My Favorite Writer

Like most people, I too have a favorite writer. No, it’s not Mark Twain, although I greatly admire his ability to take the lives of two young boys and create adventures that have enthralled generations. And it’s not Shakespeare, one of the most eloquent bards of all time. Nor is it Jules Verne who created wondrous worlds of make-believe which we have since discovered are more science than fiction. As much as I love and admire these writers, none of them can move my soul—can touch my heart—as my mother.

Nettie Alma (Blevins)Buttram was born in 1911 in the rolling hills of East Tennessee. It was a different time and place, which only a few people today appreciate, and fewer can remember. It was a simple time, a slower paced time when people lived the examined life. Women were more dignified, and men were more courteous, and everyone was poor.

My mother was the fifth of eight children—five boys and three girls—born to Joseph and Barbara Blevins. She grew up with an appreciation of nature, a love for her family, and an awe and respect for God. She was not a well educated woman, but was knowledgeable on a variety of subjects and was never reticent about giving her opinion, no matter how outlandish or controversial (everywhere you look there’s either an illegal Mexican or a coffee table—her words, not mine).

My mother grew up in an era where women were suppressed and treated as second-class citizens—first by her father, then by mine. I’m sure, being an intelligent and competent woman, this made life extremely frustrating for her. I think that is one of the reasons she began to put down her ideas, sorrows, and dreams on paper.

My mother’s life was not an easy one. She survived the depression, World War II, and the everyday difficulties of life in the poverty-stricken hills of Tennessee. She also bore more than her shares of personal sorrow. Before passing away a few years ago at the age of ninety-five, she saw the death of all eight of her siblings. She also outlived her husband and five of her children, including her oldest child who was still-born. At each loss of a child I thought she would never recover, but she managed to continue, holding her sorrow deep inside. But my father and each of her children she remembered in poem.

It is difficult still for me to read my mother’s poems, because each one is a remembrance of a burden she carried. But, in this tribute, I forced myself to revisit her words. Here is her poem, The Cedar Tree, which portrays her life and attitude more than I ever could.

The Cedar Tree
By Nettie Buttram

I WANDERED TO THE OLD HOMEPLACE TODAY
AND GAZED AT THE SCENES WHERE I USED TO PLAY
THE HOUSE WAS OLD AND ROTTING DOWN
AND WEEDS WERE GROWING ALL AROUND.

THE HOUSE ONCE RUNG WITH LAUGHTER AND GLEE
AS WE CHILDREN ALL ROMPED AND SHOUTED SO FREE
I CAN STILL HEAR THEIR VOICES RINGING CLEAR
AND FEEL THE PRESENCE OF LOVED ONES NEAR.

THE BEAUTIFUL TREE HAD FALLEN DOWN
AND NOW LAY ROTTING ON THE GROUND
THIS OLD TREE ONCE HAD A SWING
WHICH TO MY HEART DID MUCH JOY BRING.

I GREW SAD AS I VIEWED THESE SCENES
WHERE I’D HAD SO MANY YOUTHFUL DREAMS
NOW MY DREAMS ARE GONE AND FADED AWAY
LIKE THE CEDAR TREE THAT ON THE GROUND LAY.

BUT LOOK, WHAT’S THAT I SEE BESIDE ME?
WHY, IT’S A SPROUT GROWING OUT OF THE TREE
A CEDAR SPROUT GROWING ONCE MORE
TO LOOK JUST LIKE THE CEDAR TREE OF YORE.

MAYBE SOME CHILDREN WILL COME SOME DAY
AND AGAIN UNDER ITS SHADOW WILL PLAY
HOPE SPRINGS ANEW IN THIS HEART OF MINE
LOOKING FORWARD TO WHAT TOMORROW WILL FIND

Thank you, Mom, for who you were and for passing on what little writing talent I possess.

Larry Buttram