Ashes to Ashes, Rust to Rust - Ode to A Chevy Truck

While driving down 

a two-lane mountain highway yesterday,

enjoying the fall leaves and mountain views,

I noticed a single shed,

sitting in the middle of an empty field.

And before I flew past it, 

I saw a glint of sun

shining off something metallic. 

Slowing down,  

to take a closer a look,

I found

a thing of beauty!  

A glorious, rusty, thing of beauty.

I turned off at the next dirt driveway 

and drove as far as I could,

parked my car 

and walked out in the middle of the field,

 camera in hand~

to meet this stately gentleman from the past.

 His eyes were bright 

and up close 

I found him to be quite handsome 

in his old age ~

~ still holding his own!

I can just imagine what a life he lived,

and the joy he must have given.

His wrinkles and rust were evident,

but you could tell he had lived a good life!

 He sported the most beautiful shade of blue,

like Paul Newman's eyes ~ 

 I was completely mesmerized by his charm!

 The hood ornament,

so elegant ~

testified to his earlier grandeur!

 I was overcome with a sense of great respect

 as I stood there in awe.

I take solace

in knowing that

someone, somewhere, 

cared enough about him

to keep him in the shed,

which, by-the-way,

had a new roof!

 I could tell he had been there a long time, 

just watching the world pass by,

the seasons changing, the fields around him

being planted and harvested.

 

During his respite,

he had graciously played host 

to several inhabitants, it seems.

~ Offering perhaps a place 

to stay warm and dry.

 I dared not open the door or glove box!

He was still in great shape ~

  no major body damage!

I choose to believe 

he is waiting 

to be brought back to life ~

and one day, maybe, 

I'll drive by and see him renewed!

~ As if he had peeled off 

that heavy winter coat of Rust~

 and revealed his Baby Blue skin ~

 as blue as the sky he rests under!

There is just something about an old truck!

They mean something different

to each and every person.

I asked my facebook friends this question:

When you see a vintage, old rusty Chevy Pick Up Truck...what do you think? What sentiments do you feel? Comment back with one word or a paragraph...whatever comes to mind.

It warmed my heart to read what they shared - 

so I'm sharing it with you:

"It represents sweeter times. 

Makes me feel all warm and giggly."

"Photograph"

"Ohh what fun..lol love those pick ups."

"Farmlife and hard workin men."

"I can relate as a kinda wrinkly, 

bulldog jowled old lady, but im still running..lol!"

"That I want to get in the drivers seat, pick up my best friend, 

crank up good music and drive through the sunflower fields 

in North Dakota, where we grew up, and have a picnic."

"Simpler times, happy times, riding with windows down 

and wind whipping your hair and stinging your face, 

good memories...."

"Photograph of coarse!"

"Memories!"   

Amazing isn't it? 

Trucks aren't trucks ~

they're family members

second only to man's best friend ~

his dog!

I'd bet you'd find a few good 'ol boys 

out there who would have a hard time

deciding between the two!

Live Your Authentic Life ~ 

Be the Real You!

Blessings,

Martha

    

Here Lies Peter Pruitt

In the middle of an upscale neighborhood,

in rural North Georgia,

sets a very small, 
seemingly forgotten,

cemetery. 

Multitudes of neighbors 
drive past this tiny cemetery on a daily basis, 
without casting a glance.

I wonder how many neighbors,
if any,
know anything about who rests here.


The cemetery is surrounded
by a decades, aged iron fence.

Each post,

acting with its brother as sentries, 

 protects the precious contents within.

Always in formation, 

they have served their duty well.

A family plot,

high on a hill, in God's country,

shaded by Oak trees.

No head stones at first, 

just a few rocks,

marked the remains of a family

who should not have been in Georgia.

You see, this family,

a family of Cherokee Indians, 

lived with the whites

and shouldn't be here~

~here in this cemetery~

~here when they died.

Somehow, 

no one knows exactly,

they were not forced, 

like the others,

to leave Georgia
during the Indian Removal Act

and travel the Trail of Tears.

Between 1790 and 1830 the population of Georgia increased six-fold. The western push of the settlers created a problem. Georgians continued to take Native American lands and force them into the frontier.

Cherokee had long called western Georgia home. The Cherokee Nation continued in their enchanted land until 1828. It was then that the rumored gold, for which De Soto had relentlessly searched, was discovered in the North Georgia mountains.

The Cherokees in 1828 were not nomadic savages. In fact, they had assimilated many European-style customs, including the wearing of gowns by Cherokee women. They built roads, schools and churches, had a system of representational government, and were farmers and cattle ranchers.

 In 1830 the Congress of the United States passed the "Indian Removal Act." Although many Americans were against the act, most notably Tennessee Congressman Davy Crockett, it passed anyway.

In one of the saddest episodes of our brief history, men, women, and children were taken from their land, herded into makeshift forts with minimal facilities and food, then forced to march a thousand miles.

 About 4000 Cherokee died as a result of the removal. The route they traversed and the journey itself became known as "The Trail of Tears" or, as a direct translation from Cherokee, "The Trail Where They Cried" ("Nunna daul Tsuny"). 

The descendents of Abraham Helton, 
Cherokee Indian,
otherwise known as 
John OWL, 
lie here. 

More than a century after their deaths, 

and yet, still decades ago,

a monument marker 

was placed in their memory.

A daughter, Malinda (Melinda) Helton, 

married a Peter Pruitt (Prewitt) in 1853.
  

Peter joined the 
Confederate States Army,
July, 1st, 1862.

He was captured 
during the Battle of Champion Hill, 
Vicksburg, Mississippi in 1863,

and became a prisoner of war ~

~ to be paroled, July, 1863.

I am not sure if he remained 
in the CSA 
or was sent home, 
but he died shortly after 
the war ended on January 25, 1866,
at the young age of 35.

Here lies Peter Pruitt,
a six foot, 4 inch tall, 
brown hair, gray eyed,

Civil War Veteran,

who fought for his way of life,
and loved his wife and family.

A family whose roots came from

those who inhabited this land

by birth and who by the

Grace of God

were "allowed" or "left" 

to live their lives here.

As I was leaving

the cemetery,

it began to rain ~

and seemed so appropriate,

as I thought of the Trail of Tears,

and the Indians who suffered so much ~

~ and the sadness 

Melinda Pruitt must have felt 

at losing her husband at such a young age.

I will never drive by this cemetery again,

without nodding my head in respect,

praying for the repouse of their souls,

and remembering this, often times,

overlooked family and their resting place.

Resting, literally feet,
from twentieth century homes ~

~ Here lies Peter Pruitt ~

~ the Helton Family ~

the descendents of 

"John" OWL ~

~ May they Rest in Peace ~

Be the Authentic You!



Blessings,

Martha




Credits and Information:
http://www.generalbartonandstovall.com/MUSTER_ROLL_OF_COMPANY_G3.pdf

http://genforum.genealogy.com/helton/messages/3213.html