularly, area schoolchildren learn of the former things from her, the changes in their environs and a way of life that has passed away. At Juanita's introduction, here in 1965, I think she must have foreseen hamlet-sized Woodstock transforming into the spread-out, bustling city it has become.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Preteen Juanita, looking to the future.</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Developing her talents before marriage and motherhood. She later had several careers: bookkeeper to a medical practice, library employee, and docent at historic Dean's Store.</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Saving History</b> - When I think of an old photo I took in my childhood, I like to think I have a smidgen of Juanita's foresight to capture reality before it's lost. Living in west Miami of the 1950s, I used my Kodak Brownie camera to take a photo beyond my fence, across the canal, to the vast plant-and-tree shrouded land on the other side. That edge of the Everglades abounded with animals. We could hear the blubbery-sounding <i>shwoosh</i> of manatees exhaling as their nostrils rose from the canal water to take air; the cry of fox, raccoon and rare Florida panther; the calls of countless birds. Seminoles lived in their un-walled huts a few miles away. Then one morning, machinery scoured the landscape as the 1958 Palmetto Expressway came into being, obliterating the old view forever. I am thankful for that impromptu image on paper. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>High school graduation photo.</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Her Backstory</b> - Unknowingly, Juanita prepared herself for the role of town historian long before Woodstock gained regional importance. Although fun-loving and social, she has held to a work ethic inherited from her joyful mother and her more commanding grandmother. Her grandfather, a valued shipping clerk in Dalton's Crown Cotton Mills, was also a positive influence on Juanita's life. Earlier, after a divorce, her mother and three-year-old Juanita had come to live in his household where they remained for Juanita's growing-up years. The adults under that roof encouraged young Juanita to study, and they conversed freely with her about the topics of the day. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> After her education at Dalton High School, Juanita continued to develop her vibrant mind by reading words that mattered. She mastered writing so well that The Cherokee Tribune has published her columns for decades. I once viewed a scrapbook that had belonged to her academic-minded father, a much older man that she hardly got to know. The collection contains fascinating notations, puzzles, cogent expressions, scientific drawings, newspaper articles and personal musings. This family relic reveals Juanita's strong genetic component for intellectual curiosity.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The future -</b> Juanita, a young octogenarian, is in good health. Years of faith and humor and regular exercise are probably the reasons for her hardiness. Woodstock continues to be her passion. Thank goodness. She constantly gifts us by chronicling, compiling and preserving the tale of Woodstock. She will insist that the organization Preservation Woodstock, formerly The Centennial Commission, has been the overriding vehicle and that's true. But our archives are full because of her. We possess several Woodstock history books due to her urging and support. Landmarks have been historically interpreted and marked with signage. Intriguing questions about olden times in South Cherokee County have been answered. Serendipitous discoveries have been made. Most important, Woodstock citizens appreciate their locale more dearly. As though holding a treasured old photo, they can visualize layers of times past that are now gone forever.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">May constantly changing Woodstock blossom ever more beautifully, just as Juanita does each year.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: xx-small;"><b><i>Patti Brady's new Woodstock novel, In the Land of Courage, will arrive in late 2019.</i></b></span><br />
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<br />Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-3973970236263764322018-07-22T13:57:00.000-07:002019-01-01T14:21:36.198-08:00Extending Her Paintbrush, With a Nervous Gulp<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Woodstock's New Mural</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Imagine painting larger-than-life scenes, perched on a scaffold, at times nearly thirty feet above bone-breaking cement, and vehicles, below, zooming past. Imagine scrambling down that intricate, metal bracing when an unexpected lightning storm lashes the sky or when the heat is so intense you feel dizzy enough to careen right off your birds-eye-view platform. Imagine you've got little children longing for their mama to make it back home, again, to feed them dinner and play with them in the backyard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Annalysa Kimball</b>, our Woodstock mural artist must have dealt with such issues. She prevailed. We commend her steady reach and her bravery. Oh, I forgot to mention her greatest risk--she had to please 30,000 people with her creation. She succeeded wildly. An overabundance of creativity put her over the top. Preparation aided her. Annalysa spent countless hours drawing ideas from local citizens and getting to know the heartbeat of the city.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: justify;"><b>The artist skillfully pulled black-and-white images from Woodstock's past to mingle them with present-day scenes. One of my favorites is Lewis Carpenter whose knuckleball pitches for the Atlanta Crackers of the 1940s made his town proud. Another portrayal that makes me smile is the 1913 photo of Magnolia Thomas, beloved teacher for her community. The image has been tweaked to show her watchful eyes turned to supervise modern-day children at play. </b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Representing Preservation Woodstock, I was one of a dozen committee members that evaluated applications and artwork to select the artist. I noticed three things that set her style apart: a strong ability to paint the animated human form (Woodstock is all about the people), a bit of humor sneaking into her compositions and, most importantly, life-affirming, vibrant joy. I am so happy with the outcome. Stop by the mural on the side of the pharmacy at Mill Street and Main. You'll absolutely love it, too!</span></div>
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<b>At sidewalk level, townsfolk who had come to view progress, earlier, found themselves and their real dog in the painting.</b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: justify;"><b>Of course, everyone's favorite Woodstock history resource found herself captured, too. Annalysa spent many hours, consulting with Juanita Hughes.</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: justify;"><b>The Dean Brothers in the 1910 photo of their soda fountain stare curiously at our current day selves. A modern woman reaches into the past to take a 'selfie'. At the bottom, there is some question as to who is in the mural and who is real.</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Lots of Woodstock folk came out to celebrate their new mural.</b></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock, and she is the author of the contemporary Woodstock novels: The Heart of a Child and The Power of Her Smile.</i></b></span></div>
<br />Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-58949798137828485622017-09-04T19:01:00.000-07:002018-07-22T10:21:20.136-07:00Change and Ambivalence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Central Woodstock, circa 1945. The occasional auto travelling the dirt surface of Main Street and Arnold Mill Road must have kicked up plenty of dust that blew through the doorways of those old storefronts. The road we now call Towne Lake Parkway stretched only a quarter-mile long. A brief portion is seen in the photo. The road cut through to Bells Ferry in the mid-'80s. Then, a handsome subdivision filled the land on yesteryear's favorite, rabbit-hunting terrain referred to as The Thousand-Acre Wood.</i></div>
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<b>The problem</b>: I'm ambivalent about change. The words shaky, chaotic, impermanent all come to mind in reference to change. No one really likes alteration of their world. Understandably, natives and long-time residents of Woodstock have the hardest struggle. But when they look around at the positive transformation and growth of their city, smiles ironically show on their faces. Many of our late-arriving populace remain unaware how different the locale looked forty and, even, thirty years ago before the modern-day, homesteading trend took hold. The changes have hit faster than laser light and have us nervously wondering where all this is leading. Yes, humans have trouble with change, and the subject recurs as a minor theme in my Woodstock novels.<br />
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<b>A little history:</b> After the Indian Territory opened in 1838, settlers came to this area after participating in the land lottery. The area remained a hamlet of farmers until 1897 when townsfolk established the city. Woodstock, north of Marietta and Atlanta, was the little cousin who always tagged along, watching the big boys. The face of Woodstock stayed the same--no blemishes but those undeveloped, commonplace features were often overlooked. Then, things changed in the '70s. The transformation started about the time Dukes of Hazard revealed small-town, Southern life as having savvy and humorous sophistication all its own. Country music grew in popularity. Those songs spoke of the simple pleasures of real, human interaction between neighbors, not the brusqueness of strangers making their way in a rat race. Simultaneously, the value of nature also came to the forefront in human thinking. This city, already blessed with abundant greenery, increased its magnetism instantly and easily. The rolling hills, former pasture and farmland sparked the imaginations of home builders. Commerce moved in. Biking/walking trails appeared. Parks popped up all over. Now the notability of this town has spread, and carloads of people move here from far away. Who saw it coming?<br />
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<b>Two wonderful changes,</b> among a half dozen, occurred this year.<br />
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<i><b>Woodstock Amphitheater</b> arrives - I am standing on the right side of the stage, using my cell phone to get this picture that actually requires a wide-angle lens. Our new place for outdoor entertainment provides glorious nights under the stars. Local leadership along with supportive citizenry work together to create the vibrant quality of life that defines our town.</i></div>
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<i> <b>A place to catch sunsets</b> - Rootstock and Vine has renovated and outfitted the old post office, the one from the days when people were required to pick up their mail. The establishment offers wine, tapas, and desserts. Rather than destroy a building with a meaningful past, the proprietors added the windows and a second story for refreshing views of city park and the historic district.</i></div>
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<b>A way around the conundrum:</b> Once in a while, you may be ambivalent about change, like me. So try this exercise. Imagine Woodstock folks of the 1800s, strolling around town through the power of a time warp. Can you see the men, smelling like the dirt caking their boots, their arms scorched by the sun, and their backs permanently bent as though they still leaned over their plow? And the women, thin as a stalk of wheat from too much work, self-consciously fingering their aprons with hands red and roughened from scrubbing lye-treated clothes on a washboard? After these commendable people got over their shock at technology, wouldn't they be pleased by our enhancement of the city's beauty, by our respect for area past, and by our appreciation of local, God-given nature. I think so. Although the changes keep coming, and swift progress causes some of us palpitations, let's enjoy every minute in our town. <br />
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May you always love this place like I do.<br />
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<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #3d85c6; font-size: x-small;">Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock, and she is author of the Woodstock novels.</span></i><br />
<i></i><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="background-color: #3d85c6;"></span><i></i><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="color: #3d85c6;"></span><span style="background-color: white;"></span><br />Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-70640062255541511512017-01-14T07:21:00.000-08:002017-01-14T07:21:31.574-08:00The Wood in Woodstock<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A magnificent specimen saved by builders at the John Wieland Development on South Main Street, formerly a horse farm.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There's nothing like a little snow to highlight the beauty of God's sculptures--the trees in our city. And we have ample. Leaves are glorious, but we often disregard those behemoth trunks and mighty wooden arms when thousands of waving, green flags compete for our attention. Last week, however, we couldn't miss those natural frameworks standing resplendent in the snowfall, gifting us with their striking beauty without our having to do the least little thing to promote it. Naturally, this started me thinking about our trees and, more specifically, the role they have played in area history.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Woodstock, Our Name</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">No one knows for sure how the city came to have its moniker. Some have speculated the name comes from the Sir Walter Scott novel written in 1826 and very popular at the time. Contradicting that supposition is the historical information in <u>Georgia's Woodstock: A Centennial Tribute</u>. It mentions a postcard sent to a Dr. Samuel Glenn in Woodstock, Georgia, postmarked 1809. This implies there was a settlement, even then, although probably tiny. So that knocks out the novel theory. Others suggest the wood-burning locomotives gave the city its name. But the railroad did not come through until 1879, and an official post office existed in 1833. Here is my guess: the plenitude of trees promised an endless supply for the pioneering people who, so inspired, easily came up with the perfect theme for this place.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Wood, The Town Resource</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the beginning days, the land was thickly covered with trees and crisscrossed by Indian footpaths. This necessitated clearing trees to make roads and fields for planting. The resulting wood surplus came in handy for building log structures and keeping those simple homes warm. Along Little River, mills sprang up, and certainly a saw mill took a prime spot. A century later, wood was still in great demand. A building on Mill Street housed a planing mill run by a steam engine in 1928. Lewis Poor contributed this memory for the Centennial Tribute book: "My brothers and I always dreaded days that we had to 'offbear.' There was no vacuum system and shavings flew like a snow storm. The tin roofing over the planer was well dented due to pine knots being thrown out as the lumber came through. By the time we finished planning a load, we would be standing on four feet of shavings."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Trees make Woodstock a special place, a sheltered place, a strong place. I could not live anywhere else. By the way, I think it's no accident that trees point upward, lifting our heads from our concerns and raising our eyes to the sky.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;">Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock, Inc.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;">She is author of the Woodstock novels: The Heart of a Child and The Power of Her Smile</span></div>
Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-61119652986101693022016-10-17T12:39:00.000-07:002019-11-03T04:31:25.275-08:00They Give Me a Reason<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Readers are the reason I write. From necessity, composing novels is an isolating, alone-in-your-room mission. Years pass while doing research and working out a story line. The task requires reaching the hidden, creative corners of the mind. Enthusiasm may be blunted by doubt. Interruption always occurs. In addition to these difficulties, there are no guarantees that a writer's labors will satisfy anyone. The strategy of this wordsmith involves penning stories that, first, please her. When others are captivated by the characters and narratives, that is my greatest reward.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This summer I met with a book club at Rose Creek Library in Woodstock's Town Lake area. Amy Bailey is the smart gal guiding library activities there. The group was encouraging, humorous, bright-eyed and friendly. They gave me the boost I would be needing. A week or two later, I discovered a health challenge. During problems in my life, faith in the finished work of my Redeemer has made me an overcomer. I know it is the same for many of you. So prevail on!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When able, I've been plugging at the keyboard, finishing the next part of the Woodstock series. I'm liking the results and think readers will, too. There is still work to be done, but I'll give you a hint of what is to come in <i>In the Land of Courage. </i>Characters from the two previous novels return and make themselves known in this new story, set in Woodstock of 2009. That year, changes good and bad materialized. We locals know it all. So much for truth, now on to fiction. Brian Barton, a young man introduced briefly before, is featured in this latest novel. Standouts, Hank, Elizabeth and their son, Manuel Averill, bear on the outcomes. Mid-life lovebirds, Marissa and William Dash exert their warm-hearted influence but inadvertently provide the occasional kerfuffle.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;">Established in 789 A.D., Fez, Morocco entices visitors to enter. One of the gates, along the 13th century walls, leads to the mysteries of the <i>medina</i>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;">The narrative takes Brian, once affectionately known as champion of Woodstock, from his safe haven. Recently robbed of his courage, he's plummeting. He's given up the pastorate and his cherished wife seems to be drifting away. When he's least prepared, a promise made years earlier returns to haunt him. An orphanage for girls in North Africa calls. All eyes are on Brian. His nagging conscience and the sudden opportunity to regain his wife's confidence compel him to travel to Morocco where he will navigate twisting streets in the ancient city of Fez, a place where nightmares roam freely. For Brian, his experience will be like staggering, blindfolded and shaking, along the heights of the city walls. Will that metaphorical precipice cause his final tumble? Only the story knows.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The unexpected awaits at the end of smothering alleys in a city as old as time.<br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;">I will keep you apprised of the goings on regarding <i>In the Land of Courage</i>. May your days be filled with rewarding books that make you put aside your concerns, books that inform, entertain, and uplift you.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: xx-small;"><b>Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock. She is also the author of the Woodstock series: <i>The Heart of a Child </i>and <i>The Power of Her Smile</i>.</b></span>Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-21921765801712203852016-06-11T12:11:00.001-07:002016-09-26T16:44:04.792-07:00The Inevitable Question <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">iStock.com/Michael Turner (reenactors)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Today in Georgia: June 11 is the day, 152 years ago, that added a short but interesting event to the chronicle of our south Cherokee County history. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Involved in the occasional Woodstock project, I constantly meet new residents. Often, they are from anyplace <i>but the South.</i> Michigan, California, Indiana, New York, Ohio and even England come to mind. I enjoy chatting with newcomers, learning their story. When they discover my interest in local history, a gleam of interest sparks in their eye and the inevitable question arises: "<i>What happened in Woodstock, during the Civil War?"</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">First I stammer a little, wishing I could relate a big Gone-With-the-Wind-type report. But I smile and press on with the more simple truth. Back then, Woodstock was a small hamlet dotted with farms and further anchored by a few cotton plantations with slaves. Those plantation homes, like Doctor McAfee's, resembled something much more rustic than the antebellum mansions usually pictured in our minds. McAfee's fields consisted of 400 acres along the old Alabama Road, named Highway 92 in current times. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Woodstock men volunteered their service to the Confederacy and left their homes and families, and the war was a somewhere-else-fight until 1864. Union forces left Tennessee and began their campaign for Atlanta. Armed and ready contingents entrenched at Kennesaw Mountain where a great battle of bombardment and gunfire would take place on June 27. Daily, patrols zigzagged over the Cobb and Cherokee line. Tension added to the rising summer heat. Woodstock folk, who hadn't skedaddled south, must have simmered with anxiety as they waited to learn if they would see action.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Indeed, a clash erupted at a spot you probably know well: the junction of Highway 92 and Canton Road (Woodstock's Main Street). Doctor McAfee's home and grounds, central point of the skirmish, fell to ruin long ago. Today, a Sherwin Williams store has taken the spot. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drivers move along, unaware a 19th century conflict ranged over the spot.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Most of what I share, below, comes from a well-researched article, "Skirmish at McAfee's Crossroads," by Gerald Flinchum in the book, <i>Cherokee County Voices From the Civil War.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Union Brigadier General Kenner Garrard had been working the area to the west, posting some of his men at Big Shanty in Kennesaw and, northward, at the Tyson Farm headquarters, positioned between Wade Green Road and Bells Ferry Road, on the old Alabama Road (Hwy 92).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">On the morning of June 11, Gen. Garrard sent the 1st Cavalry Brigade, under Colonel Robert H.G. Minty, eastward, over that same road, with the goal of crossing Noonday Creek near Woodstock and routing out the Confederates as the Union force proceeded to Roswell. A brigade comprises 500 to 1,000 men. Garrard strategically sent another brigade from Kennesaw, up the Big Shanty Road all the way to Woodstock where they were to attack the Confederate flank. After studying Garrard's map, I think the Big Shanty Road they traveled is present-day Cherokee Street to Shiloh Road to Shallowford Road to Jamerson Road to Hames Road that exits onto Highway 92 (My unsubstantiated guess!)</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">iStock.com (Union reenactors)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Near the crossroads of old Alabama Road (Hwy 92) and Canton Road (Main Street, Woodstock) breastworks protected the Rebel cavalry, who outnumbered their opposition and prepared to hold off the Union advance. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">iStock.com (Reenactors portray Confederate cavalrymen)<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">At first, the Union cavalry tangled with pickets, the rough line of guards meant to give warning to the main force. The fighting must have been brief but fierce. Mid-morning, Minty's men drove off the pickets at McAfee's. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Then the real engagement began with charges and counter-charges. Fighting went into the afternoon. A lot of scrambling must have ensued. The Union forces had taken a line of breastworks but could not advance. Later, Minty discovers a large contingent of Confederates situated a quarter mile south on the Canton Road, and he orders the federal brigades to fall back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Some Confederate prisoners had been taken. Sources vary, but it is believed only two or three were killed on each side. I speculate that dismounted troops hid behind thick tree trunks. Fences, the high breastworks, and Doctor McAfee's framework house probably protected others. Although, General Garrard did not make the headway he wished that day, he was not held off long. He learned the Confederates were moving eastward. The Union sought a advantageous spot to cross the Chattahoochee. Roswell possessed a covered bridge. Garrard followed on their heels and, 24 days later, entered Roswell. Rebels had burned the river crossing. Garrard found the three large mills in recent operation. Workers cranked out wool and cotton cloth, rope and canvas, supplying the Confederate army. The 4oo women who operated the machinery had not fled. General William T. Sherman called it treasonous and ordered Garrard to immediately send the workers and their children on foot to Marietta and then, by train to the North to find work there.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unidentified girl in mourning dress, holding framed photograph of her father as a cavalryman with sword and Hardee hat. (image ID ppmsca26863) -- Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, Washington, D.C.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Today, I'm glad our newcomers from the North don't ask me to explain the antebellum mindset of that long ago time! I could not justify such thinking, although born and raised in the South. Weighing the arguments of economic impact and states rights, one still wonders how southerners didn't see the wrong of separating from the Union, the evil of slavery and the great folly their decision would become. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Closing, I should mention anomalies existed on both sides. A New York Tribune article and one from the Philadelphia paper, The Patriot and the Union, protested the treatment of the Roswell women and their children. Few people realize that some southern plantations and their slaves were owned by northern businessmen. Roswell King, originally from Connecticut, established the town of Roswell and used his slaves to build his impressive mill complex. Pierce Butler of the Hampton Plantation on the Georgia coast near Darien, came from Philadelphia. In contrast, during the Confederacy, a number of Cherokee County people opposed slavery and supported the Union. They did so quietly. Some suffered physically and materially for their sympathies. <i>Cherokee County Voices From the Civil War</i> tells all about the subject, the good and the bad. (The aforementioned book was produced by the Cherokee County Historical Society and Cherokee County Civil War Sesquicentennial Committee)</span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock. She is also author of the contemporary Woodstock novels: <i>The Heart of a Child </i>and <i>The Power of Her Smile</i>.</b></span></div>
Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-10578324442777225862016-03-18T20:12:00.002-07:002016-03-19T08:16:13.536-07:00True Grit in Old Woodstock<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woodstock's John W. Edwards and Amanda Chandler Edwards, at their home on Arnold Mill Road, circa 1894.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The woman, Amanda Chandler Edwards, in the photo appears too tired to gaze into the camera. Perhaps her fatigue that day resulted from overwork and the emotional ups and downs she suffered for a stretch of years. Nevertheless, she persevered.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As a young woman, Amanda's husband died, leaving her with two little boys and heartbreak enough to fill her teacup with tears, I imagine. At the time, the small family lived just south of the county line, near Trickum Road. The demands of an 80-acre farm required Amanda's wisdom and a lot of her energy. With her remaining strength, she taught school, sold eggs and butter and reared her fatherless sons. Her challenges mounted. One day, Walter, her six-year-old son, played with other children near a well and fell down the 60-foot drop. Claude, older brother by two years, relates in his memoir that the area was sparsely populated, then, but miraculously a local man happened to walk down the road. He brought the boy to safety. (In the photo, that's Claude on the left and Walter on the right, three years after the incident). Amanda must have sprouted a few gray hairs, on that near-disaster day. Time passed. After seven years of wearing out herself with responsibilities, her life took a turn for the better.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So you must be wondering about that man in the photo, the one displaying an empty sleeve. John Edwards, a Woodstock man, lost his arm in the Civil War, during the battle for Atlanta. After the war, he didn't waste time bemoaning his loss at a time when earning a living was physically challenging. Although right-handed, he taught himself to record data with his left. Capable with numbers, obviously trustworthy, he was elected tax collector three times. His 1906 obituary describes him as a "Christian gentleman" and "broad in his views, yet strong in his convictions and generous to a fault." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">John (56) and Amanda (39) married in 1894 and produced a baby girl, Eva (in photo). The couple sold Amanda's farm and bought another on Arnold Mill Road. Claude and Walter grew up to be fine young men. Eva also flourished and married. Claude taught school, established a store with a partner and served as mayor of Woodstock at one time. Walter preferred to work the farm. Claude married in 1910. His wife died a few weeks after childbirth due to complications. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Amanda, nearing her sixties and alone again--John Edwards passed away several years earlier--stepped in to help raise the baby, Maye, until Claude later remarried. The child grew up and became a teacher and popular pianist in Cherokee County. Years later, Maye described her grandmother as a devoted Christian who even managed to read her Bible while she churned butter. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Amanda lived to be 93. It's evident where she got her true grit.</span></div>
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<br />Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-80284578224825465962015-12-14T16:18:00.000-08:002016-03-12T19:45:32.956-08:00140 Christmases . . . and Counting!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by permission of Georgia Archives--Vanishing Georgia Collection </td></tr>
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<b>Christmas began with the greatest miracle of all, Immanuel, "God with us," and everything those words signify. Since that long ago time, unexpected and unmerited wonders happen regularly. Some miracles are certainly more important than others, but don't discount the less obvious but awe-inspiring elements scattered throughout the background of your world.</b></div>
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<b>One quiet marvel is practically in your backyard--the Dean house--which has been a part of Woodstock for 140 Christmases. Built in 1875, the brick home on Main Street across from City Chambers is often overlooked as hundreds of vehicles drive by it every day. The Dean house is the oldest remaining home in Woodstock and, maybe, for a half dozen miles around. The charming abode has withstood Reconstruction-era taxation, nearby fires, the fall of the cotton market, the Great Depression, area windstorms, the 2009 flood, and modern-day development.</b></div>
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<b>For this article, I've digitally retouched the photo, formerly scratched and spotted. The Vanishing Georgia website enables you to study their collection through a digital feature designed to enlarge an image. I uncovered a few aspects not easily seen in the 5 by 7 tintype. I'm guessing this post-Civil War photo was taken in autumn. Mature leaves hold onto the trees, but the man in the foreground, grasping a sapling, is dressed for cool weather. He wears a nice hat and frock coat. He is dark skinned, and so are the two little girls on the front porch who hold what appear to be dolls. The highlighted fellow must have been important to the family to be so prominently situated. At the time, Woodstock was beginning a period of prosperity as a cotton trade center. A white woman sits in a rocker, and a young boy in overalls, perhaps her son, gazes from his chair beside her. An older lad is perched on the porch rail. Two horsemen, to the right, pose on their horses--the taller male is possibly the homeowner and the other rider, perhaps another son. Oh how I wish we knew the circumstances of this photo reflecting a time when Main Street offered only dirt to travel on.</b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of the Dean house December 2015</td></tr>
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<b>The first owner of this home, G.A. Merritt, a retired doctor-turned-farmer, sold the home to Dr. W.L. Dean who moved in with his bride in 1884. The beloved physician tended the sick and the dying within the Woodstock locale and farther, traveling to those who needed him. In 1906, illness claimed the doctor's life. His wife was left with six children to support. The oldest son, Linton, took up the responsibility. He turned the family's new but suddenly-defunct drugstore into a successful general store that sold necessary household items and patent medicines. Disaster averted. Another wonder to ponder happily.</b></div>
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<b>Woodstock is a wonderful place at Christmastime. Area churches go all out, putting on nativity plays and creating inspiring music. This year, Thrive Chapel provided a temporary rink for ice skating, Shops and eateries decorate befitting the season. </b></div>
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<b>I can't leave you and this post without sharing views of Woodstock waiting for another Christmas to arrive. Wishing you all things merry and bright!</b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDlyBm6DYHNJEKPf-6k7f2274aielEESE1IntMeiPoGN2DmL49EkLJSmZ2LUloQ2DDNgLMcikl8VDHmmFn1m146Dvt6lnryFb6Juoe6QJ6CWOfRW5dtQJ_TLNEIQrzNpPZYsY3olq4W5o/s1600/Ornaments+on+TreesFX.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDlyBm6DYHNJEKPf-6k7f2274aielEESE1IntMeiPoGN2DmL49EkLJSmZ2LUloQ2DDNgLMcikl8VDHmmFn1m146Dvt6lnryFb6Juoe6QJ6CWOfRW5dtQJ_TLNEIQrzNpPZYsY3olq4W5o/s640/Ornaments+on+TreesFX.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our trees may have lost their leaves but we have decorations to distract us.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christine's Creations is always available to help us get ready for the season.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ivy Manor adds cheer to Main Street.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now that's a wreath!!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4NByOHNkN85x9PacSrCI_i4BOqVNKgUbAWZ20jcjv0ZH_7I-Q4x827hGuBn6NIj59ewlodWsajv3ymZDyy195BwfgcS2qekPRE1mACFGTSxljMIvD0bq9tfHLPakNBaowriVPdTRrmtk/s1600/December+roses.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4NByOHNkN85x9PacSrCI_i4BOqVNKgUbAWZ20jcjv0ZH_7I-Q4x827hGuBn6NIj59ewlodWsajv3ymZDyy195BwfgcS2qekPRE1mACFGTSxljMIvD0bq9tfHLPakNBaowriVPdTRrmtk/s640/December+roses.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Believe it or not, this year Woodstock is ornamented with December roses. God's grace is never-ending.<br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: small;"><b><i>Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock.</i></b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: small;"><b><i>She is author of the contemporary Woodstock novel series: The Heart of a Child </i></b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: small;"><b><i> The Power of Her Smile</i></b></span></div>
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Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-60655184625656476612015-11-10T11:48:00.000-08:002015-11-10T15:43:48.476-08:00Carrying On a Tradition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The organization Preservation Woodstock has a mission to preserve the past and, an equally important goal, to retain the traditions of our city. One favorite tradition of Preservation Woodstock is the annual Christmas parade with Santa in attendance. Another cherished custom is the yearly visit by Woodstock Elementary students to the oldest store in town--1906 Dean's Store--still intact, and now functioning as the Visitors Center.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woodstock Christmas Parade<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Preservation Woodstock member, Juanita Hughes, talks with school children visiting 1906 Dean's Store</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span id="goog_1021690706"></span><span id="goog_1021690707"></span>Recently, Preservation Woodstock has re-engaged in another tradition--our city mural. Hopefully, you, too, will participate. Explanation regarding that will come later. The first such mural, highlighting Woodstock history, will pass away with road expansion. Exactly when isn't certain, however, Woodstock is already preparing. With the help of the <b>Downtown Development Authority, the Convention and Visitors Bureau and Katie Coulborn, Long-range Planner</b> for our city, we will have a new, outdoor painting installed because <span style="color: magenta;"><b><i>Woodstock isn't Woodstock without a beloved mural</i>.</b></span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Katie Coulborn Long-range Planner for the city and Brian Stockton of DDA discussing plans for the new mural.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the stakeholders at the initial committee meeting in November.<br />
Christopher Brazelton, Melissa Casteel, and Jason Scheidt</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">How many times have you traveled in your car from somewhere and arrived in Woodstock, your home, tired and hungry-grumpy, and you were stopped near the mural? As you waited for the red light to change, did your sight drift to that colorful pictorial on the wall? Were you transported to the past by those old-timey scenes? I bet your fatigue and hunger faded. Perhaps, you wondered at the struggles and triumphs portrayed. Maybe the former townsfolk up there, painted from photos, left you inspired by their achievements. Could be, your imagination took over and you began to spin a little story in your head. . . . Oops!! Green light. Get your car moving.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On a recent rainy afternoon, stopped at the traffic light, drivers are captivated by our Woodstock tradition, a mural.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Now that our first mural is slated to be gone, what should happily fall into our lap, making a new mural possible? Funding, guidance and support, thanks to the <a href="http://atlantaregional.com/"><b>Atlanta Regional Commission</b></a>. The group sponsored a grant competition. . . . Can you believe it? Our city is one of only four winners, among many worthy entrants!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So what will the new mural be like? It will not be a copy of the current one, but a new rendition, something that speaks to us now. As Woodstock population grows, so does her vision and her future. Yes, because of you! And how relevant. The ARC theme for the mural is about the ample opportunities available for each of us to participate in our community and make history. . . . People are the greatest asset of any place. So be watching and listening. A public gathering is on the calendar for January 26, 2016. We want your input on this mural. Your opinions will be valued. Naturally. <span style="color: magenta;"><b>Woodstock citizen involvement is another great tradition worth keeping alive.</b></span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A blank canvas--the south wall of Woodstock Pharmacy and site of the new Woodstock mural.<br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;"><b style="background-color: white;">Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock, and she is author of the contemporary, inspirational Woodstock novels: </b><span style="background-color: white;"><b>The Heart of a Child</b></span><b style="background-color: white;"> and The Power of Her Smile</b></span></div>
Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-67853728091166218242015-10-26T11:50:00.001-07:002016-10-17T13:15:37.126-07:00Woodstock Cotton and a Bad Bug<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>October makes me think of cotton harvest time. If there were a beauty pageant for botanical specimens, the cotton plant would win without a doubt. Cotton, the agricultural resource responsible for many of the clothes on our backs is the end product of lovely, pink-tinged, white blossoms. These flowers transform into spherical, luminous, green pods called bolls, which mature and open. The comely result is fluff--soft, white clouds that can rest in your hand.</b></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Muddy Main Street in Woodstock and farmers bringing their cotton to town.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>After slave emancipation, cotton cultivation actually increased in Woodstock, which became a trade center for the crop. Cotton grew well and proved profitable. Once the railroad cut through in 1879, giant bales weighing around 500 pounds could be transported easily over greater distances. So in early Woodstock, cotton was the talk of the town. Imagine farmers and businessmen milling about Dean's Store, chewing tobacco and discussing cotton prices.</b></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">J.H. Johnston, cotton merchant, inspects cotton before determining a value.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The cotton gin was situated where Serenade subdivision stands today. Farmers with wagon loads of cotton paused in one long line down Main Street, waiting their turn. Local cotton merchants evaluated the cotton, and the bales were stored in warehouses before shipment to textile factories. Meanwhile, at the Rope Mill on Little River, savvy Woodstock business men turned low-grade cotton into strong plow lines and well rope. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>With the 1920s, several problems occurred: the effects of poor crop rotation, foreign competition, and a strange bug known as the boll weevil. The insect entered the U.S. through Mexico. From Texas, the devastation spread swiftly. Workers scrambled to pluck boll weevils at a penny per weevil. Although the boll weevil can fly, I like to imagine that the shrewd little insects hitched rides in boxcars traveling throughout the South but that is giving a mere exoskeleton with a trivial brain way too much credit.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The boll weevil is one ugly bug. dull-colored and round-bodied, the insect has a long, skinny snout like a blunt hypodermic needle with chewing mouth parts at the end Two weird little antennae and six hinged legs complete the picture. That pointy snout gnaws a small opening into the cotton boll where eggs are laid. Hatching larvae, safely protected within, feast on the cotton fibers. Emerging pupae become gorging adults. The resulting mess is anything but attractive. With the advent of the boll weevil science began a long battle, and the livelihood of many in and around Woodstock tumbled.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Blessed with innovative minds, Woodstock has economically reinvented itself several times over the decades, and the city continues to have a strong and prosperous future.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Visit the newly-installed kiosk put up by Woodstock Downtown Development Authority. <span style="color: #38761d;">Preservation Woodstock, Inc.</span>, contributed a poster about the historic cotton period in our town.</b></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Main Street in Woodstock Georgia</td></tr>
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<span style="color: blue;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock and she is author of the contemporary Woodstock fiction series: <b>The Heart of a Child and The Power of Her Smile</b></i></span></span></div>
Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-7986513933900067192015-07-25T09:59:00.000-07:002015-10-26T09:44:38.394-07:00Back When School Was Different<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii31bfACIcTa2EiiqwGBrqZtaAYwKNRLX-wNFyTx2Ev76aK6NXw495fvpCOfrN0mdiBbbr092stDyp_XFWimKDiVJGHYQYf1yw0NsXtZ3lRgLbfs4WeT0iZ_qS9qg3xvQjTjnQcZ1-vLo/s1600/shutterstock_295799525.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii31bfACIcTa2EiiqwGBrqZtaAYwKNRLX-wNFyTx2Ev76aK6NXw495fvpCOfrN0mdiBbbr092stDyp_XFWimKDiVJGHYQYf1yw0NsXtZ3lRgLbfs4WeT0iZ_qS9qg3xvQjTjnQcZ1-vLo/s640/shutterstock_295799525.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An early, one-room schoolhouse similar to the type that housed Woodstock children in the 1800s.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">School starts soon in Woodstock. The children will enter modern, spacious, air-conditioned structures, hardly realizing how different school was in olden times when crude schoolhouses, short on comfort, once dotted this area.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An example of a typical interior in an 1800s schoolroom. Educational tools were rare.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A BRIEF FICTION - I like to imagine life in old Woodstock: It's early September. Picture circa 1900 scenery and a twelve-year-old school boy, a good kid who hopes for a future that will not include the family plow. In a rough-siding schoolhouse, he sits at a worn desk. A wasp flies in the open window and departs again. The sawing undercurrent of cicadas, outside, make it hard to do figuring on a piece of slate. Midday heat filling the drab room puts a damp sheen on his skin, and he longs for his summer swimming hole. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He looks up from his work, intrigued once again, by his classmate and her two long braids: their complex weaving, a clean, soapy smell coming from them and their perfection--not one hair is out of place. The braids of his sisters have never drawn the least of his attention. Using odd logic, he carefully lifts one soft braid and dips the point into the black slurry of the inkwell assigned to him. Infatuation has caused him to seek attention from her of any kind. How do I know? He is willing to suffer the unavoidable retribution coming his way--from the teacher, his mother and father, the girl's parents, and his pastor, too. Worse yet, he might be launched from the schoolhouse doorstep to land on his rump in the yard. Once in the cover of the woods, the banished boy would shed copious tears, afraid of a future without knowledge. Students of the past comprehended the worth of an education.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woodstock's first brick schoolhouse. In 1908 it served as a public school. The structure burned in 1939. The previous school, Woodstock Academy (est. 1880), probably a simple, frame building, was situated behind old Woodstock Baptist. The hill in the photo became the site of Woodstock Elementary in 1940.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">OBSTACLES TO AN EDUCATION - Before public education came about, parents sacrificed to save the required tuition that could lead to a future with options beside the few available in an agricultural town like Woodstock. Even after public education began, learning was out of reach for some. In families where misfortune dominated, the children gave up schooling and hunted for menial employment. The 1910 census for our area reveals that an eight-year-old girl and older children worked at the rope mill, a practice similar to many mills of the time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">SCHOOL APPRECIATION - It's likely that most area students were fond of their schools: Bascomb School established about 1830, Hickory Flat Academy in 1838, Little River Institute before the Civil War and Woodstock Academy in 1880. After the war, schools for black children opened in the county. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the minds of children, school attendance had additional benefits beyond learning. The schoolhouse brought friends together daily, an advantage because farm acreage put distance between them. Even better, classroom study provided a rest from chores in an era when leisure time did not exist for many farm kids. Family survival held greatest priority. Agricultural cycles determined the seasons when school was in session. During early times in the Woodstock area, the instructional period spanned three months only, according to the late Glenn Hubbard. He never forgot Bascomb School, a one-room log construction.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woodstock photo courtesy of Richard Johnston<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">CLASSROOM DUTIES - The reference book, <i>Woodstock </i></span><i><span style="font-size: large;">Georgia's</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></i><span style="font-size: large;"><i>: A Centennial Tribute,</i> conveys interesting details about Woodstock School. Built around 1908, it later burned in 1939. A new school, Woodstock Elementary (now Chattahoochee Tech) rose from the same ground a year after the fire. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Students at the older school brought in wood for the pot-bellied stove and helped light the fire that kept them warm. They also lugged buckets of drinking water from the well across the road. Children did their part to support the school and community. The photo, above, (circa 1920) shows school children assembled at the railroad in town. Building was underway for Woodstock Presbyterian Church (presently Seventh-day Adventist). The train had delivered stacks of bricks. I can picture the principal of Woodstock School (a Baptist minister) leading the entire student body outside, after morning chapel, to haul bricks to the site on Rope Mill Road. In the photo each student, even the smallest, holds a brick.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Woodstock is a wonderful place, a result of area schools past and present. </span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: x-small;"><strong>Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock, Inc., and she is author of the contemporaryWoodstock series: <em>The Heart of a Child</em> and <em>The Power of Her Smile</em></strong></span></div>
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Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-13137519656149983202015-06-21T18:17:00.000-07:002015-11-04T07:32:33.032-08:00Part Two: 1897 Reeves House--Saving Yesteryear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Even the few farm animals still around here are shouting the news:</b></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b> </b></span><b style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><u>A major fund-raiser to transform the Reeves 1897 in-town farmhouse into a cultural arts center has begun</u>!! </b><b style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">A few people have said a new structure in its place might be more efficiently constructed for less cost. I say, sometimes it's beneficial to go with the speculative, costly and difficult rather than the feasible, economical, and easy. Once in a while, extravagance of vision and wallet are required. Such times are rare but important. Without that direction our country would be without the Golden Gate Bridge and Mount Rushmore. Georgia would be missing Amicalola State Park and Jekyll Island. What would Atlanta be, minus the amazing Fox Theater or the grand and evocative Swan House?</b></div>
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<b style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">For Woodstock, our town, there must be one point of focus, one symbol that unites the former, struggling agricultural city (pop.300) and the current vibrant community (pop. 26,890). The vintage churches are the lingering spirit of this town, and the Reeves House <i>should be</i> its heart.</b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: magenta;"><b>The 1897 Reeves farmhouse</b></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>When my husband and I moved to Woodstock in 1980, the city was a sleepy, quiet town. Commerce, culture and places of learning were limited to a handful of turn-of-the-20th-century storefronts, a charming red-brick elementary school, a minuscule but busy library and a very few modern-day establishments like the Burger Inn and several gas stations toward two-lane, easy-paced Highway 92. What I noticed most were the interesting old homes spread along Main Street and the immediate area. Until my relocation here, my life had been spent on the periphery of major metropolitan cities in modern suburban developments. So when I drove past those Woodstock abodes of yesteryear I wondered, who had lived there? How did their daily existence unfold? Now, most of those windows into the past are gone, like the sprawling Fowler farmhouse, the cute-as-a-button cottage known as the Hendrix home and the butter-yellow Dobbs house with its gingerbread-style front porch that displayed antique buggies near a small cannon in the yard.</b></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: magenta;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>In 1980, townsfolk could still drive by the <u>Fowler farmhouse</u>, sitting on South Main Street near Hwy 92. Shortly after, THE STRUCTURE WAS DEMOLISHED for modern-day commerce. A Sam's Club on the same spot is opening soon.<br /><br /><br /><br /> </b></span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: magenta;">A picturesque cottage, the <u>Hendrix home</u> sat snuggled under the trees on South Main Street near the railroad. This little bit of hydrangea heaven is NO LONGER HERE.</span></b><br />
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<b>Spring daffodils in the yard almost went unnoticed in comparison to the sunny-yellow place called the <u>Dobbs house</u>. The first buggy of an antique collection sits on the porch. The lovely house is GONE WITH THE WIND, so to speak.</b></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Woodstock was a community of hardworking men and women tilling the land, plying their trades, raising families and trying to make their way in a hardscrabble world. Let's remember them and their struggle, with a generous outpouring of effort. Who knows? Someday all our farmhouses may be gone. Let's be sure we saved one! Your gift will bring the Reeves house new life as it supports the arts and inspires creative minds, while holding onto the ephemeral past. Put aside some dollars, maybe many, and go to the website link: <a href="http://revivethereeves.org/">REVIVETHEREEVES</a> to honor your town</span><span style="font-size: small;">.</span></div>
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<span style="color: magenta; font-size: large;">Knowing yesteryear helps us preserve the past. </span></div>
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<span style="color: magenta; font-size: large;">Preserving the past leads us to value where we live. </span></div>
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<span style="color: magenta; font-size: large;">Valuing where we live makes our days rich and inspired.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: x-small;">Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock Inc., and she is author of the contemporary Woodstock novel series: The Heart of a Child and The Power of Her Smile</span></div>
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</b></span>Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-83277524559357986012015-05-03T12:31:00.003-07:002021-07-04T13:45:19.444-07:00Enon Cemetery in Spring<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You may hear whispers on the wind if you visit Woodstock's 1838 cemetery. You may feel the pull of time. After northwest Georgia opened for settlement, stouthearted people pioneered our locale. They met rugged challenges daily. Uniting in faith, 12 men and women established Enon Baptist Church in 1837. That same year, Andrew Jackson ended his term as president and 18 year-old Victoria became queen of England.<br />
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The little church group assembled on donated land, the upper section of the larger site. Today, most of what we know came to light through research done by local historian, Juanita Hughes. The information is compiled in her book, <em>Set Apart--The Baptist Church At Woodstock</em>. It can be assumed that the homesteader's initial meetinghouses were basic and crude, maybe constructed of logs. Later, when a newer structure replaced one of the earliest versions, the old building components sold for $47.23 and the seats for $47.10. How we wish church minutes specified more details! From the outset of the church, graves appeared in the churchyard. Three persons with birth dates that go back to the late 1700s are buried at Enon. Passing years have eroded many markers. The earliest, discernable burial date (1845) is for a 14-year-old boy. How did young George Hughes die? My wild imagination leads me to dreadful possibilities such as cowpox, scarlet fever or, perhaps, a terrible wound caused by the sharp horn of an ox that may have pulled the Hughes wagon many miles to their new home in northwest Georgia.<br />
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The settlement of Woodstock grew. In 1871, the multiplying congregation built a sturdy, white clapboard building at the Enon site. In 1879, the railroad came to town. The church building was relocated to an in-town spot and became First Baptist Woodstock. Back up the road, the burial ground expanded thanks to land gifts from <u>Jacob Haney</u>, a Methodist man. Hymns no longer floated above the graves, but those memorials retained an aura of anticipation of rising again.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amanda Edwards with baby daughter and one of her sons.<br />
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Enon Cemetery contains tales of optimism and perseverance. <u>Dr. W.H. Dean</u>, born in 1824, graduated from the Medical College of Georgia at Augusta. He arrived in Cherokee County where he served as a Woodstock area doctor and, sometimes, as Enon's pastor. A non-commissioned surgeon in the Civil War, he returned and gave thanks that his home remained intact. <u>Amanda Edwards</u>, known for her grit, rests at Enon. She lost her young husband to disease and then almost lost her little son who fell down a well, but her life did a turnaround. She married a well-respected man from Woodstock, John Edwards. John had lost his right arm in the battle for Atlanta but learned to write with his left hand to gain employment. He is beside Amanda at Enon. African-American <u>Magnolia Thomas</u>, a Spelman graduate, earned the admiration of everyone as she worked diligently to educate the black children in the community of the 1920s. The sun shines brightly on her grave. These are just a few of the interesting people buried at Enon.<br />
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In early spring, morning sun rays wash Enon hill with light and warmth. The air smells clean. Pine needles on loblollies glisten. Although cars travel Main Street, and the nearby manufacturing plant wakes, quiet reigns. That is, until robins and thrashers perch on monuments and let loose with songs of resurrection promise. Tiny purple blooms on wild violets verify winter is over. Moss has spread, making playful green rugs in the shaded sections. Balls of mistletoe sit in a few trees like celebratory ornaments. Airy cedars point to the sky. One spring, visitors noticed a young sassafras tree with early, mitten-shaped leaves emerging. Not far from a headstone, this fledgling hardwood seemed determined to soar in height one day, in glory. As so it is with all things at Enon Cemetery.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view to the east, where the sun rises. The hill descends to the railroad track, North Main Street and the Health / Recreation Center.</td></tr>
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<span style="color: blue;"><b><i>Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock, Inc. and she is author of the contemporary Woodstock novels: The Heart of a Child and The Power of Her Smile</i></b></span></div>
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Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-85716305810566604132015-03-27T13:23:00.001-07:002016-10-17T13:21:19.702-07:00Part One: 1897 Reeves House--Sprucing Up an Aging Lady<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The historic Reeves house jars your brain and cranes your neck as you pass by unable to stop staring. She's a long-ago beauty, shaky and worn, in the middle of modern, revitalized downtown Woodstock. But her look is changing. On a recent day, she had some work done in time for spring. Just think of the house as your favorite, aging lady enjoying a much-needed makeover. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>By the way, a community-wide capital campaign begins soon!</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The growing interest in the Reeves house restoration has prompted this post. You can see my September 2014 entry if you want to be apprised of the topic. If you are feeling clueless, your present state must mean only that you are new to town or you have been temporarily blind and deaf! It is an exciting time for the city with the motto: <i>"Her Heritage, Her Vision."</i> How succinct. How true.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Watch for future blog posts that will provide you with the goings on at the Reeves house, and of course, I'll never close without giving you a tidbit of history concerning life during Carrie and Luther Reeves's heyday.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>A Day at the Reeves house in March 2015:</i></b></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><a href="http://vizualmethods.com/">Brad McColl</a> of Vizual Methods Media Production sets up to videotape the action at the Reeves house. </b></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;">At eight a.m., photographer, <u><a href="http://www.jenwanders.com/">Jennifer Carter</a></u> of Jen Wanders Photography captures scenes with her camera as Ann Litrel gives a rundown of plans for the day.</span><br />
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<i style="font-size: x-large; font-weight: bold;">A Few Cosmetics Go a Long Way:</i><i style="font-size: medium; font-weight: bold;"> </i><span style="font-size: large;"> Figuratively, a touch of lipstick has brightened our treasured, turn-of-the-century dame. Let me explain. Woodstock High School student, Madison McColl, surprised everyone with her heart-felt interest in the Reeves house. Non-profit, Elm Street Cultural Arts Village continues its plans to turn the Reeves house into a cultural arts center. Madison made that organization's goal the focus of her senior project by sponsoring a fund-raising event. The public was invited to an outdoor happening where attendees released their inner artist and painted wooden panels. Each brush loaded up with vibrant color. Intriguing and amusing designs resulted. These panels, sized to cover the Reeves house windows, will prohibit rain, gnawing varmints and other such problems from further damaging the old gal while major funds are raised.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: small;">Two examples of color-rich designs, installed.</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Like a little make-up on a woman, the striking art will bring more notice to this preservation effort as people drive and stroll by a vintage structure that still glows with potential. The panel painting event contributed to the Reeves house restoration fund, thanks to a delightful, high school student. . . . We are grateful for your effort and the outcome, Madison McColl.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>The first panel is carefully installed.</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>Contractor, Lane Wilson (right) and one of his crew proceed. Two panels up and about two dozen to go. . . . . .</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i> A happier front facade!</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i> More art on the back.</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i style="font-size: x-large; font-weight: bold;">Plastic Surgery:</i> <span style="font-size: large;">After deliberation with architects and other interested parties, one of the first changes to the exterior is being made: removal of the rear porch. With expertise, Lane Wilson and his crew are doing the delicate surgery that will eventually allow for construction of an L-shaped addition, a classroom wing. No lumps or sags will mar our white clapboard matron. Despite the ouch factor, she'll be pleased.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <b><i>Workers begin the demolition.</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>Artist <u><a href="http://annlitrel.com/">Ann Litrel</a></u>, a woman with vision and determination, she makes Woodstock proud as she leads the way with this restoration.</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>At the end of the day, Juanita Hughes (city historian), and Christopher Brazelton, (Director of Operations for Elm Street Cultural Arts) chat about the Reeves house. A zany, blue cat looks on.</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i style="font-size: x-large; font-weight: bold;">History Minute: </i><span style="font-size: large;">You go to the grocery store for a nice frying hen, don't you? Not Carrie Reeves at her 1897, in-town farmhouse. According to her last of eight offspring, Sam Reeves (born 1917), the chickens were not in pens but roamed the twelve acres. Don't you imagine they picked that yard and pasture clean of insects, helping every fruit tree, tomato bush and corn plant flourish? All those chickens must be why Sam Reeves said dropping your chewing gum and <em>"picking it up and chewing it again was a real gamble."</em> When Carrie wanted a roasting hen or two (for her family of ten) she chose birds that hadn't been laying eggs. Her selections would be set aside a few days and put on a special diet that cleaned out impurities. Then Carrie had to dispatch the birds herself and dress them. She probably didn't bat and eye. For me, I'm so glad we live in modern times.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i style="background-color: white;">P</i><i style="background-color: white;">atti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock, Inc.</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i style="background-color: white;">She is author of the contemporary Woodstock novels:</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i><u style="background-color: white;">The Heart of a Child</u></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i><u style="background-color: white;">The Power of Her Smile</u></i></b></span></div>
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Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-34599570360628488012015-02-04T17:45:00.000-08:002015-04-06T11:17:58.319-07:00The Woodstock Fire of 1913<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Turn-of-the-20th century Woodstock knew the ravages of fire. Periodically, one-of-a-kind houses and their contents turned into embers. Barns also burned to ashes. At the Haney home, Dave Haney raced to lead his wild-eyed horses from the ignited barn to safety. Crazed with confusion the horses ran back inside the inferno. Several storefronts along Main Street in downtown Woodstock faced the threat of fire once upon a time. When church bells clanged for the "bucket brigade" businessmen's hearts rattled in their chests--someone's livelihood soon might be smoldering ruins.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Why the occasional conflagration? In that bygone era, citizens interacted daily with the cruel culprit responsible for destruction. People actually depended on the fiend--an open flame--for their only source of light and warmth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One example that blazed out of existence is the former Johnston home, shown above. A red brick replacement, also vintage, sits on the same spot, today, housing Venessa's Salon and Spa. The earlier Johnston home was the hard-earned reward of J. H. Johnston and his wife, Avis. The couple had climbed a long, hardscrabble road to prosperity.</span><br />
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<span style="color: magenta; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>J. H. Johnston--a determined man</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Five years after the Civil War, the father of 14-year-old J. H. Johnston passed away. Work was scarce, more so for a boy. He saved enough to buy a cow and some corn for planting. At 15, he rented a small farm in Cobb County that he cleared and sowed. He labored in the Cox gold mine at night. Lonely, grueling years passed. By the age of 21, he garnered a good living from the farmland. That same year, 1877, he wasted no time making 17-year-0ld Avis Benson, a Cherokee County girl, his wife. In addition to her numerous household duties, Avis began the process of bearing children. Nine boys and one girl would live to adulthood. Four others died at birth or in early childhood. Meanwhile, J. H. cultivated his cotton fields and accumulated more acreage with his savings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">J. H. sold the farmland in Cobb County as he "had to provide a better home for his children," and they moved to a farm near Woodstock. He transitioned into general merchandise and the unpredictable cotton trade. In 1890, the family moved to downtown and into their lovely, milk-white home, shown above. Eventually, the Johnston cotton brokerage, warehouses, store and other enterprises solidified the family's success.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then in 1913, that perilous visitor mentioned earlier crept near. In my imagination, this fictional phantom tries to disguise himself as a chimney sweep but fails. His top hat wafts a plume of smoke. The rumpled cutaway jacket he wears looks singed, and his coal-black boots give off sparks as he steps.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One quiet evening at the Johnston home, an older son accidentally knocked over a kerosene lamp. That single flame burst into a raging fire that consumed the beloved house and the wooden Baptist church next door. Only devastation remained. . . . Some mothers would have banished such an erring son to the next county, but not patient, forgiving Avis (pictured below, before the fire). Picking up the pieces, the family returned to their labors and continued strong.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="color: magenta;">Avis Johnston--a saintly mother</span> </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Tough times, back then, but those determined souls and the stories they left us still inspire our endeavors. As I like to say, a town can never have too much resilience and Woodstock certainly has plenty.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock, Inc.</i></b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>and author of the contemporary Woodstock novels: </i></b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i> The Heart of a Child </i></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i> The Power of Her Smile</i></b></span>Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-74314829227484316502014-09-15T13:36:00.001-07:002017-01-14T07:16:32.023-08:00A Frame Around Our Days - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carrie Wood Reeves, her husband, Luther, and four of her eight children<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">People are the most fascinating component of the world; humans cause object and setting to come alive. Writers know that a bounty of information can be easily and subtly revealed in one scene of narrative. With paint and brushes, visual artists do the same, but under much more difficulty. In one captured moment of time, motivation, movement and thought must be implied. For two years, a local artist has been doing just that. Her name is <span style="color: blue;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/WoodstockVignettes/photos_stream?tab=photos_albums"><span style="color: blue;">Kristina Laurendi Havens</span></a>,</span> and she has created enchanting pictorials of contemporary Woodstock townsfolk within the backdrop of our city. These portrayals in oil touch you with their vitality, beauty and pensiveness. Her depictions have put a frame around our citizens happily living their lives. The 40 works will be auctioned very soon to benefit the rescue of a favorite structure here. After restoration, the 1897 Reeves house will eventually landmark the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lsKkUq8zpzc"><span style="color: blue;">Elm Street Cultural Arts Village</span></a>. With careful vision, the organization has poured their artists' knowledge, business expertise and sweat into the effort. I am so glad. The Reeves house holds sentimental meaning to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Carrie Wood, loving and driven, lived in that home. Generations apart from her, I feel as if I know her. Born in 1879, she married Luther Reeves builder of that vintage abode we cherish today. My affection for this turn-of-the-century lady developed as I made preparations for the Preservation 2013 Woodstock exhibit highlighting some of our earliest female citizens. I've read the Reeves family history several times. On my errands, I often drive by the land, north of Main Street, that her family (the Wood clan) once cultivated. Most recently, at the Reeves house, I peeked inside those rooms in which she labored at a wood-burning stove, stored dried apples from her own trees, embraced hardworking Luther, chided her children, cried and laughed. She was something. Certainly her eight children thought so. Determined Carrie had the strength of an ox. In the family history, her son Sam Reeves tells of Carrie's never-ending household duties: growing everything they ate, making their clothes, doing laundry in a pot over a backyard fire, cooking meals and two fresh desserts, daily, for a family of ten.</span><br />
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You may wonder how a woman managed to do all the above without electricity, grocery stores or modern appliances. I think I know what gave this petite woman, light as the cotton that grew around here, her inner steel. More than anything in the world, Carrie wanted to give her children a tranquil, secure home where their needs were well met; Carrie's childhood had been quite different. Her father died when she was two years old. Her mother succumbed when Carrie turned five. I shivered with empathy when I first read her brief account of a time soon after her mother's death. Orphaned Carrie stood on a box in the kitchen to look out the window as her siblings (the oldest only fifteen) scrambled to "save the harvest." Heartache and fear must have haunted them all. By the way, at the window, little Carrie was busy making their bread. Know any kindergartners who can do that?</span><br />
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The following years are unclear concerning Carrie, but it's likely the younger children were shuffled off to others who took them in. Years later, in 1896 Woodstock, fully-grown Carrie joined in a Saturday night dance at the Haney farm where she met Luther Reeves and married him the next year at eighteen. And aren't we glad. Luther became a store keeper and selected twelve acres on which to build their home, and the couple quietly went about living. Their endeavors were far from easy, but life contained many rewarding days. For that simple reason, I know they would adore the painted vignettes of Woodstock townsfolk enjoying their lives, today. . . . <i>Brava</i>, Kristina Laurendi Havens! Stop by the studio she shares with <a href="http://annlitrel.com/"><span style="color: blue;">Ann Litrel</span></a> and see what both these artists create as if by magic as they strive to save an old house.</span></div>
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Carrie Wood Reeves<br />
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The earlier version of the Reeves house<br />
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More children necessitated expansion. The Reeves eventually had 39 great-grandchildren.<br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><i>Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock, Inc., and author of the Woodstock novels.</i></span><br />
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Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-88169318323815561052013-11-22T07:59:00.000-08:002018-06-26T16:30:59.506-07:00A Favorite Place - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Woodstock is situated on a collection of hills. The bustling metropolis of Atlanta lies southward, and the untamed mountain world rises northward. Here, the locale is more livestock pasture than wild animal lair; although, the occasional coyote or a rare bear comes down from the upper regions to visit our neighborhoods. I prefer the gentle end of the critter spectrum. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There is a place I often drive by, and today that tranquil scene made my day again. Around Woodstock, we refer to it as "the sheep corner." The scene whispers to every car that reaches the tranquil junction of Arnold Mill Road and North Arnold Mill Road. A pastoral landscape, this place always reminds me to slow down, take a deep breath and let my sight travel the meadow that feeds two dozen sheep and a donkey or two. A crimson barn sits at the far corner. I'm renewed as I watch the slow-moving, un-agitated sheep. </span></div>
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Winter is coming and the sheep search for the last nubs of grass that are more preferable than the dry hay that will be laid out for them as cold temperatures put every green thing to bed for the season. The weeks pass. I patiently wait for that special day in February when I'll drive along and look toward the pasture. A big change will make my eyes go wide, just as it has each year. The warm sunlight streaming down will relieve my concern as I view the frosty ground dotted with bundles of white fluff--the babies have arrived, most of them. I learned from Mary Lou Reece, owner of the field, that offspring can show up any time of the year.</div>
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When my husband and I (formerly inside-the-Atlanta Perimeter-apartment-dwellers) first considered moving to Woodstock over thirty years ago, we weren't prepared for living in the country or in the presence of farm animals. Housing buys abounded here, then. I persuaded myself and my husband that we could get used to the quiet and uneventful atmosphere--I still remember the little goat corral on Highway 92, before that slim road became multiple laser-lanes and a modern strip of commerce.</div>
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Early on, when we moved into our first home neatly tucked within a new subdivision, we went to bed exhausted from the move. Dawn came and we were jolted awake by a long, earth-shattering bellow. We shuddered but pretended calmness. Something massive stomped and ripped through our backyard, mangling vegetation, snorting as it went. My husband threw off the covers and darted to the window where he yelled with excitement, "It's a steer, with horns!" I raced to find my glasses, gave up and dashed to the window. In the dim light, the angry behemoth was gone.</div>
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Ever since that brief drama so long ago, my husband and I get excited about the animals still making Woodstock their habitat. We pause. We watch. We count. Mallard, fox, beaver, blue heron, groundhog, turkey, possum, giant snapping turtle, deer and great horned owl--we've caught sight of them all, in our yard or not so far away. The natural world has become important to us. Beauty is all around. We look at each other and grin. We know there is no better place to live . . . . Sometimes, people change for the better.</div>
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Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-8176325220806359522013-05-07T11:37:00.000-07:002015-04-06T11:24:28.151-07:00A Writer's Inspiration - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Excuse the often reviled opening phrase, but <em>it truly was a dark and stormy night</em> several weeks ago when Mary Hood, the award-winning writer, formerly of this locale, came to revisit Woodstock. Despite the raucous weather, we had fun. Her talk engaged us as easily as her short stories with characterizations done in the most original, Southern ways that her readers can't help but grin and want to preserve the woman's quirky, dead-on expressions for later conversation. One of my fellow-attendees at FoxTale Book Shoppe commented to me that she was new to town and was surprised to learn so many residents are busy writing. Don't I know it. There must be something in the drinking water that activates writing genes. In reality, I think Woodstock, itself, plays a role in stirring inventive and visionary tendencies. Only a theory!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Why the bias? After spending my early years on the outskirts of three large cities, Miami, Jacksonville and Atlanta, the smaller and more alluring area of Woodstock, Georgia, earned the favored spot of <em>home</em> in my heart. My husband and I built our lives here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">You may question whether Woodstock is as wonderful as portrayed in my novels. Yes and no. In the short span of the three most recent decades, the slow-paced town and agricultural community adjacent to a rural highway, forty minutes north of Atlanta, transformed itself into a bustling, vibrant scene. Expansion brought its own set of problems, although soon mastered. Within area history, there are some sad stories, just as in any place where human beings interact. On the positive side, our city is blessed with many appealing features such as: a tree-filled environment that is lush and hilly, native residents who hold their arms open to welcome newcomers from all over and, finally, a boundless spirit of energy and creativity resulting in more layers of charm. These numerous aspects of inspiration can keep a writer's fingertips dancing on the computer keys. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Why novels? Well . . . I've always loved story. As a little girl I listened to my grandmother's tales, like the ones of her growing up as the oldest of eight children on a turn-of-the-century farm in Chipley, Georgia. Not exactly a girlie-girl, she often drove the team of horses while corn was loaded in the wagon. Every morning, she rose at 5 a.m. to run to the dairy barn, turn the hand-cranked creamer and clean the device, all before school. When she first married and the cotton market crashed, her young husband's frustration grew until one day when he shoved the plow against the barn and quit the crop ravaged by boll weevil and a fallen market. The couple learned of work in hotel construction, although they'd have to leave the familiarity of Georgia and be situated in a drained-swamp settlement with an Indian name--Miami. That leads me to another of my grandmother's chronicles, the hurricane of 1926. As a Georgian, she probably witnessed the quickly spun-out anger of a tornado or two. Like most early Floridians, however, she was <em>not</em> prepared for the frightening novelty of home-imploding gales that continued for hours. Her husband was on an important trip, many hundreds of miles to the north. The strange storm ramped up its power and battered the southern end of Florida like nothing ever seen. Seeking safer shelter, she trudged head-down with her toddler through ripping winds and sideways rain, grabbing palmetto after palmetto to stay on course. Her daughter, my mother, was blown from her grasp but found, and they made it to sturdier surroundings. Filled with dread, my grandfather raced southward, helping authorities collect dead bodies along the way. He knew nothing of his own little family. In a Red Cross shelter, he eventually found his baby girl babbling contentedly next to the cot that held his wife who battled pneumonia. She survived.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">From the Spanish side of my family, we heard accounts just as harrowing. My grandfather, Manuel, was only six years old in 1892 when his father succumbed to yellow fever. One year earlier, the family of four had left Spain on a sailing vessel and spent most of those twelve months in Mexico City watching their brief business venture fail. On the return trip to Spain, they docked in Cuba where the mosquito-borne disease raged, and the family was torn apart by death. Manuel, stranded with his destitute mother and sister, forfeited schooling to begin a lifetime of work, initially as a lonely, mistreated house servant. Later, he learned to play the mandolin and eventually made it to Tampa where he rolled fine cigars for a living. Each day, a person seated on a platform read literature to the large roomful of men cramped over their delicate work. I imagine that great storytellers like Cervantes, Victor Hugo and Charles Dickens chased away the tedium contained in the room and soothed the ache radiating from each worker's crooked neck and upper back. Their diversion also included the daily newspaper, front to back. Such was my grandfather's education in the school of hard knocks. Naturally, with his offspring, he gave academics a position of importance. In a reversal of fortune, his six children (the WW II generation) received post high school training or college, which resulted in successful careers. The two daughters became teachers. The males also flourished: a business executive, a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force who later served at the Academy, an electrician and a science teacher.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Those kinds of family stories laden with personal struggle and resolve never left me. When I came to this place that became "my town," new stories reached my ears and filled my heart. My narratives begged to be set in Woodstock--hence, my novels. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia;">In this blog, I hope you've enjoyed hearing about Woodstock, Georgia, history and especially about the people who left their stamp on the attitudes, structures and direction of a locale. Thank you for your interest over the months. Visit us! There is so much to see and do. For me, I'll be taking a break from posting blog articles. Other writing projects call me.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia;">For now, this writer, plans to keep her pen inky and her keyboard letters worn and fading. I wish you many of your own intriguing tales in the future, and I hope you never lose sight of those meaningful stories from your past. Your Woodstock friend, Patti Brady</span><br />
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Photo of <strong>Woodstock Public Library</strong>--Our spacious library with a modern design reminiscent of a turn-of-the-century train terminal is the perfect place to meet, browse or get lost in a book. The building is centrally located and relatively new in a series of four versions popping up through time. A striking prominence with a background of poplars, oaks and sweetgums, the land was donated by a Woodstock benefactor from the Johnston family. In our city, reading has been valued since early times. The former, small population produced some scholars, mathematicians, a physicist, a doctor, businessmen, engineers and even a statesman in Federal government to name part of the array.</div>
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Photo of the interior of <strong>FoxTale Book Shoppe</strong> - This establishment is a favorite addition to Woodstock, starting in 2007. A constant stream of well-known authors mesmerize the audience that flocks here, even from so far away as Big Town. The serene decor will make you forget the summer heat or winter bluster outside. The owners, three women oozing individual talents, will have you laughing at one of their anecdotes or will gently guide you to a new treasure on the shelf. Don't miss this reading spot, located next to city park and the gazebo!</div>
Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-68801316105675833782013-04-01T09:00:00.000-07:002015-04-06T11:27:16.137-07:00Somebody's at the Door - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have a very sweet husband, although the manly type. As an independent businessman, he's had people try to pull the wool over his eyes. They seldom succeeded. But throughout this same period, he's also been a "softie" to anyone selling anything at our front door, things we don't need. He feels for people striving to make a way for themselves, and he admires hard work. In regard to women these days, most make a point not to answer an unexpected, ringing doorbell.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In Woodstock of long ago, door-to-door salesmen were viewed differently by the farmer's wife. Unlike modern women, she wasn't flooded with junk mail advertising, endless internet commerce or enticing stores on every corner. In 1910 Woodstock, you could go to the Chandler-Dobbs store to buy a casket, or Haney's Store to purchase overalls. At Dean's Store you could even enjoy a fountain Coca Cola (an unopened jug of really old but bona fide syrup still sits on the shelf). Yet, a niche remained unfilled by those establishments. Earlier, beginning in 1879, the railroad made up for the lack of uncommon goods, by trickling in the occasional salesman with his satchel full of wonders able to make the daily labors and ailments in a woman's life easier to bear. Her own little bit of commerce, her egg money, came in handy. Lodging for the salesman--he had numerous farms to visit--was a simple fix: a room for rent. When money became tight, or the cotton crop failed, or the man of the house died, some of Woodstock's turn-of-the-century in-town homes made adjustments and served as boarding houses at one time or another. Outside town, women were stuck on the farms except for a Saturday trip to their modest, little city and on Sunday when they rode in a buggy the short distance to church; so they looked forward to visitors, even a salesman, who would break the monotony of their duties. Nearby, husbands or sons kept an eye out for flimflam techniques. Justice could be swift. Imagine the wares a smart salesman displayed for his potential customer. Nothing practical, like the items she could find in town. Mainly those things that would spark a woman's need for beauty, novelty and a little work relief.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #c27ba0;"><em>A knock at the door meant a break in her humdrum day.</em></span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">All door-to-do business is not so pleasant, as you know. The charming memoir of Mary Howell came into my hands recently. Her former home is now Beverly's Day Spa, and she is still appreciated by older Woodstock natives who remember her. Others also can't help but love this woman they've never met except in her true-life story. Humble, funny, self-deprecating, she had her challenges with sales-folk, even calls herself "green," that polite country term for naive. Mary once gave money to a man who claimed he worked for a well-known department store in Marietta and was taking orders for new shoes at 25 cents a pair, hard-earned money back in the late 1920s. Actually, he fooled everyone for a day or two. Several folks decided things didn't add up, so to speak. Suspicion grew. Someone got to a rare rural phone and called the store to check his story. Then the sheriff took charge. Another incident concerned some Gypsy women who tried to fleece Mary. She was living a few miles out, in the Mill Creek area, when she fell under the spell of their unique lace doilies and table runners, although proficient at tatting, crochet and lace making, herself. I can picture extroverted Mary distracted by their fine work and a discussion of needle arts as they wormed their way inside. In her memoir, she confesses that she felt vulnerable with these "big" women inside her house. Her husband was away at the cotton gin. Eager to get them down the road, Mary made some selections and told the Gypsies she had no money, a suggestion to barter. They replied that they would take three hens as exchange. Almost robbery! Still, Mary was about to feel better as they drifted toward the door, but one of the women wanted more. Beside the pretty hens, they carried out three pints of blackberry jelly and four quarts of pear preserves.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Yes, she was duped and she'd be chuckling if she were still here, today. Obviously not one to take herself too seriously, she's given us a glimpse of the old days and we're grateful. And she's prepared us, too! I don't make preserves, and I'm not about to let go of the company's-coming-beef-roast tucked away in my freezer. I also know how to be blunt and brash when I need to be. . . .But for you: Good day, gentle reader.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #c27ba0; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>After a lack of sales and no money for his lodging, it appears a hawker of bubbles bolted during the night, leaving only a note and his poorly received product as payment. Didn't he know scented Parisian soap rather than ordinary bars from Buffalo, NY would have slowed him to a shuffle because of the resulting coinage in his pockets? Not a tale from Woodstock, but it's likely something similar occurred at one time or another.</em></span></div>
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<em><span style="color: #c27ba0; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In 1935, Mary Howell and her husband, Luther, moved into town. In 1943 they purchased this home that many associate with the couple and their two daughters. Mary was involved in her church and had many friends. For a while she taught ceramics in a small studio out back.</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-small;">Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock and author of the Woodstock novels.</span></em></div>
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Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-26269003543303445192013-03-01T15:26:00.000-08:002015-04-06T11:37:13.833-07:00Wise Physician - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Thoughts of the physicians life have occupied my mind lately. My recent interest is a result of reading local-writer Polly Craig's compelling work, <em>A Medal for Dr. Mary</em>. The book is a stellar novelization of the life of Dr. Mary Edwards Walker of Oswego, New York. An intrepid woman, this true heroine was one of the earliest female physicians in the U.S. She bravely served during the Civil War as a battlefield surgeon. Of course, after I learned of her, my focus turned to her Woodstock contemporary, W. H. Dean, a country doctor and somewhat a pioneer, himself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">W.H. Dean began shaping this town when it was only a scattered collection of farming settlements probably in desperate need of a doctor. It wasn't until the 1838 land lottery, that most of those first settlers arrived. The train hadn't cut its way through, yet. The community wouldn't qualify as a city for almost six more decades, in 1897. William Hiram Dean, born in 1824, raised in DeKalb County, graduated from the Medical College of Georgia at Augusta. His association with Woodstock becomes apparent about mid-century when he, a young man of twenty-six, joined Enon Baptist Church (later renamed First Baptist Woodstock). In 1862, he was ordained in the ministry. . . . Doctors have extensive knowledge of that mysterious and infinitely complex but orderly miracle--the human body; so it's not surprising that many who practice medicine possess sensitivity to God as well. When W.H. Dean wasn't saving the community from physical maladies or tending to his spiritual flock, he invested smartly in several small properties about town. Church minutes show the people had deep respect for this humble man who could foresee Woodstock's potential.</span></div>
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Dr. Dean's only son, William L. Dean, carried on the family occupation, a good one because every town treasured and venerated their doctor. Over time, several followed in this line of work--Van Sant, Boring, Freeman, Perkinson Sr. and Jr., Whitfield and McAfee--in the early years. The demand for medical attention was always high. Agricultural communities were susceptible to more than the usual diseases that made the rounds. Physical labor and antiquated machinery come loaded with pitfalls. Everyone knows the sad story of Mr. Kemp (long-ago owner of the home that Ipps Pastaria occupies today). While putting up fencing, Mr. Kemp scratched his hand on barbed wire. He sickened, developed blood poisoning and was dead within the week, despite all the dedicated efforts of Dr. W. L. Dean. In 1904, antibiotics were a thing of the future.</div>
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If you really want to take a time machine to the past, visit Dean's Store to see the medical bag once carried by the doctor and hear the rest of the story: his sensible decision concerning his wife and six children as his own health was failing due to a stomach ulcer. Today the ailment is a fixable condition, back then, not so much. Also, request a look at Dr. Dean's patient logs. Once you get past the Latin and French references, such as <em>NOX</em> for worsening condition and <em>accouchement</em> for childbirth, you will have your facts sharpened about the difficulties of living in those times and about the constant need for medical practitioners. . . . Thankfully, our town has always had its share of wise physicians.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Some Venerated Doctors of Woodstock Past:</span></div>
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William Hiram Dean, M.D., Rev. (1824-1912)</div>
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William Lemuel Dean, M.D. (1857-1906)</div>
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T. J. Van Sant, M.D., selfless warrior during the flu epidemic of 1918</div>
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James R. Boring, M.D., Woodstock mayor in 1915</div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;">A Favorite Woodstock Physician of Today-</span></div>
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<strong>Dr. Michael Litrel</strong> - Our favorite commentator on family life is due to deliver, not one more patient's baby but another entertaining book. His essays have registered with our funny bone, touched our hearts and, sometimes, shaken us with their wisdom and courage. With this new effort, his wife, the talented Ann Litrel, will add her thoughts in response to his writings. Over the years, she must have had the composure of an angel, trying to create a home and raise two sons while her moves were affectionately chronicled on paper. Well, we women applaud her for a job well done, and we can't wait to see what she has to say! Be on the lookout for this new reading pleasure.</div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: x-small;"><em>Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock and author of the Woodstock novels.</em></span></div>
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Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-14141257673646489862013-02-01T19:26:00.000-08:002019-01-01T14:23:55.170-08:00Cracking Mysteries - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I've noticed something about human nature. One aspect of our composition occasionally makes us wonder if everything is truly as it seems. That's how certain stories are able to tug at us and leave us eager for revelation. Sometimes the news is good. Sometimes the news is bad. In any case, mystery has power like creek mud, sucking on your waterproof boots until little water oddities swimming about captivate your thinking and you lose interest in traipsing off to dry ground.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A thrill tickles the mind when mysteries are solved, like the one cracked by our town historian. Juanita Hughes is an inquiring sort of woman, always scurrying here or there, pulled by some bit of history that intrigues her. She was designed for unraveling knots, making connections and drawing conclusions. Not so long ago, she did just that after poring over a historical document copied from a beloved, now deceased, Woodstock citizen's papers. Ms. Hughes was hooked by the description of a Civil War banner reportedly sewn by the women of Woodstock for the local military Company called Cherokee Dragoons. That word <em>dragoons</em> is derived from French and means heavily armed mounted troops. Despite what a few people may have imagined, today's Southerner considers the conflict to have been the South's folly. Regardless, we also believe the story must be preserved. By the way, the report Ms. Hughes read was not signed, but she recognized the penmanship. W.H. Dean (1824-1912) physician and preacher, helped shape Woodstock, and she's read everything she can find that he wrote. When she encountered his handwriting again, the little document instantly earned some gravitas.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So where had the banner gone? Was it lost in battle where it rotted in some field? Had it burned in one of Woodstock's house fires of olden times? Might it be packed away in one of the attics of over a dozen architectural relics about town? Well . . . there were no thoughts of <em>cie le vie</em> in Ms. Hughes' mind. She wasn't about to let the puzzle go unsolved so easily, but all she had to go on were written details, the Company name and their motto--no picture shed light. Her determination and her awareness of the merits of internet research brought success! Who knew that the flag, donated by a descendant of the Dragoons, had been on display alongside artifacts of South <em>and</em> North, fifteen minutes away at Kennesaw Mountain Battlefield Park Museum. I wonder how many Woodstock natives visited the museum over the years, unaware they walked right by embroidery woven through silk by their great-great granny or long-ago aunt.</span> </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The motto reads: "Either with it or upon it."</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Now I have a little mystery for you. Many of Woodstock's increasing population are from somewhere else. It's time for them to be indoctrinated into one of the town's architectural secrets. Have a look at one of my favorite buildings below.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yes, you've seen that 1908 structure with ornamental brickwork decorating the roof line, situated at the corner of Main Street and Towne Lake Parkway, across from the town mural. Our historian says one of the town's last hitching posts, positioned on the long side of the building, escaped the scrap heap until modern times. Don't you just love the name <em>Samson and Delilah Antiques</em>? Well, let's go inside . . . .</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">Wow. There's so much to see--those old gramophones, china of yesteryear, charming figurines, antique furniture, delicate linens and so on. The ceiling, it's so high. Everywhere I turn, there's something to snag my interest. Hours could be spent here. But wait. . . . Things may not be what they seem. I sense an air of mystery. What's that in the far left corner? Let's go look. . . . </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia";">Interesting. I'm not referring to the hanging tree of hankies or the white fedora. Look instead at the elaborate metal molding of the outer door frame . . . and that strong hinge that must have held a weighty door, now gone. . . . I wonder what strangeness waits behind that inner portal. . . . </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">No, you haven't fallen into a Stephen King novel. . . . On the other side is a closet-size vault. Stacks of money once sat on the shelves. This turn-of-the-century building served as the town bank many decades ago, a monetary establishment that held steady during the Depression. Now you know one of the hidden town secrets. . . . Sh-h-h-h-h. Don't tell.</span> </div>
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<em><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;">.Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock and author of the Woodstock novels.</span></em></div>
Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-36239513775032226352013-01-01T05:18:00.000-08:002015-04-06T11:44:21.936-07:00Women Drivers, Oh My! - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We women drivers are not so bad, really. Many are actually quite good and enjoy handling a car. A psychological study would probably show that our affinity for driving stems from all that horsepower managed by the ball of our little right foot. Yes, I'd say it's downright thrilling. Accepting our lack of big muscles, we find our enjoyment in being car-strong. Now I don't advocate speeding or reckless driving, but it <em><strong>is</strong></em> fun controlling two tons. We also happen to have a few abilities unique to women, ones that suit driving. First, who can lickety-split hull three dozen strawberries while flipping crepes in a pan? Our superior wrist agility suggests excellent steering wheel control, wouldn't you say? Second, who can step on a bug quicker that we can, which hints at our good braking reflexes. Finally, it's common knowledge that a woman can spot a child misbehaving from fifty yards away. That's why our sharp vision easily apprehends the occasional, approaching, vehicular miscreant and so we drive defensively. Just, let's curb the urge to holler some motherly correction.</div>
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Recently my habitual Woodstock inquiry revealed that women have always had a penchant for motoring. For instance, the young woman in the picture below is a good example. Delicate appearance, right? Sheltered and retiring, it would seem. Well, Edna Haney should make all capable women smile.</div>
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In 1905, after her high school graduation, Edna McCleskey married Dave Haney (in photo), a successful Woodstock farmer and businessman. The old Haney home still sits on Main Street, across from Linton Street. Edna loved to take care of her family and to read. Her life was not a long one due to illness, but until then, she led a robust life and delivered seven children. According to the family chronicles, Edna was one of the first women drivers in Cherokee County, and one could speculate that she was the first in Woodstock. The record states that sometime in 1913, Dave came to the decision to buy a Model T, which came with driving lessons. He insisted the transaction would be completed only if Edna received training also. We'll never know the instigator of this stipulation, but I imagine demure-looking Edna to be the one. To my surprise, this turn-of-the-century lady became very proficient at driving.</div>
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At times Edna planned trips to Atlanta where she liked to purchase cloth for sewing. I imagine Dave would watch her trundle off in the auto while he scratched his head at her willingness to launch out. It was no easy trip, traveling on rock-filled dirt roads from Woodstock all the way to Fancy Town; the journey plus errand probably required an entire day.</div>
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The Haney family history tells of one such occasion. After Edna left, the day became stormy. As the hours progressed and turned toward dusk, Dave began to worry. His Edna was nowhere in sight. The red-clay roads must have turned into sludge; and worst of all, as each tired driver neared Woodstock, he had to climb the dreaded Noonday Hill on what we still call the Canton Road. I know . . . you've never noticed that hill. That's because our modern-day automatic transmissions hardly allow us to regard elevation changes. Instead we glide in our cars upward as we listen to music or plan dinner, barely aware of the mechanical exertion taking place. Not so, in those old-timey autos.</div>
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Well . . . poor Dave probably pictured in his mind Noonday Hill and a line of automobiles as well as wagons and buggies stuck at the bottom or floundering up the muddy ascent. So he took off from Woodstock, hoping to aid his girl. The Haney history implies that when he arrived at the hilltop, the family vehicle already sat there. He must have searched for Edna because the history states that he looked down at the next vehicle climbing the slippery incline. Who was behind the wheel? His capable Edna. There she sat doing a good deed, dealing with someone else's clutch and gears and easily managing the power beneath the ball of her little right foot. . . . Oh Edna, if I had lived in Woodstock then, how I would have loved to know you.</div>
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<em><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: xx-small;">Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock and the author of the Woodstock novels.</span></em></div>
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Woodstock as it looked when Edna traveled through town in her Model T. Notice there weren't any women out. Too much work to do at home! Perhaps the poles in the background are telegraph wires. Transmission lines for electricity did not arrive until 1925, so people relied on kerosene lanterns. Main Street was paved in 1929. The scarcity of cars and the smooth surface made Main Street a favorite place to roller skate in the 1930s.</div>
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Edna's 1913 Atlanta destination for her cloth purchases.</div>
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<em><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Wonderfully Capable Woodstock Women Drivers of <strong>Today</strong></span></em></div>
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As she drives, it's certain Ann Litrel's artist-eyes are always scanning the landscape for visual inspiration. No one has portrayed Woodstock on canvas as masterfully as she has.</div>
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<strong><em><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;"></span></em></strong>Lauren Lester enjoys the freedom driving gives her. A transplant from New York, she says the drivers here are a little more polite. Keep up the good work, gals. </div>
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Stacy Crabtree is a hardworking, homeschooling mom. </div>
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She is an Auburn grad; the emblem shows proudly on her car. </div>
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Sidney Droesy, a student at KSU, has a dog named Mojo. While driving, she listens to music but doesn't use her phone then. Smart young woman!</div>
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Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-4199051608238820002012-12-04T10:53:00.002-08:002015-04-06T11:50:25.271-07:00The Greatest Gift - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As Christmas approaches, my mind turns to gifts--giving and receiving. One of my favorite imaginings involves gift-giving in the Bozeman family at Christmastime in Woodstock's distant past. The Bozeman family's turn-of-the-century holiday was not so different than yours or mine. Except in those days, an apple and orange in your stocking meant prosperity because apples were limited for a short season on the tree at the rear of your lot, and that costly, sweet-juicy orange, a rare treat, came from a place so, so far away--South Florida. With only kerosene lamps or candles to break through the night, early Woodstock townsfolk would flip at the sight of houses, today, lit like sparkling, jeweled boxes fit for yuletide celebration. Well, now that I'm thinking about it, things <em>really have changed</em>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">The journal accounts at Dean's Store in Woodstock, record Mr. Bozeman making purchases for his family on December 23, 19<strong>14</strong>. It's all recorded in the store owner's penciled script. Drop by and read for yourself. Have you seen the unique, moss-green home owned by Christine and Phil Blight on Rope Mill Road? A century earlier, the Bozeman parents raised their girls there. At the time of the Christmas purchases, Dave Bozeman had a <u>wife named Sarah</u> and four daughters: <u>Bonnie</u>, 16; <u>Lola</u>,12; <u>Mildred</u>,8; and <u>baby Sarah</u>,1. Mr. Bozeman earned his family's living by running a mercantile store that sold dry goods--items like overalls, textiles and notions. He also operated a cotton brokerage with a partner. The store, now gone, filled the spot where a rectangle of grass skirts our Woodstock mural at Towne Lake Parkway and Main Street. The cotton warehouse was situated behind the store. Following is a list of the patriarch's extravagant (for the era) purchases. It's fun to try to guess the intended recipient of each gift.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">DOLL. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 CENTS</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">2DOLLS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 DOLLAR</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">BOOK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25 CENTS</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">PERFUME. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 CENTS</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">STATIONERY. . . . . . . . . . . . 45 CENTS</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">TOY HORN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 CENTS</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">BLOCKS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 CENTS</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">It's easy to picture the family clustered around the tree on Christmas morning. They probably sang carols or read about the birth of Jesus in Luke 2. Things were simpler then, quieter and more tranquil. In olden times, the world had not yet become proficient at robbing the day of its real meaning. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">For some people, this is a hard season. Heartbreak, loss, or a terrible memory has been associated with the holiday. If this is you, maybe sadness comes because the rest of the world appears full of life, while your own hands hold onto thin air or a dying dream and no one seems to care. Yet just the other side of false assumption waits the sturdy arms of a Perfect Father offering humanity the most valuable gift--his Son. Achieved at great cost to Him, this beautiful present is available to everyone. Amazingly, you cannot qualify for the gift in any way. Only believe. What an exciting but peaceful adventure life becomes when you do, although I know it sounds like a paradox. Blessings are headed your way. And if you've already received the Gift and put it away, forgotten, on a high shelf in a back bedroom closet, take the box down. Have a seat on the nearby mattress. Lift the box lid and peer inside. . . . I know what you're thinking. You've had some failures. But the Gift remains yours. No doubt, "good" living is a reward in itself and saves us from much self-imposed misery; however, there's still no measuring up for this present. No one ever has and no one ever will. So kick the idea of worthiness, or lack of the same, under the bed. Then let your hands raise your Gift from the box. Spend time thinking about the tremendous love that was willingly poured out for you, to place you in a permanent and glorious family. I guarantee your focus will stay in that happy place on Christmas Day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">The greatest gift? Someone gave <em>all</em> of Himself, <strong>to love you without end</strong>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">You! And Me!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia; font-size: x-small;"><em>Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock and author of the Woodstock novel series.</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">The Bozeman home, <em>circa 1910</em>, was included in an Atlanta Journal-Constitution article (1919) that highlighted Woodstock businesses and prominent residences. The exterior style showcases the asymmetrical placement of a tower-like extension at one front corner. A wide gabled porch, sporting wooden piers with brick pedestals, frames the inviting entry. A bay window on the side of the home draws light inside. Vertical panes of glass detail the upper sash, called "ribbon windows" at the turn-of-century. Shed dormers on the roof add a touch of playfulness. Inside, four fireplaces bestow cheer when winter approaches. Mellow pine floors add to the coziness. </span><br />
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When Dave and wife, Sarah, moved into their home, they probably had no idea how meaningful the sturdy dwelling would become to their daughters, affectionately referred to as the Bozeman sisters by Woodstock natives. Mildred married. Bonnie, Lola, and Sarah became area schoolteachers and happily remained in the home all their lives.<br />
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Below, a view of the Bozeman home today. You may be familiar with the current owners, Christine and Phil Blight, who also own<strong><em> Christine's Creations</em></strong> in Woodstock. For many years, their shop has been the go-to place for inspired decorating assistance. No one can merge vintage, contemporary and unique like Christine who has been guiding area residents on how to express the spirit of Woodstock, which is nature, hints of the town's agricultural past and warmth of family. The result of her creative magic is charm and casual elegance. Christine and Phil completed a renovation of the Bozeman home, begun by a preceding owner. Their primary goal was to preserve the antiquity of the home while expanding and updating the residence to fit modern life. What an artistic and winsome success!<br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;">(Click to enlarge photo)</span><br />
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<em><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-small;"></span></em><br />Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1549971594923058825.post-65289923344665992252012-11-01T13:46:00.000-07:002015-03-05T12:39:19.516-08:00The Thrill of the Train - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA<div align="justify">
Why do trains still mesmerize us in a time of space travel? Maybe it's just me who feels the magnetism, but I think other people, here, are also captivated by the sight of thousands of tons of metal rolling proudly through Woodstock. You feel that weighty passage in your feet while the roar of the engine reverberates inside your chest. Today's carrier is Georgia Northeastern Railway, but since 1879, one railroading enterprise or another sent their locomotives advancing down the track with a straight, then weaving signature before heading to Canton and beyond.<br />
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Lately our town is overflowing with celebration--the train depot turned one hundred this year. First, an art show highlighted the conventional but picturesque structure that has often captured the eye of local artists and made their hands reach for a paintbrush or camera. From the perspective of everyday viewers, the building is quaint and appealing with soft gray paint, darker trim and a coral tile roof designed in simple style except for a few curved flourishes at endpoints fashioned by some master craftsman of long ago. Smack in the middle of town, right at the crossroads, the landmark isn't easily missed. For the next depot tribute a few weeks later, the third-graders at Woodstock Elementary performed a medley of railroad songs that included <em>Woodstock of My Heart</em>, our favorite, new ballad. We thank you, Juanita Hughes. Those nostalgic lyrics express a longing to hear, once more, the train coming through town, blowing its familiar whistle. Soon, a soiree will be held at the 1912 depot, now a restaurant, Freight Kitchen & Tap, where a caboose is stationed close by. At that special birthday event, I hope each history-lover will consider the stories loaded into the wooden walls of that place. Emotions evoked by coming home or by leaving--joy, trepidation, sadness, excitement, fear and blissful peace--swirl ghost-like throughout those rooms that once functioned as ticket procurement, waiting room and luggage area.</div>
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What little boy doesn't love a train? Mine did. I remember pulling the car off road or easing into a parking spot just so they could watch one of those powerful machines rumble by. Maybe it was all part and parcel with the dump trucks, cement mixers and tractor trailers they revered in kindergarten; you know, something big and strong, lazily flexing its energy potential. So for two boys, having a train coming through, possibly ten baseball throws past their own backyard, fit the bill. We lived inside the city limits then. Later, nearing middle-school age, one son ventured the suggestion of placing pennies on the rails, to be flattened. You can imagine the answer of this cautionary mother. Then, a school rumor about those instantly-formed, razor-sharp discs being shot from the rails, at nearby eyeballs, quelled every boy's enthusiasm for the operation. My sons' enjoyment of the L&N continued, however. I surely wasn't about to share the story of their great-grandfather who felt penned in by rural life in Chipley, GA, which led to hopping the trains to see the entire country in 1920 before settling down. And my kids certainly didn't need to know about the time in the <strong>old, old</strong> days when some young Woodstock folk pranked the unknowing police chief by chaining the rear axle of his police car to the railroad track, then racing through this formerly sleepy town to get his attention.<br />
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Looking at our trains and depot, you might say, "So what's the big deal?" Well, I honestly don't know, but somehow those compelling machines pulling car after car add interest to my town. . . . These days, my husband and I live three miles outside the city and away from that span of railroad. During a few, cool nights this fall, I've heard the train horn blowing its mournful notes, which sail in the wind over the pines and hardwoods, all the way to our home. Indefinable emotions stir me. It is a lonely, haunting sound in one regard, yet in another, those low tones speak of movement, people, life . . . and my writer's mind happily starts spinning new tales.<br />
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<em><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: x-small;">Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock and author of the Woodstock novels.</span></em><br />
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Woodstock train depot, built in 1912, from track side.</div>
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The depot entrance. Tracks were laid in 1879. The earlier depot, situated in a different spot, was torn down in 1913, approximately a year after the present one was built. A man transported the timber down the road to be used in construction of TooNigh Church of God, so spelled, back then. Nothing was wasted in those days.</div>
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A caboose would be part of every little boy's dream playground. Some trespassing tykes had to be dragged off this one, I've heard.</div>
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Which of our mothers didn't warn us to stay away from the tracks? None that I know of.</div>
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Talk about an iron will !!!</div>
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Okay, now the soles of your feet seem to be jiggling and your lungs feel kind of goofy.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtgtnhNltLJPBsPt5SkDrnIRlmJgwa20kbaz2tOmIUi_q56MqEYXv3OZP3ZyWWeOmZQjUB55ym2PoqXKyAovd0BI5iP9Hqie7tkJCPTH7P-kswdYXaPnN4qCoDcJWICOsM63CIY-7ayTc/s1600/Bye+Bye+JPEG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtgtnhNltLJPBsPt5SkDrnIRlmJgwa20kbaz2tOmIUi_q56MqEYXv3OZP3ZyWWeOmZQjUB55ym2PoqXKyAovd0BI5iP9Hqie7tkJCPTH7P-kswdYXaPnN4qCoDcJWICOsM63CIY-7ayTc/s320/Bye+Bye+JPEG.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Bye, bye! I didn't even get a wave.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIhOCk-w3dSt0qDrR8CIUvii1iaTgeJZ4IRAk75GWY5BoZisscYNcWD1VeNlEoLTObqzkR1J-ksQbEz7mzhKeaADAkk-tswQDfPnBJoMak1DKfPX_3QYDtdqatr9P9nkWOAMiOxcHOygo/s1600/securedownload%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIhOCk-w3dSt0qDrR8CIUvii1iaTgeJZ4IRAk75GWY5BoZisscYNcWD1VeNlEoLTObqzkR1J-ksQbEz7mzhKeaADAkk-tswQDfPnBJoMak1DKfPX_3QYDtdqatr9P9nkWOAMiOxcHOygo/s320/securedownload%5B1%5D.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Songwriter Juanita Hughes (second from left) standing with talented Woodstock Elementary teachers after the performance of a railroad-themed medley by the third-graders. The mural depicts an earlier Woodstock locomotive. Photo by Blake Barrows.</div>
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Patti Bradyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783538575735089223noreply@blogger.com