A Writer's Inspiration - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA

Excuse the often reviled opening phrase, but it truly was a dark and stormy night 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!

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 home in my heart. My husband and I built our lives here.

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.

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 not 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.

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.

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.  

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.

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

Photo of Woodstock Public Library--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.



Photo of the interior of FoxTale Book Shoppe - 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!

Somebody's at the Door - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA





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.

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.



A knock at the door meant a break in her humdrum day. 



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.

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.

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.

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.

Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock and author of the Woodstock novels.









Wise Physician - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA

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, A Medal for Dr. Mary. 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.

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.

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.

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 NOX for worsening condition and accouchement 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.

Some Venerated Doctors of Woodstock Past:

William Hiram Dean, M.D., Rev. (1824-1912)







William Lemuel Dean, M.D. (1857-1906)

T. J. Van Sant, M.D., selfless warrior during the flu epidemic of 1918



 James R. Boring, M.D., Woodstock mayor in 1915

A Favorite Woodstock Physician of Today-

Dr. Michael Litrel - 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.

Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock and author of the Woodstock novels.





Cracking Mysteries - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA

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.

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 dragoons 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.

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 cie le vie 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 and 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. 






The motto reads: "Either with it or upon it."

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.

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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 Samson and Delilah Antiques? Well, let's go inside . . . .

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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. . . .

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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. . . .



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. 

.Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock and author of the Woodstock novels.

Women Drivers, Oh My! - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA

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 is 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.

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.

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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.



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.

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.

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.

Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock and the author of the Woodstock novels.

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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.

Edna's 1913 Atlanta destination for her cloth purchases.

Wonderfully Capable Woodstock Women Drivers of Today

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.

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. 

Stacy Crabtree is a hardworking, homeschooling mom.

She is an Auburn grad; the emblem shows proudly on her car. 

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!



The Greatest Gift - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA

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 really have changed.  

The journal accounts at Dean's Store in Woodstock, record Mr. Bozeman making purchases for his family on December 23, 1914. 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 wife named Sarah and four daughters:  Bonnie, 16; Lola,12; Mildred,8; and baby Sarah,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.

DOLL. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 CENTS

2DOLLS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 DOLLAR

BOOK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25 CENTS

PERFUME. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 CENTS

STATIONERY. . . . . . . . . . . . 45 CENTS

TOY HORN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 CENTS

BLOCKS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 CENTS

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.

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.

The greatest gift?  Someone gave all of Himself, to love you without end.

You!  And Me!

Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock and author of the Woodstock novel series.


The Bozeman home, circa 1910, 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.

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.


Below, a view of the Bozeman home today. You may be familiar with the current owners, Christine and Phil Blight, who also own Christine's Creations 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!
(Click to enlarge photo)

The Thrill of the Train - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA

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.

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 Woodstock of My Heart, 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.

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 old, old 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.

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.

Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock and author of the Woodstock novels.

 

Woodstock train depot, built in 1912, from track side.

 

 



 

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.

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.

 

 

 

 



 

Which of our mothers didn't warn us to stay away from the tracks? None that I know of.

 

 

 

 

Talk about an iron will !!!

 

 

 

 

Okay, now the soles of your feet seem to be jiggling and your lungs feel kind of goofy.

 

 

 

 

Bye, bye!  I didn't even get a wave.

 

 

 

 

 

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.



There's Gold in Woodstock - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA

Everyone knows a gold vein cuts right through this county, skimming the northern outskirts of the Woodstock area, but that shimmering hard stuff is not my reference. Our real town treasure is flesh and blood--our local teachers. Now you might accuse me of patting my own back, however, my stints in Woodstock schools were sporadic and relatively brief due to other pressing responsibilities. Each time I reentered the system, I was fresh meat and fully oxygenated. So my deep admiration goes to the career teachers who have dedicated much of their adult lives to our area children.

What brought this on? I heard a very nice man, a sportsman-celebrity, speaking on television about his plan to better prepare teachers for the classroom. Now, I really like this guy but, my goodness, is he misinformed. Teachers are eminently qualified and constantly required to update their knowledge, skills and expertise. There is always a new and higher bar to reach or an additional certification to acquire. Summers and Saturdays are often school time for our educators and they dutifully abide.

The very nice man, mentioned above, is not the only person with misconceptions. Oddly, a number of people think teachers have a short day. Oh are they wrong. An hour earlier than their required eight hours, some educators are already in the schoolroom preparing for whatever the day will throw at them. You'd be surprised at the everyday array, but whatever the unexpected challenges, the situation will require a big dose of one or more of the following: flexibility, diplomacy, an eagle eye, superior hearing, compassion, instinct, creativity, psychology, patience and maybe even courage. And don't forget energy. Afternoon meetings, parent conferences, lesson planning and dealing with the day's aftermath often require teachers to linger at the job longer than they should. In the evening hours, while many of us are doing things like taking a healthy jog or reading a book, teachers are still on the job: cogitating on how to reach a certain student or grading a mountain of papers or with much wisdom and discernment, pondering how to prevent breaches in classroom behavior so learning can go forward.

There is never a boring day being a teacher. There's no time for that. From the moment they enter the building each morning, teachers are scrambling. The expectations placed on them are very high. They are pulled in a thousand directions. And every teacher remembers his or her worst day. . . . For me, it came early. I was very young and very new at the profession. My small salary supported not only me but my husband still in college. The budget was thin as you can imagine, and I'd been needing glasses for distance vision, that season an impossible purchase. One day, a field trip made me keenly feel the lack. After guiding my students' inquiry, establishing our educational purpose and warning them of security issues, I brought my sixth grade science class all the way from Jefferson, GA to the old Atlanta zoo of decades ago (1972 to be exact). The students--some had never been to the Big Town--eagerly skittered behind me as I led them around the panorama of wild-animal pens. The two hour bus ride and a painful sinus headache had made me groggy, yet I knew something ahead was amiss. The sidewalk we traipsed sloped down a long hill. At the bottom, a trio of human slugs, lounging on a bench, leered and smirked in my direction as though a teacher's predicament was about to make their day. One wore a letter jacket, probably skipping school. Another, brimming with self-contained laughter, puffed on a cigarette. The third pretended to be Jim Morrison of the Doors; remember, this was quite a while ago. I looked beyond the group. I squinted. My poor vision and tired brain could not make sense of the animal form in the pen ahead. As we moved closer, the massive, battle-gray shape came into clarity. Two romantically engaged rhinos were oblivious to the noon sunshine and thirty-six pairs of bugged eyes about to file by. A reverse, back the way we came, would first require a sudden halt, which would have resulted in the domino effect and a third of my class flattening me. Mustering a great deal of poise, I continued the course past the snickering males and the bizarre view. My headache surged to gigantic proportions. My students, just how was I going to explain to their parents the advanced science education they had gotten that day?

So why do teachers make a long career of it, knowing they are public servants; and for that reason their pay, out of necessity, will never be commensurate to their dedicated effort and advanced degrees? They do it because their hearts call them to the profession and because they are very good at what they do. They truly are gold. I know. I've seen so many of them in action. Woodstock is blessed with an abundance of teacher-wealth. So let's appreciate our teachers and raise our children and grandchildren to value this great resource. We sure don't want to raise any human slugs!

Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock and author of the Woodstock novels

Woodstock Teachers Making a Difference in Children's Lives

Samantha Daugherty

Della Tucker

Jane Hancock

Pam Morgan

 Donna Rotruck

A Little Woodstock History:

Things have changed a great deal with time. This 1894 photo shows Little River Academy, once located on the grounds of today's Little River Methodist Church on Hwy 92, near Trickum Road. The original log building burned in 1887. Schooling took place primarily in winter when the children were not needed on the farm. Parents had to pay tuition. The two adult males in the photo are the teachers, Robert Rusk and William D. Rusk, ancestors of Dean Rusk, former Secretary of State in the 1960s. (CLICK THE PHOTO TO ENLARGE IT)   



Rollin' on the River - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA

The tranquil Little River slides through the southern end of our county. The seasons make the river fluctuate. February and March cause surging water and wide banks. The length of a hot, dry summer can temporarily turn the course into an ebbing stream in certain places. According to the map, the origin is near the western county line. In my car as I pass over the river at Trickum Road, Arnold Mill Road or by the SCRA ball fields, my sight makes a quick detour from the road so I can check the flow. I like the thought of the river quietly moving through the land. For many years, though, I was somewhat oblivious to this waterway. Then one day, our city historian, Juanita Hughes, shared information about the 1843 Saye family farm covering 80 acres along and near Little River. The rich floodplain made their endeavor a success. Just a few years ago, River Ridge High School took its place at this choice bend in the course. My interest was stirred.

Moving northward and then turning west, Little River is joined by Mill Creek and Rubes Creek, a short distance before Main Street crosses overhead, north of town. The water is zipping along now. Before the river empties into Allatoona Lake near Bells Ferry Road, it passes a section called Rope Mill, famous in our town as a small settlement of grist mills and cotton mills that can be documented as early as 1842. There is speculation of prior mills. The Cherokee Indians may have taken advantage of the location earlier. In 1900, when Woodstock city population was 276, Rope Mill had about 15 employees.  These workers and their families lived in mill housing. The enterprise was certainly the largest employer in town. Hardscrabble times. The people are gone, but the foundation footprint of Rope Mill remains.

Maybe seventeen years ago, my son, a teenager on his mountain-bike, traveled the rickety remains of the old bridge at the site. He told me about the uncommon area, but I did not have a clue about the place. Since then, I've learned a lot. Eventually, Olde Rope Mill Park sprang up and, lately, a new bridge was built, taking you to walking trails. Preservation Woodstock has been busy gathering research and preparing informative signage. For a rewarding outing, put on a pair of hiking shoes and come read the signs for yourself. You will then know the true significance of Little River, and you'll be richer for it--like Jennifer and Tracy Snyder, local residents, who on one occasion gathered their adventurous kids and tubed down the lazy length of Little River. . . . Fun!

(The photos, below, show the river site and mill foundation ruins at Rope Mill Park.)

 To the left is the new bridge going to the mill site, seen from park side.

Viewed from the banks at Olde Rope Mill Park, the beautiful Little River at high level in the spring.

 A view of the mill site. No evidence is visible of former grist or cotton mills, employee homes or other structures that once dominated the landscape from the 1830s until 1949. In preparation for the building of Allatoona Lake, land along the flood plain was purchased and any buildings were destroyed or removed. The Rope Mill closed its doors on Sept.30, 1949 in accordance.

Rope Mill management, employees and their families on closing day in 1949. The official name of the company was Cherokee Cotton Mill operated by Joe and Smith Johnston, Sr. As the years passed, Woodstock natives referred to the business as the Rope Mill.

Remains of the brick foundation and the cotton chute. Cotton bales from the warehouse back on the hill were dropped into the building to begin processing into plow line and well rope.

 If you look closely, the man in a royal blue shirt at the end of the path designates the other end of the building, which was 191' in length. During 60 years time, trees and vegetation have grown over the foundation, hiding evidence of the Rope Mill.

The long raceway funneled water toward the powerhouse and turbine of Rope Mill. This water power gave the enterprise an economic advantage during WWII when they had a contract to produce tent rope for the government.

The dam constructed by John Dorn in 1925 to increase water power coming into the mill.

 Preservation Woodstock signage explaining Rope Mill history, from the park side.

Visitors have crossed the bridge to read additional signage installed by Preservation Woodstock, on the former mill side. Remains of the mill entrance (concrete steps) are nearby. Taking a right, the visitors will immediately traverse the hidden mill foundation footprint. As they continue down the path, they will see the cotton chute, powerhouse, raceway and dam.


A metal sign designates the former entrance to the Rope Mill. The concrete steps and platform, enveloped by greenery, are next to the sign.

(Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock and the author of the Woodstock series.)