Back When School Was Different

An early, one-room schoolhouse similar to the type that housed Woodstock children in the 1800s.

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.

An example of a typical interior in an 1800s schoolroom. Educational tools were rare.

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. 

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.

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.

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. 

Upper-level students at Woodstock School.

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. 

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.

Woodstock photo courtesy of Richard Johnston

CLASSROOM DUTIES - The reference book, Woodstock Georgia's : A Centennial Tribute, 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. 

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.

Woodstock is a wonderful place, a result of area schools past and present. 

Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock, Inc., and she is author of the contemporaryWoodstock series:  The Heart of a Child and The Power of Her Smile

 

Part Two: 1897 Reeves House--Saving Yesteryear

Even the few farm animals still around here are shouting the news:  A major fund-raiser to transform the Reeves 1897 in-town farmhouse into a cultural arts center has begun!! 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?

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 should be its heart.

The 1897 Reeves farmhouse

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.

In 1980, townsfolk could still drive by the Fowler farmhouse, 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.



  

A picturesque cottage, the Hendrix home sat snuggled under the trees on South Main Street near the railroad. This little bit of hydrangea heaven is NO LONGER HERE.

Spring daffodils in the yard almost went unnoticed in comparison to the sunny-yellow place called the Dobbs house. The first buggy of an antique collection sits on the porch. The lovely house is GONE WITH THE WIND, so to speak.

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: REVIVETHEREEVES to honor your town.

Knowing yesteryear helps us preserve the past.

Preserving the past leads us to value where we live.

Valuing where we live makes our days rich and inspired.

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

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Enon Cemetery in Spring

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.

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, Set Apart--The Baptist Church At Woodstock. 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.

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 Jacob Haney, a Methodist man. Hymns no longer floated above the graves, but those memorials retained an aura of anticipation of rising again.

Amanda Edwards with baby daughter and one of her sons.

Enon Cemetery contains tales of optimism and perseverance. Dr. W.H. Dean, 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. Amanda Edwards, 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 Magnolia Thomas, 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.

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.

A view to the east, where the sun rises. The hill descends to the railroad track, North Main Street and the Health / Recreation Center.

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

Part One: 1897 Reeves House--Sprucing Up an Aging Lady

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.  

By the way, a community-wide capital campaign begins soon!

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: "Her Heritage, Her Vision." How succinct. How true.

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.

A Day at the Reeves house in March 2015:

Brad McColl of Vizual Methods Media Production sets up to videotape the action at the Reeves house. 

At eight a.m., photographer, Jennifer Carter of Jen Wanders Photography captures scenes with her camera as Ann Litrel gives a rundown of plans for the day.

A Few Cosmetics Go a Long Way:  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.

Two examples of  color-rich designs, installed.

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.

The first panel is carefully installed.

Contractor, Lane Wilson (right) and one of his crew proceed. Two panels up and about two dozen to go. . . . . .

                                                    A happier front facade!

                                               More art on the back.



Plastic Surgery:  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.

                                           Workers begin the demolition.

Artist Ann Litrel, a woman with vision and determination, she makes Woodstock proud as she leads the way with this restoration.

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.


History Minute: 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 "picking it up and chewing it again was a real gamble." 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.


Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock, Inc.

She is author of the contemporary Woodstock novels:

The Heart of a Child

The Power of Her Smile

The Woodstock Fire of 1913

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.

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.

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.

J. H. Johnston--a determined man

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.

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.

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.

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.

Avis Johnston--a saintly mother 

 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.

Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock, Inc.
and author of the contemporary Woodstock novels: 
                                                                           The Heart of a Child 
                                                                                               and 
                                                                            The Power of Her Smile

A Frame Around Our Days - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA

Carrie Wood Reeves, her husband, Luther, and four of her eight children

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 Kristina Laurendi Havens, 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 Elm Street Cultural Arts Village. 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.

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.

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?

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. . . . Brava, Kristina Laurendi Havens! Stop by the studio she shares with Ann Litrel and see what both these artists create as if by magic as they strive to save an old house.

Carrie Wood Reeves

The earlier version of the Reeves house

More children necessitated expansion. The Reeves eventually had 39 great-grandchildren.



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

A Favorite Place - Living and Writing in Woodstock, GA

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.

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. 

Click on  image to enlarge photo

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.

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.

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.

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.







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.