Dorothea Harfield’s Banjer
The Ding Dong Clocks
&
& Her Love of God
A True Story
Copyright 2011
By
Robert A. Chapin
A Smashwords Edition
It was the first day of school in 1959 when I awoke to the sounds of chain saws and heavy equipment. Dad owned just under 200 acres of woodland on a non-producing dairy farm. Deep in the center of the land was a treasure of timber covering approximately twenty five acres with 30” girth oak, black walnut, maple trees.
Our house was built in 1720 and by 1959 many of the trees on the property were in excess of 225 years old. Black walnut for example, usually takes about 60 years before it is ready for harvest. Anything in excess of 200 years in today’s market can easily command $20,000 - $30,000 for a single 30” diameter 15 foot straight length. The black walnut trees on our property were at least twice the 15 foot length. Primary use is for veneer which is shaved in various thickness and used in the manufacture of furniture. It was definitely a highly sought after commodity even in 1959.
There was a fresh water trickle flowing into a small marshy area at the base of the trees. It was later confirmed to be a high-quality patch of timber. In addition to black walnut there were also unusually large straight and tall oak, maple, and ash trees. There may have been some cherry, but I am writing this based on personal recollection and that was over 50 years ago In my research I have discovered that the black walnut tree gives off a hormone which prohibits the growth of certain plants - thus protecting it.
For years, the land went unchecked and my dad and granddad never had reason to consider the sale of the lumber until contacted by a timber processing plant in North Carolina inquiring if the land had any oak, cherry, black walnut or maple. After sending a series of photos and measurements, a sawmill representative traveled to our woodland in Massachusetts to get an accurate first hand look. Once he arrived and became aware of the condition of the timber it was like finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow!
Following negotiations with the buyer, dad and granddad made arrangements to sell the standing timber, and although I was not party to the business dealings, I believe dad made out quite well with his business agreement. The representative from the sawmill credited ideal climate, moisture and location to produce such exceptional trees.
The company harvesting the timber hired a traveling family from the hills of North Carolina who followed work wherever they could find it. The Harfield family consisted of the mother, father, three sons, and a daughter - Dorothea.
The lumber company trucked in a bulldozer, a log carrying machine which resembled a large forklift, and paid for all the fuel and maintenance. As the timber was harvested, a huge log carrying truck appeared every Friday from the North Carolina factory to take the fresh cut lumber to the processing plant. They also provided the Harfield family with a single wide trailer equipped with meager furnishings, refrigerator and stove from a local dealer in town. Electricity was extended from the main power source in our barn through the woods to their trailer. Because there was no running water, they had to use a portable privy. There was a freshwater spring with clean cold water for personal use.
Dorothea Harfield was enrolled in our school beginning in the fall of 1959 , and unfortunately had to endure the usual prejudice and bias from the people in our small town. Although not the most attractive girl, what she lacked in physical beauty she more than made up for with her inner charm. Unfortunately, she was matronly like her mother, walked with a slight gimp and when other kids made fun of her “lazy” left eye they were definitely acting on the side of prejudice.
Her parents were forced to quit school - often the case with mountain people, but that was not going to happen to Dorothea. They made every effort to give her a good education. Her three brothers on the other hand, seemed to be detached and distant, but whenever “daddy” spoke, their answer was “yes sir! or “no sir!”
By New Englander’s standards Dorothea grew up poor and never really had a place to call home. She was the product of a family always on the move in search of work. They were never out of a job, but the meager earnings barely satisfied the basics. She was a proud individual and an amazing Christian. She was aware of her difference from all the other kids - especially compared to what she referred to as “we’uns” - and “you’uns.” A comparison to what we would consider the “haves and have not’s.” Her mother made her clothes and Dorothea wore gunny sack dresses down to her ankles. Her shoes were slightly worn, but she was always unsoiled and most of all a well mannered young lady.
We shared a commonality. I told her how my mother recently divorced my father, an alcoholic, and how she had to endure his drunken abusive behavior. Eventually we had to go on public assistance which at the time was known as welfare. It was not until she met and married my step dad when I appreciated the life to which I was introduced. I was well aware of going without and perhaps this is why we hit it off so well. There was an instant connection and Dorothea taught me so much about humility.
At first, I was embarrassed to take her into our home for fear that she might defile my standard of living. She was so proud of her family and made me realize that my parents also had feelings and that it wasn’t about how many “bits and pieces” I could acquire in my lifetime. After my mom remarried, I must admit I had a tendency to make material “things” a priority. Dorothea would tell me “You can’t take it with you ‘cause God don’t need your “stuff! He’s the richest man ever! Jesus don’t care about the newest fashions, He put you here to glorify Him - an’ to use your “stuff” to help others!”
When I went to bed that night, her words filled my head and heart with a peacefulness that even as a young man of 13 I had never experienced before. I finally cut through the stigma of placing a monetary value on things and invited Dorothea to my home one afternoon.
It was then, and to my surprise when she asked my mother if I could join her family for supper the next day. Already, in my mind I was correcting her and wanted to replace the word “supper” with the more dignified word “dinner”! I was apprehensive and there was a part deep inside of me that wanted to say no I don‘t want to go, but she had in some say changed my outlook on life. As I walked her home that afternoon after meeting my mom and dad she remarked at how much “stuff” my new family had acquired. “Those huge Ding Dong clocks (referring to the 2 grandfather clocks, one in the den and the other in the hallway) ain’t gonna’ fit in no box when you die!”
We walked through the woods and there in the middle of the clearing and heavy machinery was this white trailer, their living quarters, with flowers and an attempt at a picket fence, and off to another direction was a vegetable garden. They certainly knew how to live off the land. There were chickens running about which were a primary source of meat and eggs.
Her father and brothers had not yet finished the work for the day. Mrs. Harfield was planning a southern meal of fried chicken, fried okra from their garden, corn bread, some type of greens and Dorothea even baked an apple pie for dessert.
She introduced me to her mother who was in all liklihood a harsh 30-35 years old, but nonetheless every bit as accommodating and gentle as her daughter. Shortly thereafter, her father and brothers appeared and I was a bit intimidated. I think the dad wanted to know what my intentions were with his daughter even though I was only 13 years old. There have been stories of mountain folk having kids by the time they were barely in her teens. The mother immediately took the pressure off introducing me as the son of the owner of the land and a classmate of Dorothea.
When it came time for “supper” her daddy pulled out an old worn bible. I know the scripture was a message about material things but not remembering the exact verse, I have come up with what may have been read at the time.
1 Corinthians 2:14, “But the natural man receive not the things of the Spirit of God: for they are foolishness unto him: neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned.”
Mealtime was frantic! The boys all grabbed at the mountain of fried chicken and commenced to devour it as though they were condemned men eating their last meal. I carefully observed as they scraped up the last morsels of food and although the conversation was light, they focused their conversation around their next timber location. They were headed to Maine to harvest hundreds of acres of Christmas trees. Dad and the sons said all but three words and appeared as though they had little school learnin’ but were obviously skilled in common sense. Daddy taught them well!
Following supper, Dorothea asked me to take a seat on the front porch they added to the trailer and asked if I liked hillbilly music. Actually, I couldn’t wait for Saturday nights when I listened to radio station WSM - The Grand Ole’ Opry on an old Crosley radio. That is when conversation erupted from all three brothers talking at the same time and how they also listen every Saturday night and their dream was to “someday” perform on stage. It was the only the second time I ever heard them speak, but I wondered what would bring about their desire to perform stage. It didn’t take long for me to find out the reason they were so interested in The Grand Ole’ Opry.
Dorothea left the porch and returned with a 5 string banjo. It had many years of wear where the strings just above the drum head were all soiled and finger stained. I thought the instrument was for her daddy but then momma and the boys disappeared and returned: one with a mandolin, one with a guitar, momma also with guitar, and banjos for daddy and brother number three.
Each person tuned their instrument. Then without notice as if on que, daddy tapped his foot on the floor “One-tap!” “Two tap!” “One Two Three!” They broke into a version of Earl Scruggs’ world famous “Foggy Mountain Breakdown”. The sound of the harmony and timeliness of not missing a beat had the hair on the back of my neck standing at attention. Dorothea never looked at the strings or frets, and just gazed into oblivion as if to say “boooring” moving her fingers with lightening speed all over the neck of that banjo.
When the songs were all played and it was time for me to leave, Dorothea walked me to the edge of the land and I asked how she learned to play the banjo so well. Her granddaddy taught her daddy, and her daddy taught her, and none of them could read music. It was just something bred into their culture.
Several days later Dorothea asked me to her home again, this time for a banjo lesson. I was always the strange person, never interested in the piano or guitar, but I was infatuated by the sound of the banjo ever since I could remember. She took me and her banjo to a stonewall away from the chainsaws and tractor and placed the shoulder strap over me. Standing behind me, and with her hands on mine guiding me to pluck the strings. In 20 minutes I was familiarized with the banjo!
We came to a place in the practice when she said:
“Now you hafta’ remember this always! When you place this finger here and this finger over here - you will be able to play a whole bunch of harmony without ever moving your hand. Then you won’t hafta’ look at the frets on the neck. Just pick this string and this string here and you’ll NEVER make a mistake - if you just remember to do as I’m showing you. C’mon give it a try.”
Dorothea and her family packed up and moved on to another job but missed the Christmas tree harvest but were hired by a logger in Maine - where they would repeat the process of a different trailer, school for Dorothea and no doubt, the prejudices of other people time and again. It has been 52 years and Dorothea would be 65 years old now - twice the age of her momma when I met them, and how many children she has - and whether she ever returned to the hills of North Carolina I’ll never know.
Dorothea and I corresponded on several occasions but eventually lost contact, but one thing I realized while we were in touch in spite of her outward looking deficiencies was that her handwriting was beautiful. When I inquired how she came to write so beautifully she mentioned that one of their jobs had taken them to an area where the only school was a Catholic school and the Nun’s were instrumental in teaching her about penmanship - the cursive method and the “Love of God.”
In 2003 my wife surprised me with a beautiful new 5 string blue grass banjo as a birthday gift. Something I wanted since I was 13 years old. Once I learned how to tune it, and having dispensed with the system for reading the musical notes (I also wanted to learn how to play by ear). I was having difficulty with the rapid movement of my fingers on the strings and frets and from deep within the caverns of my brain I could hear Dorothea.
Dorothea Harfield is but a memory now, and wherever she ended up in life I often think of this remarkable person who touched my life with humility and compassion. I often find myself with banjo and when I am having a difficult time attempting to play and feel limited or restricted in my ability, I hear Dorothea’s voice whispering in my ear…
“Now you hafta’ remember this always! When you place this finger here and this finger over here - you will be able to play a whole bunch of harmony without ever moving your hand. Then you won’t hafta’ look at the frets on the neck. Just pick this string and this string here and you’ll NEVER make a mistake - if you just remember to do as I am showing you. C’mon give it a try.”
And…
Jesus didn’t care about the newest fashions, He put you here to glorify Him - an’ to use your “stuff” “to help others to help others -to help others, to help others.”
Dorothea, wherever you are, and if you ever come across this story know that you have touched me deeply and you are loved!
If you like this or any of the other true short stories, may I suggest you leave a review. The success of my stories and the two full length novels depends greatly on your input.
Thank you,
Bob