Congratulations to the SCWC's September Writing Challenge winners

 ... and read the winning stories below.

                           

The Southern Christian Writers Conference's September Writing Challenge was to write a community-based story. We challenged our writers to think about a community's people, places, sights, and experiences. Profile a local person, tell the history of a landmark, explore a tradition, or write about an organization doing interesting work...the possibilities for this challenge were endless.

We received so many wonderful responses to the challenge and are excited to share our top selections with you. We know that you'll enjoy reading them (and learning about other places). 

As always, thank you to EVERYONE who contributed to this month's contest. We're always blown away by the wonderful submissions we receive and are encouraged by your excitement to write.

Congratulations to this month's top writers:

1st place: Lisa Johnson
2nd place: Mary Thompson
3rd place: Mary Ardis 
Honorable mentions: D. Jay Powell, Nan Carlton, Ray Duval

"Mobile's Mardi Gras--Three Centuries of Tradition"

by Lisa Hyman Johnson

What do Moon Pies, silver and gold cow and pig bladders, over a dozen “widows” mourning a man they never met, and three smoke- and fire-breathing dragons have in common? They are all unique to the festivities held in the city that is the birthplace of Mardi Gras in America—Mobile, Alabama. The 323-year-old tradition offers memorable, family-friendly fun as celebrants enjoy special foods, fabulous parades, and other entertainment found only in the Port City during this magical time of year.

For the uninitiated, a review of why we celebrate Mardi Gras might be helpful. It has roots in ancient pagan festivals that were adapted by the Christian church to observe the time from Three Kings Day (January 6), which marks the visitation of the Magi, up to Ash Wednesday, which starts the penitential forty days of Lent. The Lenten season commemorates Jesus’ 40 days of testing and fasting in the wilderness, encouraging deep spiritual reflection in the days leading up to Easter. Mardi Gras, or “Fat Tuesday,” is a time to enjoy meat dishes and other goodies for one more day before Lenten fasting begins. The LeMoyne brothers, who settled Mobile as the capital of French Louisiana in 1702, celebrated the French Catholic tradition of Mardi Gras the following year with all who had survived, 15 years before New Orleans, the city most associated with Mardi Gras, was settled. In 1711 the settlers pulled a big papier-mâché bull head on a cart down the street, a precursor to the massive papier-mâché floats that roll through the streets of Gulf coast cities over 300 years later. They also formed the initial secret social clubs that originated the “mystic societies” that are part of the parades, balls, and Mardi Gras “royalty” today.

The original Mobilians couldn’t have imagined the vast array of treats available to 21st century Mardi Gras participants. At every parade the air is fragrant with funnel cakes, elephant ears, and all the carnival foods that can be cooked on a stick. The aroma of burgers, chicken, and other meats wafts its way from the parks where families arrive during the wee hours of the morning to claim their annual spot with portable grills, coolers, and sometimes furniture. Two of Mobile’s most coveted parade throws are Moon Pies and Conecuh sausage and, in addition to a Halloween-sized haul of candy, spectators might also be lucky enough to catch some Little Debbie snack cakes, packages of grits, ramen noodles, or even ice cream sandwiches that obviously have to be eaten quickly! The star of carnival confections is the king cake. During pagan festivities it was a round cake with a bean baked inside it; whoever received the piece with the bean became the “king” for the day. Eventually the custom came to be part of Three Kings Day and evolved from the ring-shaped brioche common in southern France centuries ago to the similar king cake we enjoy today baked with fruit, sweetened cream cheese, or combo fillings and decorated with frosting or colored sugars in the traditional Mardi Gras colors of purple (justice), gold (power), and green (faith). 

King cake contests, ice creams, flavored coffees, and other goodies add to the fun of this tradition; even an award-winning savory crawfish king cake is available at one of Mobile Bay’s Eastern Shore bakeries. But be careful biting into whatever kind of king cake you choose! A tiny plastic “baby Jesus” has replaced the bean. The recipient of the baby Jesus is said to be blessed in the new year but is also obligated to supply the next king cake or host the next Mardi Gras party.

The highlight of the season, however, is attending as many fun-filled parades as possible. In 1830 a cotton broker named Michael Krafft gathered a group of revelers on New Year’s Day and paraded down the street with cowbells, rakes, and hoes, forming the first mystic parading society. Mobile continued to parade until the Civil War, World Wars I and II, and more recently 2021 during the Covid-19 pandemic. Celebrants jumped back in with enthusiasm each time the festivities resumed. Today nearly every Gulf coast community has at least one parade, with Baldwin County across the bay having several, including Fairhope’s Mystic Mutts of Revelry dog-walking parade and the ocean-themed Fat Tuesday parades in Gulf Shores and Orange Beach. 

Attendees young and old, many dressed in colorful outfits and costumes, jump up and down behind the barricades, arms outstretched to catch treasured throws tossed from floats representing the secret mystic societies and “krewes.” Masked equestrians and their mounts add a dignified beauty while marching bands and other traditional musicians provide the soundtrack for the season. Parades are so special that people plan proposals, weddings, and baby announcements on the streets or floats that become even more memorable as the crowds cheer. 

In addition to the sweet treats already mentioned, the costumed float riders toss trinkets such as plastic cups, flying discs, balls, dolls, stuffed animals large and small, and—everyone’s favorite—Mardi Gras beads. Once made of glass in times past, the beads are now plastic, come in a multitude of colors and designs, and can be seen proudly draped around the necks of even the most dignified citizens or hanging with Spanish moss in the branches of live oaks year-round.

While every parade is a joy to attend, some of the traditions particular to Mobile are highly anticipated each year. Joe Cain, the Civil War veteran credited with reviving the parades after the war by dressing as Chickasaw “Chief Slacabamarinico” and driving a decorated coal wagon down the street with some of his fellow veterans playing horns and drums, is honored on “Joe Cain Day,” the Sunday before Mardi Gras. The current “Chief Slac” still rides on a coal wagon and leads “the people’s parade” that anyone in town can join. Over in Church Street Cemetery where Joe Cain is buried (next to his one and only wife), a dozen or more ladies known as “Joe Cain’s Widows,” dressed in black mourning gowns and veils, gather at his grave. Their “wailing” and “crying” gives way to “arguments” over which one of them was Joe’s favorite until they finally decide to toss beads and roses on his grave and to onlookers, move on to his former home to toast him, and then join Chief Slac in leading the parade.

The bull head and coal wagons evolved into magnificent floats sculpted out of papier-mâché by talented craftsmen and helpful volunteers throughout the year. These gigantic rolling masterpieces kept hidden in “float barns” reflect the themes chosen by the mystic societies for that season. Beautifully constructed images from entertainment, sports, literature, history, and more delight the crowds as each one imaginatively depicts the themes. One of the most popular recurring floats is “Vernadean,” the fire-breathing mama dragon who lights up the night for the Mystics of Time on the Saturday before Mardi Gras. Snaking along behind her are pink “Verna” and blue “Dean,” her smoke-blowing offspring. On Fat Tuesday afternoon a Knights of Revelry jester named Folly rides atop a giant champagne glass, loudly beating inflated, dried, and silver-painted cow bladders attached to a stick against the side of the glass, symbolizing that he is driving away gloomy or evil spirits. The bladders are tossed to the eager crowds below, providing unique, if somewhat smelly, souvenirs. Similarly, the Folly jester from the Order of Myths chases a skeleton-costumed Death around a “broken column of life” on a mule-drawn float in the last parade. Folly pummels Death with gilded pig bladders to show that the joy and fun of Mardi Gras can temporarily defeat the darker side of life as the days of revelry come to a close.

Thanks to television and the internet, the fun and traditions found in the birthplace of America’s Mardi Gras can be enjoyed by those who can’t attend, but Mobile-area revelers encourage everyone to experience their family-friendly celebrations in person. Bring a big bag for throws, be ready to put the “fat” in Fat Tuesday, and learn how to say, “Laissez les bon temps rouler!”

"Doing Time with Bob"

by Mary Thompson

                            

On my last day as a public school educator a student wrote this to me: “I think you will do many exciting things. If I were you, I would relax for a while. I would clear my mind of bad things that happened and think of the good things that will happen. Then I would take a nice long nap. I would wake up, and start packing my bags, because I would see the world.”

I wondered how this wise third grader knew my plans were to travel.

But then I got involved in the California Writer’s Club, High Desert branch, particularly in one of their special outreach programs. This program was Bob Isbill’s idea. Bob was an idea person. He also had amazing persuasion skills, at least with me.

Only a small group from our writing club of over one hundred were willing to consider teaching in the medium-security federal prison. I was willing because I had spent forty years in elementary and secondary schools. Schools are built on the prison model.

The day arrived for our official tour of the campus. No cameras, knives, or files were allowed. Definitely, no cakes. I wrote down the model, year, and license number of my vehicle on an index card and put it in my pocket. I wore no khaki, orange, or green.

Teachers are rule followers.

I greeted a prisoner’s family member at the front door. The woman at the head desk said, “No, no. Over here.” I signed in, gave her my license and filled out a vehicle form. I took off my moon boot and then my other shoe. I had recently broken my foot.

Each of our small group of writers went through a scanner.

The education director and a Black gentleman with a British accent greeted us and led us to a machine that checks the stamp on inner wrists. First, since it was Saturday, we entered the visitors’ room. It was filled with mostly Black and Hispanic men of all ages. One in an orange jumpsuit sat playing cards with his one visitor.

A family was having their picture taken with a scene of what looked like Hawaii in the background. I’ll never look at a postcard the same way again. 

The angriest inmates were in the Special Handling Unit. For recreational time, there are big cages with nothing in them, no basketball hoops or anything. We were shown an empty cement cell for suicidal inmates or those who needed “time out.” In the other cells there was a toilet, a shower, and a bed. That’s it. The cells aren’t like in Alcatraz with floor to ceiling bars, but prisoners are behind heavy, solidly-locked doors with a small window. We were invited to look into one, but were warned. Prisoners might try to shock us to get attention. They might yell or make crude gestures. I said I was a teacher and school principal, so not easily shocked. A prisoner made a face close to the door. I chose to turn away. It didn’t seem right to look.

Throughout the facility, the men are rotated to different cells every twenty-one days so they don’t get too comfortable. Guards don’t want any Shawshank Redemption scenes. Usually two men live in regular cells.

On the way to another building, no one was on the yard, but it was almost time for movement, not indicated by a bell, like school, but loudspeakers. Circular barbed wire was everywhere along fences. I pictured bloody escape attempts. The facility was in lockdown last week. The paper called the cause a “melee.” What caused the same thing at our local high school was a “riot.”

Next we went to a hobby and game area with checkers, chess, foosball, and cards. There was a leather tooling class with real tools, some sharp.

“If an instrument goes missing,” says our guide, "the hobby is shut down. With all the paper work, it might take thirty or more days to get the class back.”

In the ceramics area, men with shaved heads and tattoos painted vases. One unwrapped a beautiful cup that was packed to be sent home. It had a pastoral scene with a horse and a gold ring on the bottom and on top. The man proudly placed it in my hand. I was afraid I might drop this beautiful art piece.

In the vocational area, men were learning how to fix washers and dryers and microwave ovens. Trained by Habitat for Humanity volunteers, the inmates can learn how to build structures after they make a small model.

Next we went to the Education Center where there were computer classes, a library, and computers for sending e-mails home. Each man receives an account, and there are often long lines for fifteen computers. So much for the common belief that prisoners like Charles Manson have their own personal computer in their cells. (“Someone,” said our guide, “ran Manson’s website for him from the outside. Each e-mail has to be checked, and translators transcribe many languages. We also have a law library.”)

We were then shown where we would be teaching our writing classes.

We waited to meet six inmates, I felt shy suddenly. We learned the man with dreadlocks had a year to go and had taught some classes in the prison. We were to introduce ourselves using our last name only. I talked about writing-- what kind I do, what our writing club might do for them. The men were attentive, and nodded and smiled. Each waited his turn to ask about e-books, publishing, and our writing. All were warm, and personable. One was a graduate of Arizona State. Another was a lawyer, a graduate of Harvard. One said he had led a varied and interesting life and wanted to write about it. Another admitted he wanted to write an appeal. A few simply wanted to know how to begin to write.

The men had to be on good behavior for a year to qualify for our program. Each seemed to crave learning. They were motivated.

The guide told us the six inmates we met were here for white collar crime, except for the lawyer who embezzled funds and then killed someone to cover it up. I decided I didn’t want to know what they did. I didn’t want to reduce them to their crime. They had a desire to write, which I believe is a desire to grow and change.

Next we went to the Psychology area in the Education building. There was a beautiful mural by a man who got his GED, got out, and then died of cancer. His education leader didn’t know where to send his diploma.

Catholic groups were volunteering with small groups in the chapel. We were introduced, and the inmates nodded and smiled when they heard we were writers. The bulletin board outside the chapel listed religious volunteers: Mormons, Evangelicals, Jews, and Muslims. It’s federal law that all religions be accommodated. 

We saw an area with a “sweat room.” Outside again, we saw a picture drawn in the sand and rocks set in a circle by American Indians.

“Of course if anyone wants to sacrifice a lamb, we don’t do that,” said our guide.

“Do inmates identify their religion upon entry?” I asked.

“Yes, and they have to go through a process to officially change.”

We proceeded to the common housing. Men were playing cards, chess, and watching TV. Cell doors were open, and men were walking around. The leader introduced us to a man who just got his GED, which all in federal prison are required to obtain, and was getting out after the once-a-year graduation ceremony. He was friendly.

His cell looked more like a dorm room than a cell. His clothes looked newly washed and ironed and hung on the end of his bed. He had closets, Tupperware. There was an outside window, with barbed wire outside. He had to shut the door. Men were going to be counted in their cells, and then released to go to the food room where most of the melees start if they are going to start.

The inmates tended the grounds outside. There was a cat that, with an upturned tail, walked in front of the men as though leading them to dinner. The men called him “Shotgun.”

Our guide said they need to keep inmates busy, occupied, and structured. Some had remorse and wanted to give back—to the Ronald McDonald House, Locks for Love, and hospitals with things they’ve made. Some just want their voices to be heard. That would be our job.

We were reminded to take the volunteer training, to be renewed yearly. We would need to be fingerprinted, too.

I was amazed by the educational level of these men who would be our students. Years earlier I had heard at a Gifted and Talented Education conference that a lot of GATE kids end up in jail. I suppose I thought I would meet smart high school dropouts. Several here had already written books and had help from the outside getting them published. They weren’t just inmates. They were about-to-become writing colleagues.

Four of us would take turns teaching lessons. How would we start? Would my high school English lessons work? I did not want to simply stand before them and lecture or talk at them. I like the workshop model.

We decided to meet with the men twice a month. We’d begin with a survey of writing interests. The ex-president of our club devised one with twenty-four categories, including “fiction,” “short stories,” “memoir,” “poetry” and other genres. It turned out their top three interests were “Getting Started Writing,” “Writing a book,” and “Inspirational Writing.”

For three years our small group taught lessons on the anatomy of a story, how to use a thesaurus, public speaking, poetry, screenwriting, flash fiction, the short story, dialogue, and writing description. We also had some well-known writers, including James Brown and Alan Watt, as guest speakers. We decided we wanted to respond to what inmates said they wanted and needed as topics for their writing while often letting them “taste” something new. For example, I love writing prompts, and after giving one, the men considered it their “homework,” although I left it optional. The supervisors told us they all encouraged each other to bring their “homework” when we were coming.

They loved assignments, and often wanted to read the results out loud. Some composed the first poem or short story they had ever written with us.

Twice we celebrated World Book Night, April 23, by distributing a free book to each man. For the first year, we gave them I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou, and year two, we presented Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury.

We began critiquing some of the work they sent to us through the prison supervisor. One said, “You’re hard on us, and I love it.”

The California Writers Club, High Desert Branch was publishing an anthology, and because we believed the inmate' writing was so powerful, and that we had a lot of talent in our group, it wa suggested they be able to submit. Our club president and other editors and judges of the writing were impressed by the quality of work from the prisoners. We published nine inmates’ writing. One man wrote a poem so crafted and meeting with our theme of “Desert Gold” that his poem was published on the back cover.

The supervisors, who were delighted to tell the men of their success, said, “There was a lot of high-fiving going on in the hallways among the men. Even hugging.” Our small group was honored at a volunteer luncheon given by prison officials. One showed the anthology in which the men were published. He said when he called each one in to tell them personally, each one cried. Then he looked up the disciplinary records of each man in our group. There were no infractions among them since we began teaching writing. “You help make our jobs easier,” he told us.

One day four of us arrived at the prison only to be told to go home. They were in “lock down.” The supervisor told us, however, before we left, that he was sure none of our group was the perpetrators. The supervisor said the men loved our program so much, they may even seek retaliation if they find out who kept us from them.

As a former teacher, it was an honor and a privilege to work with these always-motivated, thankful and respectful men. The program would not have happened if not for Bob Isbill who believed in the transformational power of the pen.

It seems I still have important, even crucial, work to do in retirement. I’ll miss Bob as my cellmate. He passed away in 2023.

"Baldwin County Blessing"

by Mary Ardis

                                                

There is a fountain of spring water that has filled many a water bottle of thirsty folks in Baldwin County, Alabama. I call it our fountain of youth. We began making the trek about ten years ago up Highway 225 out of Spanish Fort, through Stockton, then north on Highway 59 to mile marker 63, to Red Hill Spring. 

Our Toyota Rav holds enough blue three-gallon containers to collect a month’s supply of water each visit. The scenic drive through the countryside is as refreshing as the cool spring water. We meet many interesting folks in the small, paved parking lot by the big red rock marking the spring’s spot. One woman told us she drives over every three weeks from Pensacola to collect her drinking water since surviving cancer. One man told us he moved here from out West to live by this spring. Two young folks were there one Saturday evening with over 100 bottles of every shape and size to fill and take back to their home in Mobile. Occasionally someone stops out of curiosity. I try to have extra plastic water bottles to give them so they can take some of the cool water home with them.

Once I came to the spring dressed in an early 1900’s costume wearing a long skirt with a peasant cotton blouse all covered up by a long gingham apron. My hair was pinned up and tucked under a crocheted bun cover. My friend who accompanied me was wearing denim blue overalls and black boots. We had just finished performing at a storytelling event at Bicentennial Park, in their replica of a 1900’s village. My friend played the blacksmith in the stable and I was the church lady telling Bible stories in the old wooden church to school children that had been bused in for a field trip. The park in Stockton is 11 miles from the spring so I decided it would be a good day to make a water run. We must have looked like a flashback from the past to folks driving by. A big rig driver blew his horn at us and other cars slowed down to take a second look. The plaque on the rock above the spring states that many a wayfarer for generations has stopped at the spring to refresh themselves and many will follow. That day I am sure we looked the part of the stagecoach generation that had called this their rest stop.

I have learned to respect the rocks that you step down on to get into the area where the water gushes out of a pipe, 24/7. These rocks are slippery. Your feet may get wet so I now wear my rain boots and take my time. We once made the mistake of going after dark. Not being able to see where I was going ended up in me falling over a rock and getting banged up, but no broken bones. The reason we had come late in the day was to stop and see the drive-through Christmas light display at Bicentennial Park on the way home. My fall did not stop us from still doing this.

Last July my husband and I celebrated our 50 th Wedding Anniversary with a vow renewal ceremony at our church. I wanted to serve Red Hill Spring Water and have a sign on the dispenser that said Red Hill Spring Water, Dwight and Mary’s Fountain of Youth. An artistic friend created the sign for me. When my sister-in-law saw it, she laughed and said we might scare people away from drinking it if they took a good look at the two of us. It may not prevent wrinkles but we are both relatively healthy and active.

Psalm 104:10 states "He sends the springs into the valleys. They flow among the hills." We are thankful for His spring, this blessing so close by. We hope to make this journey to Red Hill Spring every month for years to come.

"An Unforgettable Memory: 

Billy Graham, Grand Ole Opry, and Sam Jones"

by D Jay Powell

If walls could talk, they would tell of centuries handed down through stories. Old diaries giving firsthand thoughts, tears dried on the pages and hopes not yet imagined. Keepsakes handed down from generation to generation. Photos that give a glimpse at the places, people, and the lives they lived. 

Ruins have given life to oral histories. Otherwise, precious things would fade with the memories that held them. 

A building in Rockmart, Georgia tell such stories and memories.

An old police station is home to the local history museum in its downtown area. It’s a small museum with exhibits lining every wall. There are books by local writers, newspapers, and other memorabilia. Two inmates once housed in the jail tried burning their way out and died of suffocation before they could be rescued. Some will have selfies made in the old police station, where the jail is still visible but used as storage.

Old photos and articles tell of local and national news, as during the Thanksgiving seasons between 1928-1980, before the world saw the giant Underdog, Superman, or Mickey hovering over the Macy’s Parade. Folks could see them from their backyard in Rockmart, tested after they were created at the old Goodyear plant.

I browed through exhibits filled with forgotten history; on the wall of one of the exhibits hang old artifacts, memoirs, and a list of family names of an old Welsh community. On the list, one name leaped off the paper: my family name, POWELL. Had I found Mayberry, my original hometown, with a long history that dates back almost 200 years?

Within a short distance of Rockmart’s museum, a historic site is home to the old community of Van Wert. An old church and cemetery still echo stories that may have a connection to our past. The town was established in 1832 and became the county seat of Paulding County, where I live, but later became a part of Polk County in 1851. Any family history from the region may be divided between two county courthouses. 

The church established in 1846 still stands as a beacon from the past, and the cemetery reminds us of hope. Several congregations have worshiped over the decades from a variety of denominations including Baptist, Presbyterian, Church of God, and Methodist. This little church, once known as the poorest among Methodist church circuits, would one day birth an evangelist some have called the “Billy Graham” of this era. Yet he would pass twelve years before Billy Graham was even born.  And when Billy Graham’s ministry came on the scene, the name still lingered in the memories of country preachers and would tell of the ministry of evangelist Sam Jones.

Born in 1847 in Oak Bowery, Alabama, Sam Jones had preaching in his veins, with his grandfather, great-grandfather, and four uncles all serving as Methodist preachers. However, the tragic loss of his mother when he was eight, erased the gentle guidance that would lead him into adulthood. Along the wayward path Sam would lead, he would never forget his mother’s last words: “Sam, I will never be able to return to you, but you can come to me."

Instead of following in the path of preachers and seeking the will of God, he studied law but lost everything when his drunkenness ruined his successful law practice and became a burden to his family. The drinking had begun simply to settle his stomach, because of his health. Eventually, it took over along with a habit of gambling. He found it difficult to keep a steady job, but the ones he had were menial labor. When his father lay on his deathbed in 1872, he said to Sam, “My poor, wicked, wayward, reckless boy, you have broken the heart of your sweet wife and brought me down in sorrow to my grave. Promise me, my boy, to meet me in Heaven.”

Overcome with emotion, he fell to his knees and shouted, “I promise, I’ll quit drinking and set things straight. I’ll meet you and mother in Heaven.”

He would tell how he went the last time to the bar and was served one more drink. The mirror glared at him with his hair matted, vomit on his clothes, and his tongue swollen. He closed his eyes and cried out, “Is that all that’s left of the brilliant lawyer, Sam Jones?”, and smashed the glass onto the floor. Sam fell to his knees and said, “Oh, God, oh, God, have mercy.” Although the bartender went to his side, he asked to be left alone, and then left the bar. He went to his rooming house and then asked the ladies running it to bring him a pot of black coffee. Jones says he went through hell for three days, but when morning came something had happened to him. He bought himself new clothes, got cleaned up, and went back home. His wife did not recognize him. He told her that she had a new husband and the children had a new father. She cried, “Hallelujah, I have been praying for this.” They hugged. Sam, in his testimony, would tell those who heard him, “I’ve been going around the country bragging on Jesus ever since.”

His first church would be the little congregation of Van Wert, the poorest in the Methodist circuit across Georgia. Five churches would grow to over 500 who attended. In the early part of his ministry, the Georgia preacher would be called the Mountain Evangelist, because of the seed he had sewn for hungry souls across the Appalachian Foothills, who were not divided by class of people. His message would become powerful in congregations across the nation, as far as New York.

One of the regular places he preached would be Nashville, where his very life would be threatened. The newspapers criticized him. One man, who was a shipboat captain and saloon proprietor, accused Sam Jones of being rude and turning his saloon customers into Bible thumpers. He attended the tent revival Jones preached, where thousands would come to hear him. Sam Jones heard about the threat and the thugs who would come with the shipboat captain. From the pulpit, Jone invited the men to stay after the service and he would give them an opportunity. After the sermon, the shipboat captain came down the center aisle and stood. He told the evangelist that he had come to whoop Sam Jones, but instead his preaching whooped him. He came to Christ that night.

After his conversion, the man rolled his whiskey barrels into the Cumberland River and no longer delivered whiskey down the river. Instead, he turned his boats into floating missions. He told Jones that if he came to town often and preached, he would build an auditorium for his meetings. The man paid for the building, and it was named Union Gospel Tabernacle. The captain died in 1904, and Jones spoke at the captain’s memorial service, where 4,000 attended at the Tabernacle.

Jones felt it would be pleasing to God for the building to be renamed in honor of the man who gave unselfishly for the spreading of the Gospel, as well as paying for the building of the Tabernacle. So they changed the name of the building after Captain Thomas (Tom) Greene Ryman. Almost forty years would pass before the Grand Ole Opry moved to the Ryman Auditorium in 1943. The story of the preacher from Cartersville, Georgia, is told at his old home place, called the Roselawn Museum. He preached to more than 2,500,000, and over 500,000 decisions came to Christ as a result of his ministry.

However, the story of Evangelist Sam Jones began at the little church in Van Wert. Untold stories still can be heard through old churches, old photos, keepsakes, memoirs, and oral histories, the places where loved ones were laid to rest. There may have been a few “Powells” among the congregants in the Van Wert Church who first heard the new preacher who took over the struggling congregation. 

We may never know the impact of our own story on the lives of others or retold on the lips of those who come after us. When preserved through precious memories, when the Lord is the One guiding souls dedicated to Him, we can be a part of something amazing.

"My Mountain"

by Nan Carlton

                             

Location, location, location.

When showing a property to prospective buyers, realtors often use this maxim to emphasize the importance of a locale’s prized geography and surroundings. But the phrase has a slightly different usage and meaning when I have the occasion to reflect on, catch a glimpse of, or stand atop a certain summit in my childhood hometown.

Hibriten Mountain. Location: five miles east of the small city of Lenoir, North Carolina, the westernmost point of the Brushy Mountain range, and a parallel ridge to the Blue Ridge Mountains. Elevation: 2,211 feet above sea level. GPS coordinates: 35.90749° N, -81.48946°W.

My mountain.

And I suppose, my favorite place on God’s earth.

Oddly enough, this beloved, innocuous highland has a tendency to spark a couple of—how to best phrase this—for the sake of decorum, let’s call them “lively discussions” between Caldwell County residents and those who fall into the category of visitors, tourists, or topographers. If I’m being completely honest, these so-called discussions often rise to the level of dogged disputes, the ongoing aftermath of which often appearing in the editorial section of the town’s newspaper.

The first point of contention relates to the correct pronunciation of the mountain’s name.

The second syllable is typically the problem for newcomers, with the most common mispronunciation resembling something akin to High Britain. However, both “i’s” in this proper noun are long “i’s.” Exactly how should folks pronounce Hibriten? Phonetically, HIGH-bri-ton is correct, with the accent on the first syllable and the second syllable, bri, pronounced with long “i,” as in bright.

Secondly, there’s the nagging issue as to the veracity of the claim that Hibriten is, in fact, a mountain. With an elevation of slightly less than one thousand feet above the surrounding terrain, the U.S. Board of Geographic Names (GBN), for years, classified this peak as a hill, not a mountain. (A designation totally ignored by the locals, I might add. Seriously, what difference does a couple of feet make?) But in the mid-1970s, the GBN wisely (choice of adverb reflects the author’s opinion) abandoned the former 1,000-foot benchmark required to officially attain the status of “mountain” and elected to make no distinction at all between a hill and a mountain.

Smart move. Case closed. No need for any further discussion (or debate) about this trivial matter of elevation. It’s Hibriten Mountain—always has been, always will be.

I’m not alone in my love for this mountain. Bridging the gap between the from-here crowd and the come-here group, this prominent landmark has inspired countless painters, photographers, writers, and musicians for over two hundred years to use their creative talents to express admiration for and interest in Hibriten.

So, why do I (and countless others) claim such an affinity for a modestly raised spot on the ground? Why do I (we) never tire of gazing at this lofty parcel of land? Stick around long enough in these parts, and the reasons for the aforementioned preoccupation become abundantly obvious.

The mountain reveals an unpretentious beauty each time the seasons change. Announcing springtime is nigh, fluorescent green leaves burst forth on its sassafras, mockernut hickories, red maples, and tulip poplars. Each summer, deciduous trees, with their deep, hunter green leaves, intermingle with native evergreens, mostly white pines, Eastern red cedars, and Virginia pines, and envelop the mountain’s slopes with a lush, inviting canopy. Here, locals and passersby enjoy breathtaking displays of mottled shades of reds, oranges, and yellows in the autumn months. And in winter, fortunate onlookers witness blankets of clean, white snow covering the barren mountain and providing a scene worthy of gracing the front cover of a Christmas card. To borrow a colloquialism, Hibriten Mountain is a sight for sore eyes—every day of the year.

In daylight hours, a close look at Hibriten’s westernmost peak exposes what appears to be a disorderly, crisscrossed array of metal poles. But for two seasons each year, at nighttime, the nonsensical makes perfect sense. At Easter an illuminated cross atop the mountain serves as a reminder to the community of the death and resurrection of our Lord and Savior. And at Christmastime, residents below and folks just passing through on a nearby roadway are treated to a star shining brightly in honor of the birthday of Jesus. The annual lightings of the cross and star atop Hibriten are important symbols for a region steeped in faith and tradition.

Hibriten Mountain has a rich, centuries-old history, and descriptive chronicles of these bygone years were providentially passed down to my siblings and me by our parents and grandparents. I remember stories of how a lookout tower was built on its peak in the 1920s to assist in the detection and prevention of forest fires and tales dating from the early 1900s when the mountain top boasted a wooden, two-story pavilion, built for hosting dance parties and community gatherings. Delving back even further in time, grown-ups told of a small cave on Hibriten’s northern-facing slope utilized during the War between the States as a hideout from Union soldiers and as a place to conceal valuables. But the shared anecdotes of my family’s long-ago overnight camping excursions on the mountain top, these narratives were my favorite.

Over the years, within the pages of our local newspaper, older members of the community shared their recollections of the name changes that Hibriten Mountain has undergone. Early settlers originally called this spot Turkey Cock Mountain because of the hordes of gobblers present. Later, in the mid-1800s, Miss Emma Baker, an immigrant to America from England, resided in the Lower Creek community of Caldwell County and taught at a local school. While here, she voiced her strong opposition to the name Turkey Cock, arguing it was an unsophisticated title for such a lovely spot. Reminding Miss Baker of a resort area near her home across the pond, she singlehandedly led the charge to scrap the name, Turkey Cock Mountain, and replace it with High Brighton Mountain. After a bit of tweaking by the locals, at some unknown point, this overtly British proper noun morphed into today’s entitle, Hibriten Mountain.

(I want to posthumously express my personal gratitude to Miss Baker for her part in changing the name of this landmark. If not for her initiative, my high school diploma would announce to the world that I was a graduate of Turkey Cock High School. Instead, the document mercifully states that I graduated from Hibriten High School. I can only imagine the ridicule and embarrassment averted by Miss Baker’s bold move.)

I have fond memories of the first time I hiked to the top of Hibriten Mountain. Only ten years old, keeping pace on the upward climb with my father and older brother was a Herculean task. And even though this particular winter day was cool, I reached the summit out of breath, sweating, and in need of a big gulp of water from Daddy’s canteen. My scaling efforts were rewarded with a sweeping view below of the beautiful place I called home, and I quickly forgot the struggle to arrive at our local Camelot. After getting my bearings straight, I spotted my house, my paternal grandparents’ house, my elementary school, my church, and the high school I would one day attend. There would be other treks to this spot in my youth and adult years, but none surpassed the wonder and splendor of this first visit.

Although I haven’t lived in the area for decades, when I travel back to western North Carolina, one thing remains constant. I will forever consider this elevated place to be mine. And my separation from this prominent landmark by time or miles does nothing to erode this personal sentiment.

When looking up at this mountain, the same emotional responses surface: peace, serenity. comfort, contentment, inspiration, strength. Within a matter of minutes, physically, my heart rate and blood pressure both lower, and oftentimes, unexpected tears flow. Somehow, I’m transformed in its presence. It’s hard to describe. Perhaps a body has to have been raised in this neck of the woods to understand.

When in my hometown, at every turn, I find myself trying to catch a glimpse of Hibriten. I gaze humbly at the mountain and am aware of how infinitesimally small I am in the scheme of things.

I gaze reflectively at the mountain and am reminded it was here long before I was born and will be here when I am gone.

I gaze gratefully at the mountain and am connected with my roots and feel close to family and God.

I gaze upwardly at the mountain and am cognizant that here, at its base, I am home.

Praise God, the maker of heaven and earth, for in His infinite wisdom, He created this mountain knowing His children would delight in the mountain’s existence in the joyful seasons of life and find comfort by its presence during times of sorrow.

Location, location, location.

Hibriten Mountain. Although it’s not a piece of property I will ever own, still forever in
my heart, it’s…

My mountain.

"The Story of the Chagrin Falls Popcorn Shop"

by Ray Duval

I have been here for a long time. I reside at 53 North Main Street in Chagrin Falls, Ohio. You can’t miss me, because I am decked out in red, white, and blue colors that adorn my frame.

Long before people came to Chagrin Falls for ice cream and popcorn, long before children pressed their faces against my windows, and long before cameras captured the waterfall behind me or families gathered here on warm summer evenings, I was here. I was here when the river was louder than the traffic. I was here when the mill beside me was still turning, and over time I have watched a great many things change, but I have remained.

My story began in 1875, when I was built along the Chagrin River beside a hydro-powered gristmill known as The Pride of the Falls. The river was my neighbor then, just as it is today. Water rushed past me, turning the machinery of the mill and carrying the sound of work through the valley. I was built as an office and retail showroom, a place where flour and grocery goods produced by the mill could be displayed and sold.

I was young then. I smelled of fresh timber, fresh paint, and of new windows. I was strong, productive and I had no idea how long I would stand here. I certainly didn't know that one day the mill would disappear, businesses would come and go, generations would grow up around me, and I would become known by a name that had nothing to do with flour.

I have always been a place of safety and freedom of speech. I once served as a safe house on the Underground Railroad. I cannot tell you every secret that passed through these walls, but I remember differently than people do. I remember footsteps, voices, doors opening and closing, and the weight of silence.

There have been people who came here seeking safety. There have been quiet conversations behind my closed doors, and I remember that someone once stood near one of my windows wondering whether freedom was just beyond the next hill.

I know that places can hold history even when the people who lived it are gone, and I have held a lot of history.

In 1931, the old mill beside me was torn down. For a while, I stood without my old companion. The river remained, the falls remained, and I remained. Over the years, other businesses occupied my rooms. People came and went. Names changed. Signs changed. The world around me changed.

Then, in 1949, someone walked through my doors who would change my story forever. Her name was Dorothy McClennan. Dorothy opened the Chagrin Falls Popcorn Shop, and suddenly, I had a new identity.

From within my historic walls, I began to sell popcorn, ice cream, candy, and coffee. Having been given a new identity, my walls went from remembering historic stories, to listening to the laughter of children and families. There was the smell of something warm and sweet filling the air, drawing attention to me in a different way. I was no longer simply an old building beside the falls; I had become a destination. People began coming to see me.

Some came because they had grown up here and wanted to remember what it felt like to be a child. Some came because their parents had brought them, and then they brought their own children, and sometimes their grandchildren.

That is one of the greatest gifts a building can receive, not simply to be remembered, but to become part of someone else's memories.

I have watched first dates. I have watched children become teenagers, teenagers become parents, and parents return with children of their own. Through it all, I have listened. Buildings like me are good listeners. I don't ask where you've been, how much money you have, or what kind of day you're having I simply open my doors, and for a little while, perhaps, you forget everything else.

Over the decades, I became known for my popcorn. There is something special about popcorn. It begins as something small and ordinary. A single kernel. Hard, unremarkable, and easy to overlook. Then heat comes, pressure builds, and suddenly, POP! Something completely different appears. Maybe, that is why popcorn has always felt at home with me, because I have learned that the most ordinary things can become extraordinary when given enough time, warmth, and a little bit of faith.

I have learned that about people, too. I have seen thousands of them. I have watched them arrive carrying things nobody else could see. It might be a broken heart, difficult year, new beginning, family celebration, goodbye, or a memory. Sometimes people walk through my doors laughing, sometimes they walk through quietly, but they all leave with something. Maybe it’s a bag of popcorn, or a scoop of ice cream, or more importantly simply a memory.

The year 2000 was a life-changing year for me. Up until then, I had survived more than a century, and I thought I had seen just about everything. Then an out-of-control van crashed into me. The impact was devastating. For a moment, it looked as though I might be sent tumbling toward the river below. Imagine that. After all those years. After surviving changes in businesses, changes in people, changes in the village, and changes in the world, I nearly lost my footing, but I wasn't finished.

In 2001, I underwent major foundation and structural restoration. They repaired me, strengthened me, and gave me the chance to stand again. Perhaps that's another thing I have learned. Sometimes surviving doesn't mean returning to exactly who you were. Sometimes surviving means being rebuilt, stronger in places nobody can see. The river still stands beside me, the falls still roar behind me, and the smell of popcorn still fills the air inside of me.

In 2004, President George W. Bush stopped by to check me out. That was an honor, but if you ask me about the people I remember most, it isn't necessarily the famous ones. It is the families, the grandparents, the children, the couples, and the people who stopped here for five minutes and somehow carried the memory for fifty years. Those are the people who made me who I am. In 2011, another chapter began when Dewey Forward took ownership.

Once again, I was entrusted to someone who understood that I wasn't merely a building. I was part of Chagrin Falls, part of its identity, its memories, and part of its story. He has allowed me to still fill the air with the smell of popcorn and create memories for people that enter through my doors.

There is one night each year when I become something more than a shop. It’s a night when the village gathers, and people look toward the sky. It’s a night when popcorn becomes a celebration. It’s New Year's Eve. When Times Square has its count down to a new year, people gather in Chagrin Falls for the tradition of the giant popcorn ball drop.

Yes, my owners created a giant popcorn ball. Not a glittering crystal, giant clock, or some grand symbol from a distant city, but a giant popcorn ball. As midnight approaches, the village gathers. People bundle themselves against the winter cold. Families stand together. Friends laugh. Children look upward. The year that has been slowly disappears behind them, and the year that hasn't yet been written waits ahead. Then the countdown begins, and the giant popcorn ball drops.

For a moment, everyone is looking at the same thing. Everyone is celebrating the same beginning, and I stand here watching as I have for generations. I watch another year disappear, and another one arrive. I think about 1875. I think about the mill. I think about the river. I think about all the people whose footsteps have crossed my floors.

I think about Dorothy opening my doors in 1949. I think about the van that nearly took me into the river. I think about the people who rebuilt me. I think about seventy years of popcorn, and I think about all the years still waiting to happen.

I have learned something after all this time. Buildings don't really measure their lives in years. We measure them in people, memories, moments, and in the sound of children laughing. We measure them in the smell of popcorn, the person who walks through the door carrying sadness and walks out carrying a smile. We measure them in the grandparents who return to show their grandchildren where they once stood. We measure them in the New Year's Eve crowd counting down together.

That is how I measure time. I don’t measure it by the calendar, but by the people. I have been here for a long time. I have been here long enough to watch the world change, long enough to lose neighbors, long enough to be rebuilt, and long enough to become something I never expected to become.

Every morning, when the doors open, I am reminded that my story isn't really about the past, it is about whoever walks through my doors today. The river still moves beside me. The falls still tumble. The village still gathers, and I am still here.

For more than 150 years, I have stood beside this river. For more than 75 years, I have been the Popcorn Shop, and every New Year's Eve, when that giant popcorn ball rises above the crowd before making its way down toward a brand-new year, I am reminded of something simple: Life is always moving forward. The river teaches me that, the people teach me that, and perhaps popcorn teaches me that too.

Sometimes you just have to endure a little heat, then, POP, a new story begins.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Would you like to participate in our next monthly challenge? The October challenge is to take inspiration from the changing seasons to write a devotional reflection based on the theme, "the beauty of letting go." The devotion should be inspired by a personal experience and include a Biblical focus; start with a Scripture verse and end with a prayer. The maximum word count is 750 words. The deadline to submit is Oct. 28; send your devotion to scwritersconference@gmail.com with the subject line "October Writing Challenge." Winners are always published here on the SCWC blog, and also in our annual anthology "The Write Collection" (which is available in ebook form and free on Kindle Unlimited).

We look forward to receiving your submissions, and again... Congratulations to our winners for September.

Read last year's The Write Collection 2025 here on Amazon.