THE BLESSING

    Each morning for exercise I walk over the place where W. C. and Harriet Owen Hughes once lived. The house burned several years ago, but there are still some large rocks out front on which I am able to sit down and rest. I also normally also stop and rest for a few minutes on a bench that sits in the old wellhouse in front of Geraldine’s house that also burned about the same time.

    Yesterday however, when I got back to Geraldine’s place I could see a small red pickup truck parked in front of Alan’s place at the foot of the hill. I did not know if Alan was home and decided, instead of stopping at Geraldines, I should proceed on and investigate. About that time the truck started up the hill and stopped where I was standing by the road.

    A man I had never seen before got out of the truck and walked over to where I was standing, stuck out his hand and said “Bless you brother, my name is Paul”. I shook his hand and replied my name was Paul also. He then opened his arms wide and said, “Can I have a hug”. So we stood there in the middle of the road hugging each other.

    He then offered me some coffee and and I declined and told him I had to get on down the road. Before leaving he stretched his hand out over the valley and said, “Bless this land in the name of Jesus”.

    I later told Alan of the incident and he checked his video security recorder and determined the man sat in front of his house in the edge of the road with his emergency lights flashing for nine minutes and never got out of his truck. I think I have figured out what he was about, but to explain my conclusion I must go back a few years.

    Grandpa Wattenbarger once owned and operated a country store at the intersection on current County Roads 180 and 187. Rogers Creek Church sat just across the road from the store and grandpa’s house sat on the other corner. Grandpa was hard of hearing and on Sunday, instead of going to church, he would load his wagon with food for the widows and the needy of the community and distribute it.

    I think the man in the little red truck was doing much as grandpa did, except he was going around and stopping in front of each house and and praying the family living there be blessed. It was Sunday and it was Christmas. What better thing could one do?

    To finish my story about grandpa after he closed his store he would sit on his front porch and read his Bible while others gathered in the church to worship. One day when grandpa’s eyesight had dimmed and he could no longer read the Bible, he managed to hobble across the road to the church while the congregation was singing.

    There were two doors in the front of the church where the custom was once for the men to use the one on the right and the women on the left. Once inside the men sat on the right and the women on the left side of the building. However over the years, either for the convenience of the pastor or to appease the ladies, the small congregation all sat on the left side of the church.

    Grandpa made it through the door and proceeded down the right aisle and sat down by himself on the right side of the building. My mother, who was seated on the left side of the building, got up, crossed over, and sat beside grandpa for the remainder of the service. He died shortly thereafter.

    Yesterday the man in the little red truck reminded me of grandpa.

Paul Wade - Dec 26, 2011

Gabriel's Farewell Visit

Gabriel’s Farewell Visit

I looked up and there he stood, in an open field about halfway between the barn and the house. How long he had been watching me I don’t know, but his manner seemed to reflect a question. “Should I go closer or should I just turn and leave” is what he appeared to be contemplating.

Recognizing his indecision I walked toward him and opened the cattle gate. As I moved closer he turned to run almost as if he did not recognize or recognize me. When I called “Gabriel”, he stopped as if hearing something out of the past.

The name Gabriel was intended to be synonymous with Angel, which is what my wife Bettye wanted to call him when we brought him home as a kitten. Thinking Angel was not an appropriate name for a male cat we comprised on Gabriel. His long black hair with white markings made him stand out as something unusual on the farm and the odor of skunks became quite common around out place as they apparently came by to see if Gabriel was one of their species.

His nature was also unusual; in fact his attachment to me was more like that of a dog. When I would go out to check the cattle fences, which I often did on rainy days, Gabriel would be close behind. Even when I made the infrequent rounds up through the woods on the backside of the place he followed every step of the way.

The cattle evidently considered him a threat because they would chase him if he came near. One day when it had been raining and the creek that ran through the meadow behind our house was near the top of its banks Gabriel had lagged had lagged behind to investigate some new discovery. The cattle, sensing I was not nearby to protect him, encircled Gabriel until his only means of escape was to swim the swollen creek, which he did not hesitate to do.

Perhaps it is time to reflect on what had transpired between then when we were inseparable and now as we face each other almost as strangers. Gabriel’s heaven began to develop storm clouds when we took in a second cat needing a home, a yellow shorthaired male kitten. Bettye named him “Sunshine”, a name that bore no relation to what he brought into Gabriel’s life.

At first Gabriel made Sunshine’s life miserable as might be expected when a male cat’s territory is being invaded. But as Sunshine grew larger and larger the tables began to turn. The loose cat fur around the woodshed began to change from yellow to black and white. The psychological effect on Gabriel was devastating. He stopped eating, his hair no longer sparkled and his overall demeanor changed. He retreated to the barn to sleep and would disappear for days and eventually weeks at a time.

But here once again he stood, the contrast between his long black and white hair as it once had been. “Gabriel” I called again, and he answered with that throaty rattling sound he used to communicate. One of his traits was to answer everything I said and if I went for sometime without speaking he would initiate the conversation. He looked at me, rattled one of his greetings, and lay down and rolled over on his back for me to tickle his belly. It took but a few seconds for us to be fully engaged in a conversation he probably understood much better than I.

His feeding dish was still in its usual place and I opened a can of his favorite cat food, which he patiently waited for me to prepare. As had been the custom, he would not start eating until I patted him on the head.

Leaving him to eat, it was perhaps thirty minutes before I returned to the shed where I left him to resume our reunion. After calling and receiving no response I looked toward the barn and he was about where I had first seen him an hour earlier. When he turned and took a few steps away I knew he was leaving, probably for the last time. I think he too sensed this would be his final farewell for he moved slowly, stopping every few feet to look back. In the time it took to brush away a tear he was gone, thus ending a special relationship I share with you from memory.

It was a cold January day some three years later that I found him, lying face down in the garden. He could have been resting but the ice crystals covering his back indicated something was terribly wrong. Whether he was hit by a car, poisoned by an unknown substance or had encountered some other fate will never be known.

I buried him on the southwest side of a large tree near the center of the forest where he had frequently accompanied me in happier times.  The afternoon sun shone down through the leafless trees and reflected off his long black and white hair, which, even in death continued to sparkle.

It did not seem proper that he be buried alone here in a gravesite known only to myself. Not wanting to leave just yet I began to carve his name on the trunk of a tree under which he now lay. As I finished carving the date it suddenly became darker. As the shadows lengthened, it was time that one must go and one must stay. This was my final farewell. There would be no more wondering, no more hopeful glances toward the barn. The feeding dish can now be put away.

The winter will pass and next spring when the forest comes to life Gabriel’s tree will undoubtedly be shrouded in green. Then all who pass this way to stop and rest in its shade will read and know, this is a special place. 

Paul Wade - January 10, 1998

In rememberence of dad, Paul Wade

I just wanted to post this short video, which is a collection of pictures taken over the years throughout Paul Wade's life with farm scenes interspersed between them. 

While it's not one of our farms, it is very similar to them.  There's even one old windmill still standing in the Rogers Creek Valley, over on the Eddie Bohannon III farm.  Each time I ride past it on the bicycle and the wind is blowing, I can hear a bearing squeak that seems to cry out for lube.

Tranquility Methodist Church (Athens, TN)

Paul Wade at 2012 Homecoming*

I stopped by last week to see Mary Ratledge so I could leave a donation for the Tranquility Methodist Church Cemetery Fund.  In the process of checking what dad had written about the church in the past, I came across the post entitled: THE LITTLE WHITE CHURCH ON THE HILL.  Noticing there was no picture of the church in that post, I managed to turn up a photograph I'd taken back in 2012, that even had dad in it!

Mary informed me that the following had made donations for the upkeep of the grounds there, in Paul's name:

Marvin and Samme Templin

Walter David Clarke

Eula Peavyhouse

Lula Herron Swann

Kenneth and Linda Clarke

Bradley Health Care

Tranquility Methodist Church always held a special place in dad's heart.  After all, he was able to frequent the same church where his own Great-Great Grandfather had sat and listened to sermons from the pulpit.  I myself have been to the church, in which my Great-Great-Great Grandfather James Wade attended during his lifetime.

In these modern times when people are so busy running to and fro, and so very few buildings even remain from over 100 years ago...it's actually quite a treat to be able to frequent the church of your own ancestors.  I'm sure dad is pleased with the contributions to the Tranquility Methodist Church and I myself hope it stands for several more generations to come.

If any others are interested in helping The Little White Church on the Hill, contributions may be made to Tranquility Methodist Church, c/o Mary Ratledge, 433 County Rd. 218, Athens, TN 37303-7855

*Homecoming for Tranquility Methodist Church will be on May 18th this year.

Paul Wade, (W4FYF)  of Decatur, passed away on Wednesday, March 26, 2014, surrounded by his children, only a few feet away from where he was born 83 years ago.

A native and resident of Decatur for most of his life, he was a son of the late Fred Silas and Maggie Lee Wattenbarger Wade, and attended Tranquility Methodist Church. He was a great-great-grandson of James Wade, Michael Wattenbarger, Jonathon Thomas, John Hart, George P. Owen, Samuel McKeehan and Moses Snyder, all settlers of northwest McMinn County. He was a former member of the Future Farmers of America, the American Society of Mechanical Engineers, the Instrument Society of America, the National Management Association and the Electric Power Research Institute.

He was a career employee of the Tennessee Valley Authority, having worked at Watts Bar, Widows Creek, Johnsonville, Shawnee and Bull Run Fossil plants. In 1984, he left the position of plant superintendent at Bull Run Steam Plant near Oak Ridge to become manager of TVA's Fossil Operations in Chattanooga. He retired in 1988 as director of the Division of Fossil and Hydro Power with responsibility for fossil operations, hydro operations, maintenance and engineering and fossil fuels planning.

Although a mechanical engineer by profession, he was a mechanic by nature in the true Wade tradition. His way of life reflected his belief that an imperfect world with freedom to choose is preferable to a perfect world without choice.

Survivors include his wife of 62 years, Bettye Jean Williams Wade of Athens; one son, A.D. Wade and his girlfriend, Betty Jo Whitehead, of Decatur; daughter and son-in-law, Debbie and Mike Brooks of Knoxville; and one granddaughter, Kari Nicole Brooks and her boyfriend, Greg Culin, of Knoxville.

Graveside services will be 2 p.m. Saturday, March 29, at Thomas Family Cemetery in the Rogers Creek community with the Rev. Bruce Vincent officiating.

The family will receive friends from noon to 1:30 p.m. at Laycock-Hobbs Funeral Home before the graveside service.

In lieu of flowers, contributions may be made to Tranquility Methodist Church, c/o Mary Ratledge, 433 County Rd. 218, Athens, TN 37303-7855; or through the office of Laycock-Hobbs Funeral Home.

The family would like to express a special thanks to Caris Healthcare for their sympathetic support and guidance.

Condolences may be sent to www.laycock-hobbs.com

Laycock-Hobbs Funeral Home of Athens is in charge of arrangements.

Canaan's Land

As I stand where the old church once stood and look out across the valley I can still hear, "On Jordan's Stormy Banks I Stand And Cast A Wishful Eye, Toward Canaan's Fair And Happy Land Where My Possessions Lie."

Remembering the feel of new shoes on my feet, in my mind it is once again Homecoming Day at Rogers Creek."

With my eyes closed I look to my left and see my grandmother Gussie coming up the dusty road and crossing the old wooden bridge over the creek. She stops to rest in the shade of a large hickory tree beside the road as she is tired after the long walk from her big white house on top of the hill across the valley.

With my eyes still closed I look directly ahead and see the large yellow banner advertising Nehi that has been nailed along the front of Papa Wattenbarger's store porch. A dark skinned man from Athens is selling soft drinks and ice cream to the children lined up in front of the old porch.

I reach in my pocket and find the nickel that has been given to me for the occasion and take my place in line behind Jimmy, Ralph and Billie Rose. When the man hands me a cone of vanilla ice cream I give him my nickel, letting the ice cream melt and run down over my fingers before taking the first bite. I know the man will not be back again until next year.

I hear a squeaking sound and turn around to see Papa Wattenbarger sitting in his rocking chair on the front porch of his house just across the road from the store. I then smell something cooking and know Mama Wattenbarger is preparing dinner for all who will eat at her table today.

Coming Back to reality I realize this was a six year old boy's Canaan's Land, the best place on earth to be. I open my eyes hoping to see it once more as it was, but only empty fields lie before me. Where have all the people gone?

I search my fading memory and realize Gussie now lies on the hill behind me and near great grandpa John Hart and not far from Barg, Thelma and Agnes. Across the road at top of the hill to my right lies Jonathan and Jane, Marshal and Caroline, Jacob and Louisa, Grant and Lizzie, Maggie and Fred, Bobbye, Charlie and Aunt Dixie, who lived to be the oldest of all. Memories spanning 200 years of history they have taken to their graves.

I remember long ago when the church toll bell sounded across the valley all would stop to listen and wonder, for whom does it toll. Today I do not wonder. I know it tolls for me. "I Am Bound For The Promised Land, O Who Will Come And Go With Me, I Am Bound For The Promised Land." ------ "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, Blessed be the name of the Lord."

To the family I leave behind I give my love and take pride in who you are. And last I pray that future generations will know and honor our family's history that has at times been written in blood mixed with tears.

PAUL WADE (December 12, 1930 - March 26, 2014)

Paul Wade - Canaan's Land

Paul Wade, of Decatur, passed away on Wednesday, March 26, 2014, surrounded by his children, only a few feet away from where he was born 83 years ago.

A native and resident of Decatur for most of his life, he was a son of the late Fred Silas and Maggie Lee Wattenbarger Wade, and attended Tranquility Methodist Church. He was a great-great-grandson of James Wade, Michael Wattenbarger, Jonathon Thomas, John Hart, George P. Owen, Samuel McKeehan and Moses Snyder, all settlers of northwest McMinn County. He was a former member of the Future Farmers of America, the American Society of Mechanical Engineers, the Instrument Society of America, the National Management Association and the Electric Power Research Institute.

He was a career employee of the Tennessee Valley Authority, having worked at Watts Bar, Widows Creek, Johnsonville, Shawnee and Bull Run Fossil plants. In 1984, he left the position of Plant Superintendent at Bull Run Steam Plant near Oak Ridge to become manager of TVA's Fossil Operations in Chattanooga. He retired in 1988 as director of the Division of Fossil and Hydro Power with responsibility for Fossil Operations, Hydro Operations, Maintenance and Engineering and Fossil Fuels Planning.

Although a Mechanical Engineer by profession, he was a mechanic by nature in the true Wade tradition. His way of life reflected his belief that an imperfect world with freedom to choose, is preferable to a perfect world without choice.
 
In lieu of flowers, contributions may be made to Tranquility Methodist Church, c/o Mary Ratledge, 433 County Rd. 218, Athens, TN 37303-7855; or through the office of Laycock-Hobbs Funeral Home in Athens, Tennessee.

The family would like to express a special thanks to Caris Healthcare for their sympathetic support and guidance. Condolences may be sent to www.laycock-hobbs.com

Canaan's Land

As I stand where the old church once stood and look out across the valley I can still hear, "On Jordan's Stormy Banks I Stand And Cast A Wishful Eye, Toward Canaan's Fair And Happy Land Where My Possessions Lie." Remembering the feel of new shoes on my feet, in my mind it is once again Homecoming Day at Rogers Creek."

With my eyes closed I look to my left and see my grandmother Gussie coming up the dusty road and crossing the old wooden bridge over the creek. She stops to rest in the shade of a large hickory tree beside the road as she is tired after the long walk from her big white house on top of the hill across the valley.

With my eyes still closed I look directly ahead and see the large yellow banner advertising Nehi that has been nailed along the front of Papa Wattenbarger's store porch. A dark skinned man from Athens is selling soft drinks and ice cream to the children lined up in front of the old porch.

I reach in my pocket and find the nickel that has been given to me for the occasion and take my place in line behind Jimmy, Ralph and Billie Rose. When the man hands me a cone of vanilla ice cream I give him my nickel, letting the ice cream melt and run down over my fingers before taking the first bite. I know the man will not be back again until next year.

I hear a squeaking sound and turn around to see Papa Wattenbarger sitting in his rocking chair on the front porch of his house just across the road from the store. I then smell something cooking and know Mama Wattenbarger is preparing dinner for all who will eat at her table today.

Coming Back to reality I realize this was a six year old boy's Canaan's Land, the best place on earth to be. I open my eyes hoping to see it once more as it was, but only empty fields lie before me. Where have all the people gone?

I search my fading memory and realize Gussie now lies on the hill behind me and near great grandpa John Hart and not far from Barg, Thelma and Agnes. Across the road at top of the hill to my right lies Jonathan and Jane, Marshal and Caroline, Jacob and Louisa, Grant and Lizzie, Maggie and Fred, Bobbye, Charlie and Aunt Dixie, who lived to be the oldest of all. Memories spanning 200 years of history they have taken to their graves.

I remember long ago when the church toll bell sounded across the valley all would stop to listen and wonder, for whom does it toll. Today I do not wonder. I know it tolls for me. "I Am Bound For The Promised Land, O Who Will Come And Go With Me, I Am Bound For The Promised Land." ------ "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, Blessed be the name of the Lord."

To the family I leave behind I give my love and take pride in who you are. And last I pray that future generations will know and honor our family's history that has at times been written in blood mixed with tears.

PAUL WADE (December 12, 1930 - March 26, 2014)