THE GATHERING

The log cabin stands like a repaired shell. Gathered around are those of us who are bound by its history. We have come, as to a shrine, to rededicate the structure, recently rebuilt by those who stayed behind. The ceremony begins and old names ring out, the names of those who first cut logs and built a home here, and who are now buried on the hill above the cabin: Uncle Henry Jones, S.T. Ledford, Joshua Ballew, Elbert Thomas and more. These were men who lived in the days when a man knew who he was and what he must do. They and their wives matched hope and dreams with sweat. They built a life which was rich in important things; an easy neighborliness, careful craftsmanship, and well-loved songs and dances. These men and women were the heroes of my youth even though they had already been laid to rest on the hill while I was very young. Marks of their skilled hands still show on the remains of the original fitted logs and the rough puncheon floor. I remember the songs Joshua Ballew's wife, America, used to sing in the old-timey